Chapter Sixteen
M oss had been fine with the sound of the rain until Arran had put the thought into his head that it was capable of smothering him. The relentless drumming, accompanied by booms of thunder and the thrashing of willow branches, moved into Moss’s ears and occupied them. Every other sound was expelled, unable to match its ferocity.
Moss threw a fleece over his head, clamping it to his ears. Since the crackling fire had died down and Arran had ceased pottering about the cave, he had nothing left to distract him. He couldn’t even tune into Arran’s snores over the sound of the rain.
The wolfman, meanwhile, had fallen into sleep like a brick. He was probably quite used to nature beating on his doorstep. He’d even remarked that he found the background hammering rather peaceful—a lame attempt, Moss was sure, to make up for his earlier statement of suffocation.
Moss scratched at his tattoos. They itched under his skin. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep with the rackets both inside and outside his brain.
Rather than bother Arran again, Moss decided he would sit in the company of the willows for a while. Perhaps with a snack.
He pulled on his clothes in the dark and fumbled for the rucksack under the workbench. Feeling his way along the walls, he made it into the entrance passage and sat down in the mouth of the cave, staring out at the storm.
The bursting clouds mostly obscured the simmer dim twilight, so only the faintest glow lit the midnight sky. It was just enough for Moss to make out the silhouettes of the trees buffeting about in the gale. But he didn’t need to see them, because he could hear and feel them. Above ground their bodies appeared delicate, at the mercy of the storm. Below ground they were anchored, resilient to its attack, and drinking deep of its labours.
He listened further, following the root systems to eavesdrop on the den of polecats. The mother and her kits were fast asleep, cosily huddled together in their burrow. Safe and sound.
Moss stretched out a cupped hand, gathering rainwater. It pelted his skin so hard that most of it bounced off, but what he gathered he tipped into his mouth.
You nourish me, he thought firmly. I am stronger for you. Not drowned.
Moss dug into the rucksack, looking for the packet of trail mix, when his fingertips brushed against the forgotten radio.
He drew it out into the dim light and regarded its smooth black edges. It was even less likely to pick up a signal in the storm.
Maybe he should tell Arran about it. He might have some use for a radio. Spare parts, perhaps. He’d mentioned the old biddy on the cliffs had given him a wind-up radio before.
Moss idly twisted the knobs and pressed buttons while he popped nuts and seeds into his mouth. It beeped occasionally, and at one point he managed to make the tiny screen light up with numbers. He squinted at them. Possibly a latitude and longitude. One of those fabulous follies humans had made up in order to find themselves. They liked to draw invisible lines over the land and point at it to say Here I am. Whereas Moss already knew Here he was.
He cracked a grin and held the radio to his mouth, pressing the side button like he’d seen Elsie do. ‘This is Moss calling all humans. You’re all fucking lost all the time. How did you lot manage to survive so long?’ He waved his free hand in a mocking, twirling salute. ‘Masters of the earth, am I right? Get bent.’
‘ Weed? ’
Moss dropped the radio with a hiss. He’d imagined it, he told himself. It was just the rain.
‘ Weed? ’ the radio crackled.
His heart choked. He’d know that voice anywhere. Even in the middle of a violent storm and masked by the fizz of static.
Logan.
Moss fell on the radio and scrabbled to turn it off. His breaths came sharp and shallow. He couldn’t breathe. There was a great pain in his chest. It was going to burst.
You are safe. You are safe.
Moss placed his hands on the cool rock and visualised Arran breathing right next to him. Long, calm, breaths. He touched the floor with his forehead. Grounded. Safe.
Logan wasn’t coming for him. Logan didn’t know where he was. And even if he did, there was no way he could take Moss back.
Even though the panic subsided, a different kind of fear clouded his mind. What was it Arran had said? When Moss had joked that he was unkillable?
He couldn’t remember, and now he needed to know so badly.
Moss threw the radio into the rucksack and ran chaotically back into the main chamber.
‘Arran!’ he called into the dark, knocking a stool over on the way. His voice cracked. ‘Arran, please. ’
Scuffles in the shadows, then warm fur enveloped him.
‘I’m here,’ Arran said gruffly. His claws flexed against Moss’s back. He was tensed, ready to fight. ‘What’s happened, Moss? Are you all right?’
Moss nodded mutely. For the time being he just wanted to exist in Arran’s embrace.
As Arran registered there was no immediate threat, his body relaxed against Moss. He stroked Moss’s hair out of his face. It was getting long. ‘A nightmare?’
‘Sort of,’ Moss mumbled.
‘Would you like to sleep next to me?’
Moss nodded again. Arran growled soothingly and led him into bed.
This time, Moss lay on his side facing Arran, snuggling deep into the silky fur of his chest. He met no protest, and Arran’s arm over his waist cinched them together tightly.
‘Wolfie.’
‘Yes?’
‘How can you be killed?’
Moss felt Arran stiffen. Fair. It was a dark question.
The Wulver’s reply was hesitant. ‘I don’t know for certain. I suspect my head would need to be cut off. Perhaps being burned to a cinder would work, as well.’
‘And silver?’
Moss glanced up to find Arran’s eyes staring at him with sombre concern.
‘Why are you asking me this, Moss?’
Moss’s fingers curled deeper in Arran’s fur. He didn’t want to let go. ‘I’m afraid,’ he whispered. ‘Of what would happen to me if you died. If someone else owned me.’
I’m afraid of losing you.
Moss’s soul sighed, like a deep exhale of yearning. Of confession. Of truth.
How fucking terrifying.
‘You don’t need to worry about me, Moss,’ Arran said, running claws lightly down his spine.
‘Really? Because I remember a time way back when you got shot, and you seemed pretty hurt then,’ Moss replied, harder than he meant to. ‘And even when you killed Elsie, that little scratch from her did a number on you, right? That was silver.’
Arran gave a long and weary huff through his nose. ‘Would it reassure you to know that I have been shot in the head by a silver bullet, and survived?’
This was massive news to Moss. He sat up and stared down into Arran’s face. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Gravely.’ Arran cocked his head, wincing as though grieved by the memory. ‘It was not pleasant. And for as long as the bullet was lodged in my brain, I suppose you could say I was dead, as my body was unable to heal from the wound. It was only later, and by pure luck, I must admit, that the hunter responsible decided to retrieve his bullet to keep as a trophy. I woke up while he was lashing my body to a plank, about to parade me around the town.’
‘Woah. I bet you tore his limbs off.’
Arran was quiet for a moment. ‘No. He did not deserve that. And I had just murdered his son.’ He gave a heavy sigh and turned his head away from Moss.
‘For a good reason, right?’ Moss prompted.
‘He was a werewolf.’
‘There you go, then.’
‘It was not his fault.’ Arran brought a hand to his muzzle, pinching it to ease some tension there. ‘It is none of their fault, for being born werewolves. But it is certainly mine.’
For once, Moss felt no inclination to try mocking Arran for this. The grief he was feeling was clear, even if his voice was deadpan. There was such a sad droop to his ears and weariness to his eyes.
Moss reached out to stroke some of it away. His fright at hearing Logan’s voice was utterly dwarfed and forgotten by the mere inkling of Arran being in pain. ‘Tell me why.’
Arran nuzzled his palm. Their gazes met, and Moss hoped Arran saw some understanding reflected there.
‘I loved Flòraidh,’ Arran said softly. ‘I met her after I’d already trod this earth for many seasons. I loved humans before her. Loved the way they loved each other, the way they loved the world around them. The way they celebrated the fleetingness of their own lives. Flòraidh burned so very brightly with this love. And she turned all of it onto me, and I was unprepared to be loved so wholly, and unconditionally.’
Arran paused, snorting at his own words. ‘I don’t mean to make it sound as though I had no agency in this. It is not an excuse.’
‘I’m not hearing any excuses yet.’ Moss grazed Arran’s snout with his nose. If he was being honest with himself, he was envious. ‘It sounds like something beautiful.’
Arran brought a palm to Moss’s cheek. His skin was so hard and leathery, yet worn very smooth by time and toil.
‘I thought it was beautiful,’ Arran said. ‘But I did not think . I owned her in the most absolute of ways… She was hurt, sometimes badly, but she had her own ways of subduing me. It was how we first discovered silver could hurt me.’
Moss dared a smirk. ‘Silver handcuffs, was it?’
To his surprise, Arran chuckled. ‘In a sense.’ Then his brow creased and his mood slumped again. ‘Flòraidh and I had many children, over many years. A great litter, of which I was extremely proud. Some seemed quite human, and others more wolfish. Flòraidh bore them all with great strength until… Well. You said it yourself.’
Moss’s gut twisted, remembering all his earlier, vile taunts. ‘Arran,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Arran, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
He pressed his forehead earnestly against Arran’s, wishing he could take back all his stupid mockeries. The Wulver’s arms closed round him.
‘Moss. I don’t need your apology, though if you need my forgiveness, you have it,’ Arran rumbled warmly. He sat up, lifting Moss with him, so he could hold on more tightly with Moss straddling his lap. ‘I do not deserve your compassion for the wrongs I am responsible for.’
‘What fucking wrongs?’ Moss demanded, pulling back. ‘Sounds to me like you fell in love and had a family, you prick. You can’t blame yourself for… for that! ’
‘Perhaps.’ The slightest, sorrowful smile graced Arran’s jaw, then disappeared.
‘So you accidentally bred werewolves,’ Moss continued, waving his hands. ‘Did you even know that could happen?’
‘No,’ Arran admitted. He cast his gaze aside. ‘And for many years we were none the wiser that anything was wrong. My more wolfish offspring were perfectly rational. They went on to have families of their own. Their spawn had more offspring. And by the time the first true werewolf appeared in the bloodline, with all the ravenous, uncontrollable rage that distinguishes them…’
‘It was too late,’ Moss finished.
Arran hung his head. ‘No. I could have… I should have killed her, the first werewolf, right then. I did not.’
After a brief hesitation, Arran pointed to one of the grass figurines on the shelves. Moss squinted, and recognised a figure he’d asked Arran about previously, which carried a little woven basket.
‘This one is for her,’ Arran said. ‘Because I did kill her, eventually. But only after she had murdered and savaged so many others. And so had her siblings. And her cousins. And nephews. And nieces. If, back then, I had eradicated every one of them, then perhaps the world would not be blighted by werewolves now.’
Moss appraised the crowd of grass ornaments in a new light. He gestured to them, stepping lightly with his question. ‘Who are the others?’
Arran’s answering growl was like a rumbly sigh. ‘One for each person I have killed. Most of them werewolves. My legacy.’ Arran collapsed backward on the bed, hands splayed over his face.
Moss took a while to digest this. It was the same story he’d heard before, but made different in the telling. ‘They were your family.’
Arran growled savagely—Moss realised he was swiping away a tear. Moss found it jarring. He caught Arran’s hand, gripped it tightly.
‘This is an old wound,’ Arran muttered. ‘I’ve had many years for it to mend. I have done my best to mend it.’
‘By hunting werewolves? Your own descendants?’ Moss couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. ‘Sounds more like raking the wound open over and over again, wolfie. How can you bear to keep going like that?’
Shit. He hadn’t meant to come out with something so cruel: Your life sounds fucking awful, so why not just end it?
‘Yes. You are right.’ Arran’s deep voice was unusually small. ‘I realised this. That I could not go on in such a way. So I made it my mission to create a safe territory. I made allies in the Walker witches of the Highlands, and they helped me drive all the werewolves from Scotland. Even today, every werewolf knows it is inviting a death sentence to step into my lands. And after that… Once the task was done… I pursued peace, and only peace.’
Moss lay down on Arran’s chest, smoothing his cheek into the fur and listening for the wolfman’s gentle heartbeat. ‘So, your version of peace is living in a cold-ass cave in the middle of nowhere eating fish and seaweed for every meal?’
Arran grunted. ‘It may not seem like much, but I have found peace here.’
‘It’s pretty great, actually.’ Moss counted the thumps of Arran’s heart in his ear. Arran had a family. Probably friends, too, once. A whole life full of people, something totally strange to Moss. ‘Sounds like you’ve lost a lot to have it.’
Arran’s arms folded round him again, holding on, it seemed, like he was afraid Moss might fall away.
‘How old are you, wolfie?’
‘Hmph. I shouldn’t say. You will call me an old man.’
‘I’ll do that anyway.’ Moss found Arran’s nipple and playfully flicked it. ‘Old dog.’
Arran growled back, without menace. ‘My guess is around five millennia. I stopped counting after the first three. The humans in this land were just beginning to lay down farms when I arrived.’
‘You were right, wolfie,’ Moss crooned, seeking to lift his mood. ‘You are an ooooooold man.’
Arran rolled, chucking Moss off him in a surprised heap. His huge body balanced over Moss’s, grazing Moss with his fur but careful not to place any weight on him. ‘Am I too old to please you?’
‘Naw,’ Moss cackled, reaching for Arran’s nipples again. ‘I like a man with experie—’
‘Come.’
Moss’s voice evaporated to a squeak. Going from nought to a hundred in the blink of an eye, his body convulsed under the sudden shock of pleasure. Blood vessels expanded everywhere, transporting throbbing heat from his heart to his dick and a mirroring tickle into his brain. His nuts took a minute to rev up, but holy shit did they rev.
His voice, no more than a ghost in the back of his throat, called out the Wulver’s name as the orgasm rippled through him.
‘ A—Arran—! ’
Arran clasped Moss tightly while he convulsed. He growled, kneading the shape of his hard dick between Moss’s legs. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered. ‘ Fuck. Moss. Fuck.’
‘That would be ideal,’ Moss replied, breathily. ‘Please do fuck Moss. ’
Arran made a sound halfway between groan and growl. ‘I’ll be back.’ He fled from Moss’s side.
Moss heard him head toward the cave mouth and realised the wolfman intended to douse himself under the cold rain.
‘Pity,’ he murmured drowsily. The abrupt but welcome orgasm had finally knocked the adrenaline out of him. Before he lost himself to sleep, Moss shouted out to Arran, keen not to lose the headway they’d made. ‘You better use me like that again, wolfie! It’s rude to tease…’
An answering snarl assured him the Wulver had heard, and that he was utterly riled by it. ‘Good dog,’ Moss chuckled, and peacefully slipped into sleep.