Stolen (Soulmates: City of Angels #1)

Prologue

John

The trees sing, if you know how to listen. I do, or I’m learning, though you’d think that after almost seven hundred years, I’d be better at it. My time has come and gone and come again, more times than I can count.

Okay, that’s a lie, or at least an exaggeration.

I’ve had a good many lifetimes, but I’m beginning to wonder if I’m coming to the final end to my journey.

Not in a dissatisfied way; that’s not my style, as the kids would say.

I’m simply tired, unsure that my waning desire is enough to get me through.

Ah, listen to me. Just an old man—old werewolf, more accurately—with an old man’s complaints.

The trees would tell me to shut up and get on with it, especially those that are older than I am.

I’ve become friends with these ancient spirits surrounding my little house in the Greenwood, and while I can’t always hear them sing, I do listen for those brief words of encouragement they sometimes send my way.

I’m hoping to hear from them now, sitting on the front porch of this house I built with the help of Will and Tucker.

They owed me a favor, and I collected it in sweat.

I think they enjoyed the work, and while I haven’t heard from them since the last time we celebrated with a meal of grilled steaks and fine wine, we’re bonded in ways that are impossible to sever. We’ll meet again.

My mind wanders and I snarl the yarn I’m winding, one of several hanks of newly spun wool a neighbor gave me. I crochet to keep my hands busy, and the yarn must be wound before I can turn it into a hat or scarf or a pair of gloves.

The edges of the Greenwood are malleable, and some of those who retreat to the forest to live off the grid, as they say, venture into this more mystical territory. Since our little community thrives on a system of sharing and the seasons change everywhere, there’s always someone who needs a hat.

The sun has sunk below the tree line, taking the last of the day’s light with it. “Time to go inside,” I murmur to myself. As I rise, though, I hear a noise. It’s not the trees singing; it’s a man.

Forth from the green wood they are gone,

With hearts all firm and stout,

Resolving with the Sheriff’s men,

To have a hearty bout.

The tune is familiar, as are the words. “Resolving with . . . ah, for fuck’s sake.

” I set aside my yarn and reach instead for my staff.

A stream runs through my little property, some forty feet from my front door.

Anyone intending to visit me must cross a bridge to reach my yard, assuming I allow them to cross.

So the arrow with the golden head,

And shaft of silver-white,

Brave Robin Hood won, and bore with him,

For his own proper right.

Oh yes, I know who approaches my house. Rob Loxley—or whatever he’s calling himself these days. My hand closes around my staff, a thick pole of almost seven feet.

Not quite as tall as I am.

Gathering as much energy as I can, I stalk down the stone path and stand on my side of the bridge.

Rob stands on the other side. “John, my friend.”

His grin hasn’t changed, nor have his ruddy cheeks or his tumble of tight curls. He too carries a staff, more of a modern walking stick, though the shadows of his bow and quiver can almost be seen over his shoulders.

Despite looking the part of an ordinary hiker, he is much more than that.

Robin of Loxley is the Lord of the Greenwood, and I am his second in command. The one he summons when his Lady gives him a sign. The one who keeps the others in line.

The one who calls him out when he is wrong.

Even so, I’ll not make this easy for him.

I, John Naylor, carved out this corner of the Greenwood so long ago that the trees could scarcely remember the days before my little house.

I’d begun to think that Rob would not return this time, that I truly would rejoin the dirt from which we all are made.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .

I raise my staff, barring his way. “What brings you to this corner of the Greenwood?”

His smile broadens, becoming the one he uses when he wants something. I know most all of Rob Loxley’s expressions: the sly grin, the anger that flashes like bolts of lightning, even—if I dig deep enough—the lust, though it has been many, many years since I’ve seen that last one.

“I’ll tell you over a cuppa.” He comes toward me, stopping on the far end of the bridge, one hand on his staff and the other open in greeting.

I don’t give way. “I need more than that, my friend. It’s been years, decades even.” Forty years since the Sheriff of Nottingham last drew attention to himself and Rob called us together to fight him.

“The grey in your hair gives that away, my friend.”

I lift my chin. “Then maybe it’s time—”

“Not yet, John Naylor.”

He raises his staff, so I lift mine. We fought like this once before. At that time, I was the victor, though today I have my doubts. Time has taken her toll—on my body, my wolf, my very soul—and the man facing me could be five and twenty.

“You have sworn an oath.” His expression grows hard for an instant before his smile returns, now warm, cajoling.

The look of a man who is very good at getting his own way.

“I did swear, though at the time I did not realize what it meant to be bound forever.”

Forever.

His laugh would soften anyone who knew him less well than I. “Not forever, John, but I do need you now.”

If he advances, I’ll block him, and off we’ll go. There’s an ache in my shoulder, and one hip grumbles as if trying to make a point of its own. Do I want to lose on my own front steps?

No, I do not.

Lowering my staff, I yield. “Come on, then. I bottled some clarrey last summer. It should be ready to drink by now.”

I turn, catching a flash of relief in my friend’s eyes. Rob may be immortal, close in power to the goddess he serves, but he too is held by a vow he made before there were people to keep track of time. I suppose that is why I set aside my staff and allow him into my home.

When you can measure your friendship in the hundreds of years, it’s not easy to throw it off. We’re caught in a web of our own creation, and there’s a part of me that wants to know what brought Robin of Loxley to my door. Damn curiosity.

I also have to wonder whether I’m willing to take him up on what he has implicitly offered. His power has sustained me far longer than the limits of a werewolf’s life, and though I am still learning the music of the trees, I’m not at all sure I want another hundred or so years to study them.

Gathering my yarn, I open the front and ignore the last bit of whispered doubt. Don’t let him in. Don’t let him ruin things. Too late for that. The wondering has already destroyed whatever equilibrium I’d managed to achieve.

My house is small. Three rooms framed in timber, a thatched roof, small windows, and walls of plaster and lathe.

The hearth, a small cave dominating the main room, is black with soot.

Given the day’s warmth, I’d allowed the fire to burn down to embers.

After we share a glass, I’ll stir the fire and see what my larder can produce for dinner.

I hunt, garden, and preserve as much as I can, bartering with my neighbors for what I can’t produce myself. Keeping to the old ways. This early in the fall, I have plenty of fresh stuff, and if dinner is heavier on vegetables than meat, Rob won’t mind.

“Sit.” I point him to the sturdy table at the center of the room. He leans his staff in the corner and does as I ask. Leaving the main door open, I go to the pantry, where, among other things, several bottles of clarrey are stacked in a dark corner, waiting for the right opportunity.

Made from white wine that’s been heated with honey and spices and then allowed to age so the flavors mellow, it’s not the same drink as the clarrey from two hundred years ago. Not better or worse. Different.

There’s always been someone in our little community who made wine and used to be that the flavor varied a fair amount from year to year.

Now we trade for bottles that come from a supermarket, so the results are more predictable.

I pull the cork from a bottle and sniff.

Nodding in approval, I pick up a pair of tumblers and carry the lot into the main room.

“Here.” I pour us both a measure and take a seat across the table from him. Raising my glass, I say, “To old friends.”

The old glass clinks as he taps mine with his. “And to new adventures.”

We drink, though the familiar sweet, herbal flavor is insufficient to wash away my worry.

Setting down my cup, I meet Rob’s gaze directly.

He looks good—rested, energized, his goatee and mustache neatly trimmed.

If this were a social call, I’d be much happier to see him, because truly, I don’t much want new adventures, especially when they come with a smile that could persuade a shepherd to give up his very last sheep.

I’ve seen him do it before.

I don’t need a mirror to know how I must look to him, my shoulders bowed, face as worn as old leather, and my rough-cut hair gone mostly grey.

The things he can’t see—the ache in my joints regardless of the weather, the weariness that seeps from my bones—those are what would have me stay in this cottage to the end of my days.

Yet those are what make me ask, “And what is this adventure you mention?”

“Ah, my friend . . .” His eyes grow warm, as if he can see the things he should not. “We’re once again called to defeat the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

I reach up to massage a pain in the back of my neck. “Of course we are. What’s he done this time?”

Swirling his clarrey, he takes his time before answering me. “I don’t suppose you follow the news.”

I can’t quite stifle a smile. Outside of my handful of neighbors who still must occasionally venture back onto the grid, the modern world rarely intrudes on the Greenwood. “No.”

“Of course not. You probably don’t even have running water in this place.”

I raise an eyebrow. “No.”

His laugh invites me to join in. I do not. Well, I smile and shake my head. In some ways, he’s an incorrigible child.

An immortal, powerful, incorrigible child.

“Welcome to the twenty-first century, then,” he says, and he proceeds to give me an overview of the years since the last time we defeated Nottingham, who, according to Rob, is now calling himself Leander de Lisle.

“Where did he get that name?” I pose the question because pulling up memories from the fourteenth century is too much work.

Rob snorts. “Wikipedia, maybe?”

“What’s that?”

“Another time. For now what we need to know is that he’s returned to the world and has gathered enough power to do real harm.”

And if the Sheriff is in a position to harm people, we will be called to stop him.

It’s that simple.

Rob goes on to talk about the way the world has changed, how countries have gained and lost power, how society is so markedly different from when I stopped paying attention. “You could even get married.” He announces the fact as if it is something otherwise unheard of.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“I mean, in many countries, a man can marry a man, and a woman can marry a woman.”

His grin is contagious, but the very idea that I might marry another man dampens my humor by bringing a trove of memories to mind.

Men I have loved deeply. Men who have crossed the veil too soon and wounded my heart with their leaving.

Men I hope to see again when I finally return to the earth.

“I ask again, why would I want to do that?”

My bluster falls short, making him laugh long and hard. “I suppose there’s no answer to that one.” His expression sobers. “More seriously, though, a group of what they call oligarchs are attempting to take over the world, and our good Leander de Lisle is among them.”

I finish my clarrey in one swallow, wincing a little at the sweetness. “Take over the world? That sounds like something out of a penny dreadful.”

He shrugs, jaw tight. “It’s the truth. He’s the ringleader of a group who are so blindingly wealthy as to be untouchable, yet we’ve been tasked with doing just that.”

“What?”

“Stop him.” His grimace grows fierce. “By any means available to us.”

“Why now?”

“Because rather than simply accumulating wealth, this time he is using it in ways that will harm ordinary folks.” His eyes grow bleak. “You know I would only call upon you if things were dire.”

The weariness in my bones becomes an unbearable weight. “I suppose you have a plan.”

He holds out his hand. “Come, my friend. Permit me to revive you, then we’ll talk.”

I stare at his open palm. His fingers are long, almost delicate, though I know well his strength. If I do this, it will be for the last time. “If I do this, it may be for the last time.” Even as I reach for him, I berate myself for changing that one small word.

We clasp hands, and I close my eyes. His power flows through me, healing me the way rain restores parched soil.

The weight in my bones eases and my joints cast off their aches and pains.

I find I can straighten to my full height, my shoulders as broad as ever. Still holding his hand, I open my eyes.

“Now,” he says, his expression as close to honest as Rob Loxley ever gets, “let us talk.”