The Wulver’s Bond (Outcast Hearts #1)
Chapter One
O n an eerie midsummer evening over the Shetland Islands, the archipelago basked in an uncanny pastel twilight that locals fondly called the ‘simmer dim’.
The last orange clouds of sunset had faded beyond the ocean, leaving behind a wake of pale yellows and blues. On the largest isle, Mainland, the land still radiated some of the captured heat from the day, but the usual south-westerly wind was already stripping it all back to the North Atlantic Ocean. The air was fresh and wild, perfect weather for travelling.
‘Move, you fuckin’ weed.’
Three dark specks moved across the blustery landscape: a group clad in camo gear and hauling heavy backpacks. The most heavily burdened figure appeared to be the youngest and scrawniest of the trio. His bag had a second strapped on top of it, and a multitude of tools and compact camping gear that hung off the sides.
The group’s leader, an older woman with greying hair and a hardened face, strode out in front. She was followed closely by a burly, hulking man with a scruffy beard and a nasty scar on his face. He stopped occasionally to land a clout round the head of their auburn-haired packhorse whenever the younger man failed to keep up.
The Wulver watched them from his cliff-side vantage with wary interest. Nestled into the rock, he blended with the shadows. He was practically a shadow himself, a sleek silhouette with a wolflike head and dark clothes. Only the flash of his amber eyes might have betrayed his position.
The group below were hunters, and he was the quarry they pursued. If caught, they’d skin him for his furry pelt and boast of dispatching a monster. His life meant nothing to them. Nor did his name, for that matter, which was Arran. They’d rather consider him an animal, a trophy to mount on a wall.
A low growl rumbled in the Wulver’s chest as a glint of light caught on their leader’s crossbow.
This trio had been following Arran for weeks while he trekked across the Scottish Highlands towards his home. He’d hoped the ocean crossing to Shetland might have put them off his trail, but no such luck.
They presented some threat. Having followed him this far, they were clearly accomplished trackers. He’d noted an array of specialist weapons they carried, and knew that the younger man, whom they called Weed, held some magical abilities.
Arran knew the most about their leader, Elsie. She was renowned in hunters’ circles for her tenacity and zero tolerance for failure. Her favoured weapon was a crossbow loaded with silver bolts.
Logan, the broad one, was the closest thing she had to a partner and was the muscle of the group—although from the Wulver’s observations, his job seemed to mostly revolve around beating the crap out of Weed.
Once the hunters had travelled a good distance away, the Wulver stood and stretched his lanky body. His muscles popped where they’d been sat still for too long, and his tail wagged at the feeling of relief.
He raised his snout, sniffing the air. Familiar sea breeze mixed with the earthy smells of marshland and peat bog. He was glad to be back on his island. But the hunters would have to be dealt with before he returned home.
Arran closed his eyes and sighed. Elsie wouldn’t be scared off easily. He needed to prepare for a confrontation that would probably turn deadly.
But that was a problem for tomorrow. He opened his rucksack, pulling out a solid fuel camping stove and a can of Scotch broth, and set to cooking some dinner. It was late and the air would begin to chill soon, but he didn’t mind the cold. His lean body was covered in a fine coat of mottled grey fur, and the additional layers of a pair of jeans and an old black hoodie were enough to keep him warm all year round. He didn’t wear shoes unless it was exceptionally muddy underfoot, preferring to feel the earth under his clawed feet.
The broth was hearty and revitalising. Of the many extraordinary innovations that humans had come up with, canned goods were undoubtedly one of his favourites.
Next, Arran unrolled his sleeping bag and tucked it into a shallow dip in the ground, slightly shielded from the elements. He gazed up at the glowing twilight while the wind whistled in his pointed ears, and considered what had to be done with Elsie and her crew.
* * *
The hunters also bedded down after sunset. They made camp on a patch of ground sheltered behind an outcrop of red sandstone, on a gently sloping hillside.
Weed fulfilled his tasks silently, heating a small kettle of water over their low campfire while his companions chewed on hard jerky. The wind was picking up, threatening to blow the flames out altogether.
Logan grunted, rubbing his thick hands together in front of the meagre flames before landing a kick on Weed’s shin. ‘Can’t you make this fire bigger? Where’s all the fuckin’ wood?’
‘There aren’t many trees on this island,’ Weed replied coolly.
‘Can’t you make some? ’
Weed ignored the snarl in Logan’s voice and lifted the steaming kettle off the fire. ‘No. I cannot make trees. Only ask them for favours.’
‘That’s bullshit. I’ve seen you do it before.’ Logan’s eyes narrowed with spite while he watched Weed pour the water into two tin cups. The promise of hot tea was likely the only thing keeping him from knocking the kettle right out of Weed’s hands.
Weed steeped two teabags—ensuring that Logan’s brew received only a glancing contact, for a small piece of revenge—and passed the mugs over. Elsie took hers without any acknowledgment. She studied an ordnance survey map spread out on her lap.
Logan took a sip of his tea and immediately spat it on the ground. ‘This is weak as piss, Weed!’ He pulled back the mug, about to throw the scalding water at Weed’s face.
‘Do not,’ Elsie said quietly. Her sharp eyes cut through the eerie half-light. ‘We have a limited water supply. Waste none.’
Weed shot a sly smile at Logan, knowing it would infuriate him. Just occasionally, he was grateful for Elsie’s pragmatism.
Her gaze snapped to Weed and narrowed. ‘Have your plants told you anything of the Wulver?’
Weed shrugged languidly and waved at the barren, rolling landscape. ‘Look around. It’s grass for miles and miles. No deep tree roots to follow.’
‘Can’t you just ask the grass? ’ Logan muttered over his weak tea.
‘Grass is dumb as shit,’ Weed replied sweetly. ‘Almost as witless as you.’
Worth it, Weed reflected, after Logan had socked him in the jaw and given his stomach a vicious kick for good measure. He listened, curled up in a ball on the ground, while Elsie and Logan wrapped up in their sleeping gear around the dying fire.
He listened to the quiet hum of the grass beneath his head: gentle, stupid, and calming. Small flowers and a singular alder tree joined the choir further out as he stretched his awareness, travelling through tangled root systems deep beneath the soil.
Weed lifted his hand to brush the stony outcrop by his head, and his mind drifted into the moss there. Mosses, by contrast, were busy and hardy despite their soft appearance. They could survive nearly anywhere, in arctic tundra or scorching desert, in soaking wetland or on barren rock. Weed liked them. They reminded him of himself.
Hours passed and the sky grew dim, but not quite dark. Weed sank into sleep cocooned by the noises of the earth. He found peace in the rustle of undisturbed florae; truly wild on this island, free in a place where humans did not often tread.
So the padded footsteps, when they came, broke through the harmony like a crash of drums. Weed woke with a start, heart thumping as he homed in on the sound. There were sheep on the island, but these footsteps were lighter than a sheep’s—and yet, still animal. Grass blades crushed beneath soft paws instead of rubber soles. Slow, intentional. Like a predator stalking prey.
Weed crawled to Elsie first, shaking her awake. ‘The Wulver is coming,’ he hissed.
She was alert in seconds, cocking her crossbow. ‘Wake him.’ She jerked her head at Logan. ‘And have your roots ready.’
‘They won’t do much good out here,’ Weed muttered resentfully, but he poured his mind into the ground under his feet as ordered. He kicked Logan awake, delighting in a brief chance for violence seeing as Elsie hadn’t specified how he should wake Logan up.
Logan greeted him with a slew of curses, but sobered quickly when he understood the threat. Rummaging quickly in his gear he grabbed the large net he could swing in one hand and wielded a silver-tipped javelin in the other. From his belt hung all manner of knives and an extra quiver of silver darts for Elsie’s crossbow. The man looked prepared to take on an army.
Logan and Elsie took up positions on opposite sides of the outcrop, peering round at Weed’s instruction as to where he’d last heard the footsteps approaching. He couldn’t hear them any longer, which worried him. Had the Wulver stopped? Did he know they’d detected him?
The answer came swiftly and brutally.
A squall of fur and claws dropped down from the jutting stone overhead. It landed feet-first on Elsie’s back. She went down with a painful grunt, tried to twist to point her crossbow and instead had it ripped from her hands.
Weed had seen the Wulver before. Elsie had almost caught him once, when she’d gotten a lucky shot off and pierced his chest with a silver bolt. The beast had seemed weak then, taken by surprise in foreign surroundings and exhausted after days of fraught travel. The only reason Elsie hadn’t succeeded was because of a witch’s intervention.
There was no witch in sight now, but the Wulver seemed formidably stronger. Rested, on his home turf. He towered over Elsie, a seven-foot lupine giant glaring down with amber eyes and an open jaw full of pointed fangs.
This time, Weed realised, the Wulver had been hunting them .
The beast broke Logan’s javelin as he charged, snapping it in half like a twig. Weed reacted as fast as he could: he spread his palms and summoned the nearby grass roots to rise out of the ground. They were white and reedy, coiling fast around the Wulver’s legs and snatching at his arms. The wolfman yanked out of their grip with ease. Weed sent more, seeking to slow him down while Logan rushed in again with his net swinging.
The Wulver sensed him and dodged the lunge. He tore out of another feeble onslaught of roots and grabbed Logan’s wrist. Weed heard the sickening crunch of bone shattering. Logan screamed, dropping the net to clutch at his mangled wrist.
Elsie was back on her feet, gripping three crossbow bolts between the fingers of one hand like a lethal knuckle-duster. She swung a punch at the Wulver, grazing his left arm. The wolfman countered with a deft twist, swiping hold of first one of Elsie’s arms and then the other, until he had her in a deathly-tight grip, hugging her body from behind. Her feet dangled several inches above the ground.
‘You have one chance,’ the Wulver growled at her throat. ‘Stop hunting me, and you shall live.’
He locked eyes with Weed, who froze momentarily. Swallowing back his panic, Weed sent another flurry of roots to clutch at the Wulver’s limbs. But the Wulver held fast, locking Elsie’s left arm by her side and lifting her right hand—still armed with bolts and now clenched inside the Wulver’s fist—directly under her chin. The pointed metal pressed deeply into her skin.
‘This is your only chance,’ the Wulver repeated. ‘It is your choice whether you leave this island alive.’
Weed caught Elsie’s eye, saw it flick downwards to her belt. A sheathed knife, inches from her trapped hand. He understood.
Weed sent a burst of roots into the Wulver’s face and bid them to erupt into flowers for a distraction. At the same time, a stealthy creeper shot to release Elsie’s knife. He flicked the handle into her palm. She gripped it. Twisted her wrist—and plunged the knife backwards.
The Wulver roared, convulsing as the blade sank in. But he didn’t let go.
He snarled into Elsie’s ear. ‘You have made your choice.’
The Wulver wrenched Elsie’s right hand up into her chin. She made a guttural sound as the bolts pierced her jaw and blood spilled in a stream down her throat. The Wulver released her left hand, instead gripping her head—and in a simple, matter-of-fact motion, he snapped her neck.