Chapter Eight
I ’m unused to hiking, particularly at night.
My thigh muscles ache, and I stumble on jagged protruding rocks. I’m quickly breathless. Despite the chill in the air, sweat beads my skin. I lag at the tail of the group while Callum, just ahead of me, jokes around with Ryan and Becky. With his muscles and wolf strength, I’m sure it doesn’t occur to him that the climb may be a struggle for a human princess who spent most of her time sitting indoors sewing, or preening, or playing the piano.
Despite my discomfort, a smile plays on my lips. The air is so fresh I can taste it. The scents of rain-drenched grass, muddy earth, and the occasional whiff of animal feces travel in the wind. Childlike excitement bubbles in my chest when I spot a sheep grazing on the mountainside.
When I look over my shoulder, Lowfell Castle is a mere dot in the darkness, surrounded by rippling water that reflects the moonlight. My breath catches, and freedom fills my lungs. Despite everything that has happened—being attacked by James, Blake linking our lives, his plot against Callum—I’m glad to be here, rather than in the Southlands.
Blake’s contrived laugh slices through the darkness and sets my teeth on edge. He’s at the head of the group, speaking to Arran, Jack, and an older gentleman in a black-and-grey kilt. The small boy, Alfie, runs circles around them. My mouth pinches at the corners.
“You don’t like Blake, I take it?” A smooth male voice, thick with the Northlands accent, makes me jump. A tall member of Blake’s clan falls into step beside me. The hood of his cloak hides his face. “He tends to have that effect on people.”
“Does he have that effect on you?” I ask, curious about what members of Blake’s clan actually think of him.
“I find him. . . intriguing.”
“How so?”
“He collects broken birds. Have you noticed? The bastard with one eye, the abused woman, the half-wolf from the King’s City docks.” I feel his attention on me, and my muscles tighten. “The Southlands princess. I’ve long wondered what he intends to do with them. Heal them, or pluck their feathers. Cage them, or let them take flight. Perhaps they just amuse him.”
I frown as I make sense of his “birds”. Arran, with his scarred throat and eye patch, must have been the first, and from Jack’s Southlands accent, he could have originated from the King’s City docks. I don’t know who the abused woman is, though. Nor do I appreciate being referred to as broken myself. Even if it might be true.
“Are you a broken bird?” I ask.
The wind carries the sound of bagpipes as the summit of the mountain gets closer. Lochlan’s clan must already be here.
“We’re all a wee bit broken, aren’t we?” There’s a smile in his tone.
“How are you broken?”
He waves an arm beneath his cloak. “Nothing interesting, I assure you. Father issues, a lost love.” He gestures at Callum. “I hear he kidnapped you.”
“I chose to come with him.”
I stumble over a jagged rock, and the man grabs my arm and steadies me. There is strength in his grip. I mumble my thanks and brush myself down.
“Why would a Southlands princess choose to come to her enemy kingdom?” asks the male.
“I was supposed to marry a terrible man. I wanted to be free.”
“Ah, I see. Callum would have been powerless to resist.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hear he enjoys a damsel in distress.”
I have the strangest feeling this male is trying to antagonize me. I shouldn’t be surprised that Blake’s clan are as provocative as their alpha. “I’m not a damsel.”
“No? Yet you let him save you from your perilous situation in the Borderlands, rather than saving yourself.”
I’m stung by the slight shred of truth in that. “That is part of the story, I suppose. I’d also planned to gain information on the Wolves.” I shrug. “I thought if I gave it to my father, I could barter for my freedom. My loyalties changed when I got to know Callum. More so when I learned more about my father, and the man I was supposed to marry.”
“What truth did you learn?”
“That people in power mold their stories to serve their interests. That the Wolves are not the villains my people are taught to believe they are. Not all of them, anyway.”
Blake calls over to Elsie and asks her to keep the little beast under control.
The track steepens. At one point, I need to use my hands to clamber over some rocks. I’ve never had to do such a thing before, and a smile spreads across my face when my palms get wet and dirty. Callum looks over his shoulder when we’re on less treacherous ground and grins before playfully shoving Ryan toward the mountain edge. Ryan swears at him, face turning red, and Callum roars with laughter. I take a moment to catch my breath, shaking my head at the childishness of the alpha I find myself involved with.
The cloaked male steps beside me once more and chuckles. He must be as tall as Callum. He’s not as muscular, but his dark cloak hangs off broad shoulders. “What’s your name?” I ask, panting.
He inclines his head at the steep slope ahead, a blanket of stars above us. “Come on.” He starts walking once more. “We’re almost at the top.”
We reach the grassy summit and find ourselves at the edge of a stone circle. There must be about twenty people waiting for us—drinking from flasks and gathered around whisky barrels. A woman plays the bagpipes, and the shrill yet joyful sound fills the air. They all wear yellow tartan beneath their cloaks. This must be Lochlan’s clan.
The cold air is filled with chatter and the scent of wet earth. A soft laugh escapes me and mists in front of my face. For the first time in my twenty years of life, I have climbed a mountain.
“You have stunning hair, by the way,” says the male. “Many Wolves in the Snowlands have hair that color.”
My head snaps toward him at the mention of my mother’s homeland, but he’s watching the crowd.
Ahead, Ryan tugs Becky toward one of the whisky barrels, while Callum shouts after them to pace themselves. Jack strides toward a blonde woman in the middle of the revelry who wears a white dress. She’s the only person who isn’t wearing black.
“Is that the Moon Priestess?” I ask the cloaked wolf.
He nods. “Aye. She’ll be conducting the ceremony, later.”
Arran musses up Alfie’s hair and leads him in the opposite direction, while Elsie seemingly exchanges a sharp word with Blake before following them.
“Is Lochlan here yet?” Callum’s rough voice is carried by the cold wind. “I can’t see him.”
“I suspect we’d know if he was,” says Blake. “He always likes to make an entrance.”
“Gentlemen,” says the male beside me. He lowers his hood.
Callum and Blake both turn. Callum’s fist clenches by his side, while Blake’s mouth curves into slow smile. “Ah, Lochlan, there you are,” says Blake.
My stomach jolts. Lochlan has hair as red as mine. It’s shorn close to his scalp at the sides, a bit like Callum’s, but the hair at the top is much longer—braided then tied—and it reaches his lower back. His eyes glint with intelligence, and they’re underlined with black kohl. Amusement dances on his lips.
Lochlan winks at me before he strides toward Blake and clasps him on the shoulder. “You’re looking flawless as always, Blake.” There’s something like heat in his eyes.
A dimple creases Blake’s cheek. “As are you, Lochlan.”
Callum crosses the space between us, and puts an arm around my shoulders. There’s something territorial about his stance, and Lochlan chuckles. “Rest easy, Callum. I have no quarrel with you. I’ve just become acquainted with your princess.” He grins at me. “I like her.”
Some of Callum’s tension dissipates, though he still seems wary when he shakes Lochlan’s hand. “Thank you for coming. I was hoping we could speak.”
Lochlan makes a dismissive gesture as he steps back. “I know what you want to talk about but we’ll have time for politics later. Blake has invited me to stay for a few nights. Let us enjoy the festivities tonight, and we can talk about your brother—and what I want from you in exchange for my support—tomorrow. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m parched after the climb. My men brought a barrel of Glas-Cladach’s finest whisky. Can I tempt you?”
“Always,” says Blake, his voice smooth as silk.
Lochlan’s grin is almost wolfish. “Excellent. Callum?”
Callum is still for a moment, then he relaxes. “Aye. I’ve heard you barrel it in caves blessed by Ghealach .”
“My clan will tell you that because of this, it brings the wolf to the surface more than any other whisky in the Northlands.” Lochlan grins at me, and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Really it’s just the exceedingly high alcohol content.” He winks. “Want to try it?”
I blink, surprised to have been asked. “Please.”
He walks away and Blake falls into step beside him. “I’ll join you. There’s another matter I wish to discuss.”
Lochlan inclines his head. “I had one my of men bring you a cart of moonflower, by the way.”
“Excellent. My supplies were low. . .”
Their voices fade as they walk toward the group gathering around a barrel in the center of the stone circle. Callum frowns.
“He’s up to something,” he says darkly.
“Lochlan or Blake?”
“Blake. Whenever he lays on the charm, there’s reason to worry.” His eyes darken. “I didn’t even know they were friends.”
I touch his arm. “At least he can probably talk Lochlan into supporting you.”
Callum sighs, his breath a plume of mist before his troubled face. “Likely with promises of what Lochlan can expect when Blake has put himself on the throne.”
I squeeze his muscles. “You’ll just have to offer him something better, won’t you?”
“Did I ever tell you you’re rather nefarious, Princess?”
I shrug and give him a coy smile, but Callum frowns.
“Are you feeling alright?” His tone is soft, and he touches my cheek. “Is it the fever?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re looking a wee bit sweaty. Perhaps we should get you sat down.” Indignation floods my system, and I shove him. I may as well be trying to move a rock for all the good it does. He arches an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “What?”
“Don’t tell a woman she looks sweaty!” I shove him again. He doesn’t budge an inch. “I’m sweating because I’ve just hiked up a big bloody mountain!”
He laughs. Loudly. “You should have said something. I would have carried you.”
“I don’t need carrying! I’m not completely fragile, Callum!”
He looks like he’s going to say something, probably obnoxious, judging by the glint in his eye, but his brow furrows. At the same time, that thread of Blake’s life force coils around my soul. I stiffen as it implodes, and ice crackles through my veins.
Blake stands with Lochlan and Arran by the whisky barrel. The wind drags its fingers through his dark hair, and makes his black coat flutter. His expression is careful, casual, but I catch a hint of ice in his eyes.
On the other side of the circle, the blonde priestess in the white dress has her hand curled around the young boy, Alfie’s, arm. She appears to be scolding him, and his bottom lip wobbles as his eyes, big as saucers, fill with tears. The wind carries her voice toward me, as Elsie—his mother—storms across the circle, knocking shoulders with an older gentleman in her haste to get to him.
“... an abomination. Your mother should be ashamed bringing you here. You’re as tainted by darkness as she is, and you have no business—”
The roar in my ears tunes out whatever she says next. I don’t know why she is punishing the little boy, but I won’t stand for it. I have little patience for religious zealots, having been whipped throughout my childhood for my “sins against the Sun Goddess”. I want to be respectful of the Wolves’ culture, but I can’t stand by and watch a young child be made to feel small by someone who claims to know the will of her goddess.
I stride toward them. “Let go of the child,” I say.
The Moon Priestess’s blue eyes snap toward me, and strands of blonde hair whip her face. There must be something in my expression she doesn’t like, because she releases her grip on his arm. “You’re the Southlands princess, aren’t you? You’re ignorant of our customs. But—”
“Careful.” Callum puts his hand on my shoulder, as if to let me know I have his support. His heat sears my back, but it does little to warm the ice in my veins. I’m unsure whether it’s my anger or Blake’s that makes my body shake.
The priestess points at Alfie. “His mother is tainted. Promised to the God of Night—”
“He is a young child. An innocent,” I say. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” I hold out my hand to him. “It’s okay, Alfie.”
He grasps my fingers with his tiny hand, his black hair in disarray and his cheeks flushed and wet. I pull him toward Callum and me as Elsie shudders to a halt beside us. The wolf blazes in her eyes as she prods her finger in the priestess’s direction. “You stay away from my son.”
“I cannot conduct a ceremony to honor our goddess when a supporter of the God of Night is in attendance—”
“Elsie is no more of an acolyte than any of us here.” Blake’s voice is like a blade as he approaches.
Arran is beside him, and the large man’s arm brushes against me as he grabs Alfie’s collar and tugs. Tears shimmer in the boy’s eyes, until Arran scoops him up and sits him on his broad shoulders.
“Come on, trouble,” he says. “Let’s go count the stones in the circle.” He strides away, and I wonder if he doesn’t want the young boy to witness whatever Blake has planned next.
“Apologize,” says Blake, his tone like silk.
The night has quietened around us, as if Blake’s presence has alerted both clans that something is going on. Elsie’s cheeks redden.
“It’s fine, Blake,” says Elsie. “Don’t you dare cause a scene. Not tonight. You’ll ruin everything. I’d rather be in bed with a book than listen to this bitch drone on all night, anyway.”
Blake keeps his gaze on the priestess. “Apologize,” he repeats.
The priestess glares up at him. “It is forbidden to spill blood on this night.”
“Who said anything about spilling blood?” The corner of his lip curves, and Callum tenses behind me. “I have a hallucinogenic in my infirmary that makes Wolves think their skin is melting from their bones. I have a paralytic that makes one long for death. Do you know what sound a wolf makes when they are deprived of air, again and again and again? I do.”
A chill skitters over my skin that has nothing to do with my anger, nor the iciness in the Northlands air.
“That’s enough, Blake,” says Callum softly. “She’s still a priestess.”
“He’s right, though.” My words come out quietly, as if I can’t quite believe I’m saying them. Every bone in my body is locked, every muscle tight. “She should apologize.”
The priestess looks between Blake and me. Her eyebrows almost imperceptibly lift—as if something has dawned upon her. She dips her head. “I apologize.”
She turns on her heel and strides toward the center of the circle. Elsie huffs sharply through her nose. Her dark hair whips her face as she spins around to face Blake. “I told you not to interfere.” She shakes her head. “I’m heading back.”
Blake grabs her wrist. “You have every right to be here—”
Her eyes blaze. “Drop it. And she’d better be alive in the morning.” When Blake doesn’t reply, she smacks his arm. “Blake.”
His mouth pinches in the corners. “Fine.”
He puts his hands into his pockets as she stomps away from us all. She casts one last glance at Alfie on Arran’s shoulder before she disappears between the stones to head back down the mountain.
“What was all that about?” There’s a crease in Callum’s brow. “Does she worship Night?”
“No,” says Blake. “She’s tainted by her father’s choices, that’s all.”
Not for the first time, I wonder who she is to Blake. Before either of us can ask anything else, Lochlan strolls up to us, four drams of whisky in hand. Blake conceals his emotion as quickly as I do.
“Is everything okay?” asks Lochlan.
“Fine,” says Blake. He’s watching the priestess as she talks to a group of women wearing yellow tartan beneath their cloaks.
Lochlan passes us each a drink. “Well... here’s to old friends, new alliances, and broken birds escaping their cages.” He winks at me.
Despite the discomfort of what has just occurred, we clink our glasses and drink. I can’t shake the dark feeling that has come over me as the smoky substance burns my throat.
“Tonight is going to be fun,” says Lochlan.