Chapter Seven
W rapped up all snug in his dashing new coat, Weed felt unexpectedly light as he departed the cave with the Wulver. Before leaving, he’d watched the wolfman pack his red rucksack with hard tack and a homemade trail mix, along with a canteen of water. He’d then retrieved a large quantity of smoked fish from the pantry and wrapped it all up in old newspaper, tying it into a neat parcel.
This was so large he carried it under one arm as they set off, with the backpack slung over his other shoulder.
Weed dawdled at first, dragging against the Wulver’s swift pace over the rocks. But it was boring to be on his own at the back.
Weighing the urge to drag his heels against the urge to be nosy, Weed’s curiosity won out and he hurried to catch up to the Wulver’s side. ‘Where are we going?’
The wolfman slowed his pace to match Weed’s. ‘To see a friend. It is not too far, but she lives on an isolated part of the island.’
‘And why are you going to see her?’
The Wulver tilted his parcel. ‘To deliver fish.’
‘What are you, the local fishmonger?’
The Wulver huffed, a sound that might have been a wolfish chuckle, and proceeded up the steep bank alongside the river. He forged a path up and out of the ravine onto higher ground, offering a steadying hand to Weed over a patch of loose scree. The wind, which had assumed a muted quality down among the sheltered willow trees, regained its battering force on the exposed moorland of the northern peninsula.
The Wulver stopped often for Weed to catch up, but it was clear he wanted to make a quick march of it and Weed felt strangely compelled not to slow him down. Besides which, it was tremendously difficult to exchange satirical remarks while being physically assaulted by a weather system. After an hour of fighting through the Shetland gust, Weed just wanted the journey to be over.
They eventually climbed a cliff, where the whistling wind shared its cacophony with the roar of waves crashing far below. In the distance was a tatty brick cottage. Its roof tiles were clearly regular victims to the gale, and its window frames were sorely in need of a fresh lick of paint. But the narrow strip of garden surrounding it was obviously well-tended and fairly neat despite being blown about: a few dense shrubs sheltered prettier flowers and what appeared to be a valiant effort at a vegetable patch in a raised bed.
The Wulver beckoned Weed to duck behind a jutting grey stone a little distance from the house.
‘Stay here,’ the Wulver urged, perhaps forgetting Weed had no choice but to obey. ‘I think it is close enough that you shall not be pulled to me. I shall be quick.’
He loped off, covering the distance quickly in long strides. The Wulver had not told Weed that he needed to hide , however, so he peered around the stone and spied on what the wolfman was up to.
The Wulver crept to the back of the house and, after a quick check through the glass, levered open a ground floor sash window. He placed the fish parcel on the sill and gave the glass a rap with his knuckles. Then he stooped out of sight and skulked around the side of the cottage, ears pricked in the direction of the window.
Before long, a pair of frail hands lifted the parcel away. Weed heard a faint voice that said, ‘Long time, old man. Worried, I was.’
The Wulver stayed in place. Weed wondered what on earth he was waiting for.
He was about to call out to get his attention when the hands appeared again. They placed a paper carrier bag on the sill—or attempted to place it, as their owner fumbled and the bag spilled down over the wall into the garden below.
‘Buggeration,’ said the voice.
The Wulver had moved when he heard the bag drop, like a reflex to go and catch it, but he stopped himself and retreated again. After more waiting, the back door to the cottage swung open and a grey-haired woman in a dressing gown and slippers limped over the step, supported by a cane.
She puffed and swore as she bent to pick up the spilled items. Then she dumped the bag haphazardly by her back doorstep. She turned and waved her cane at the cliffs—Weed dropped behind the rock again, though he suspected he was safe from whatever state her eyesight might be in.
‘You look after y’self you ol’ bugger!’ she shouted to the wind. ‘And don’t be so long next time!’
The door slammed shut behind her. The Wulver waited another minute before retrieving the paper bag, and was at Weed’s side again so fast and silently that it made him jump.
‘Thank you for waiting,’ the Wulver said. ‘We shall go home now.’
Weed squinted pointedly at the bag. ‘What was all this for, then?’ Up close he could tell the bag didn’t have much in it. He was intensely curious as to what could be so small and also worthy of an exchange for all that fish.
‘She lives alone and has no one left to help her,’ the Wulver explained, starting down the path. ‘I try to drop off food once a week to ensure her larder remains full. Of course, I have been gone a long time. I am glad she seems well.’
‘Right. Sure.’ Weed gestured to the bag. ‘But what did she give you?’
The Wulver’s eyebrows raised. ‘I’m not sure. We can find out.’
Once they’d descended the cliff and could enjoy a reprieve from the worst of the coastal wind, the Wulver passed the bag to Weed. Weed opened it warily.
It contained three slices of stale bread, a pathetically small stalk of rhubarb and an apple that was turning brown. Also, confusingly, there were three loose batteries, a plastic sandwich bag, and a page from a newspaper.
‘Oh, puzzles!’ the Wulver exclaimed, plucking the newspaper and shielding it from the wind. ‘She’s left me the crossword and the number problem.’
‘Are you serious?’ Weed shook the contents of the bag as though they’d reveal some hidden secret. ‘What is all this shit?’
The Wulver carefully folded and placed the page back in the bag. ‘She puts in things she thinks I will find useful. Like the batteries. Many years ago she gifted me a radio. I think she has forgotten it was a wind-up one. Sometimes she will give me the end of a box of matches, or a good length of string, or—’
‘A plastic bag?’ Weed held up the crumpled sandwich baggie, which had clearly been used before—evidenced by crumbs in the bottom.
‘Very useful for preserving food. Or keeping things dry,’ the Wulver replied matter-of-factly. ‘Anyway, it does not really matter what she puts in.’
‘But that’s not a fair exchange!’ Weed wrinkled his nose, looking at the food again. ‘You gave her a week’s worth of fish, and she’s given you some mouldy table scraps.’
‘It shall make a pleasant tart. You will see.’ The Wulver plucked the bag from Weed’s hands and began walking again. ‘The value is not important.’
‘Yes it is!’ Weed insisted, stamping along beside him. He couldn’t explain why this bothered him so much. ‘You spent time and energy catching those fish. And she’s repaid you with her rubbish!’
‘It is not important.’
‘But why? ’
The Wulver shrugged. ‘Not everything is a transaction.’
Weed’s feet slowed. He dropped behind the wolfman, watching his tail bob with each loping stride. The Wulver cast a glance over his shoulder, which Weed refused to meet. He was too busy chewing over the absurdity of the Wulver’s actions.
The Wulver chuckled, which caught Weed’s attention. ‘You do not agree with me,’ the wolfman stated.
‘Well observed,’ Weed replied snidely.
‘It does not translate well to fae values, does it? I suppose eighty years is not quite long enough to let go of them.’
Weed stopped suddenly like a stubborn mule. ‘This has nothing to do with being fae! How many trades do you think a dryad makes, for fuck’s sake? All I ever wanted was to live peacefully in my grove. Surely that’s something you can relate to.’
The Wulver turned around. His mouth hung slightly open in surprise, but it curved at the edges into an almost-smile. ‘I apologise. I should not make assumptions.’ He cocked his head. ‘What was your life like, before this?’
The question caught Weed off-balance. ‘Before being trapped for eternity in a human meat sack, you mean?’
The Wulver didn’t reply, still waiting for a real answer. Perhaps it was Weed’s imagination, but the wind seemed to have calmed down around them, as if to let him speak.
‘I… It was both quiet, and loud,’ Weed said, reflexively feeling for the roots beneath his feet. ‘It was many beautiful things living, all at once. All I wanted was to make things green. We—… I tended my garden, and the grove flourished.’
‘How were you captured?’ the Wulver asked. ‘You mentioned Bryce the hunter, before.’
The memory stung, and Weed retreated from it. ‘Not important,’ he mumbled. The grass stretched up to curl around his feet, offering comfort. ‘A stupid mistake.’
The Wulver hesitated before prying deeper. ‘A transaction?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
Weed stomped away before he could get the apology out. He was sick of the wolfman’s apologies. As if he gave a damn how Weed felt.
Even now, as they trudged in silence, the Wulver left a respectful gap between them, trailing several yards behind Weed and calling out only to direct him when necessary.
Pretending to let me lead, Weed sulked. He doesn’t care about me. He pities me.
It churned his gut, to think a creature as menacing as the Wulver would pity him. That was why the beast hadn’t struck him yet—he considered Weed a weakling, not even worthy of the abuse.
That’s a poor attempt at a lie, said a tiny voice inside his head. Not even a child would fall for that one.
A sob threatened to rise in Weed’s throat, so he swallowed it back down. Did the Wulver pity the old woman? How could a creature so menacing go so far out of his way to deliver fish in exchange for old batteries and rotten fruit?
And, for a creature so menacing, how was his temperament so kind, and gentle? It had been weeks now and Weed hadn’t been commanded to do anything nasty or to hurt anyone, and he’d spent whole afternoons simply lying in the company of willow trees. The land here was barren but it was resilient , and Weed could spend the rest of his life living this way in something almost approaching happiness, almost approaching peace, if the Wulver was really the mild-mannered soul he seemed to be.
Weed could just imagine how Elsie would scoff at such a notion. Not just at Weed’s fantasy of a quiet life, but at the idea of a life with the Wulver being peaceful. And yet it didn’t seem too far from possibility.
Honestly, how someone as placid as Arran had survived against Elsie was a downright miracle. If she could’ve caught him unawares, perhaps levelled her crossbow while the idiot was engrossed in spearfishing or helping little old ladies…
The memory of his old master stopped Weed in his tracks. He hadn’t thought of Elsie since the day she’d died. Something cold gripped his heart as he considered what she would do with the information he was now privy to. What she would’ve killed for, to know the Wulver’s whereabouts and routines. Which river he fished in. Which windowsills he frequented.
The Wulver halted beside him, ears flattening against his head. ‘What’s wrong this time?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You are pale.’
‘I’m naturally pale!’ Weed shoved past him, wanting to put distance between them again.
His pulse skittered in his throat like a nervy mouse. For some reason his lungs weren’t working properly. The air bounced in and out of them in hasty gasps. Visions of a life on this barren coastline warred with memories of slogging through other harsh terrain, following in Elsie’s footsteps with Logan kicking him viciously from behind. It was all too much. He wanted the Wulver to give him an order. It was so much simpler to exist under orders.
Elsie’s shadow fell over him—except it wasn’t hers, but Arran’s. The Wulver’s hand landed on Weed’s shoulder, pulling him to a halt. And then two solid arms folded around him, pinning his back against the wolfman’s chest.
‘Breathe,’ the Wulver growled softly in his ear. ‘You are safe. You can breathe.’
It was as close to an order as Weed needed, and his lungs obeyed with relief. He sucked in shaky gulps of air, wondering why the fuck his body was trembling.
‘I don’t know what’s happening,’ he croaked.
‘It may be what humans call a panic attack.’ The Wulver’s steady breathing huffed against his ear, and Weed found his own inhalations began to slow down to match it. ‘Your sc—… I mean, it is obvious you are feeling fear.’
Weed found himself relaxing, leaning into the warmth of the Wulver’s hoodie. ‘Obvious? Did your nose tell you that?’
Arran’s body was so firm, and so warm. Weed felt the urge to snuggle into him.
The Wulver’s body, Weed corrected himself. And no snuggling the stupid, considerate wolfman.
The Wulver gave a hesitant rumble from his throat. ‘People do not often enjoy being told what they smell like.’
‘Mmm.’ Weed hadn’t meant his response to sound like a moan, but it did. He couldn’t help it, this just felt so good . Weed turned without thinking, twisting in the Wulver’s embrace so that his face was smooshed against the wolfman’s torso.
He desperately wanted to shove his hands under the Wulver’s hoodie and rake his fingers through the soft fur of his chest—and that took Weed’s mind to other places, where he could hide his entire naked body under the Wulver’s, firmly pinned by these same strong arms that held him so tenderly. His dick firmed up a little, thrilled by the mere thought of it.
A peculiar, rhythmic wap-wap-wap sound captured his attention. It was the Wulver’s tail, wagging furiously. The Wulver himself had gone stiff as a board.
Weed poked his chest. ‘You okay, there, wolfie?’
The Wulver’s eyes seemed to unglaze and he glanced down at their feet. ‘There are some… roots?’
A weave of pale grass roots was steadily winding around both their legs. Weed cursed himself. It was completely accidental—the roots were simply responding to his pathetic desire to cuddle. His desire to latch on to Arran, to hold him tight by root and bough.
Weed cringed, slinking out of the Wulver’s arms. ‘Oh. Don’t worry, they won’t hurt you.’ The roots snagged on his legs as he stepped away.
The Wulver lifted one foot, carefully prising the hair-like tendrils off his ankle without breaking them. ‘What are they doing?’
Weed crossed his arms as a flush of heat spread through his cheeks. ‘Just… being friendly.’ He hurriedly bid the roots back into the soil. The Wulver raised an eyebrow but didn’t pursue the comment. He was still watching Weed with an air of caution.
‘What?’ Weed said, aiming for his usual sullen tone but missing by a mile of self-consciousness.
‘It has been a strenuous few days for you,’ the Wulver replied—unnecessarily cryptic, Weed thought. ‘In hindsight, only natural that it should have been so… emotional. Perhaps you should rest tomorrow.’
‘Watch it, wolfie,’ Weed warned. ‘I’m not emotional. And this is the least strenuous day I’ve had in years.’
‘Hmm. Are you ready to continue?’
Weed squared his shoulders. ‘ Obviously. ’ He paused. ‘Which way?’
The Wulver pointed eastward down a slope. In the fading light, Weed could just make out the edge of the ravine. ‘We are not far. And please—stop calling me wolfie.’
‘Is that an order?’
The Wulver faltered. ‘No.’
‘All right, then. After you, wolfie.’