Call of the Highland Moon (The MacInnes Werewolves #1)

Call of the Highland Moon (The MacInnes Werewolves #1) Page 2

It was what he had needed. There was finally a bit of relief from the inexplicable despair, the smothering sensation of the forest darkness. Until the last sound he would have expected here, in these woods, reached his ears.

As the ululating rise and fall of three more voices engaged in wolfsong answered him, Gideon’s ears pricked, and the fur bristled along his back. Ordinarily, he would have welcomed the company of a native wolf-pack, beasts that had always shown his kind loyalty and respect and often enjoyed joining in for a romp or a hunt. What sang to Gideon were no forest wolves, though.

Although none of his kind roamed this part of the world, Gideon knew the call of his people. And the intent expressed in that howl, difficult as it was for him to believe, was as clear as the night sky above.

Attack.

Gideon crouched low to the ground, paws spread, and growled a warning low in his throat. He cursed himself silently for his distraction earlier.

Followed. But why?

His pack was his family, all differences aside. And yet he was in an enviable position, especially to those who found what he had to be only slightly out of their grasp. The image of a familiar but unwelcome face swam quickly to the forefront of his mind as Gideon reached for some sort of explanation.

Jealousy, yes. Hunger, certainly. But ambush? Murder?

He wouldn’t have believed it until now.

Yet there was only one possible explanation.

Malachi.

The thought was staggering, and not only because the justice visited upon his cousin by the Pack would be both swift and brutal once this was discovered. Malachi, if this truly was his doing, would be breaking one of the Sacred Dictates, the cardinal rules that had governed their Pack since the time of Saint Columba. They were ancient things, handed down in oral tradition from generation to generation, but the years had made them no less venerated, and no less adhered to. Pack community—loyalty, trust, and solidarity—was the only thing that kept safe the Stone. Without those things, they were nothing but a bunch of vicious natural oddities, dangerous and unpredictable … even to one another. Hence, the first dictate, most sacred of all: First, no harm against thy brother Wolf.

Traitor, Gideon thought, baring his teeth as he moved silently back toward the trees, eyes never leaving the direction from which the voices had come. That his cousin would be so bold as to plot this sort of coup spoke of his supreme confidence that he would succeed.

Overconfidence. It was Malachi’s biggest flaw, and it was going to prove fatal. Gideon would live to see his cousin pay.

Gideon turned at the edge of the clearing and streaked swiftly off into the sheltering woods, melting noiselessly into the shadows and trees. He was miles from the inn at this point. It wasn’t in his nature to shy from a fight, but Gideon instinctively understood his vulnerability in this situation. He was alone, in unfamiliar territory, facing at least two adversaries stalking him with the intent to kill. Best to draw them into the open, take the advantage. He would not take the blood of another Wolf if he had a choice. It was how he had been raised, how he had been trained. No, the most important thing now was to alert the Pack, to let them know what wheels had been set in motion. Gideon might be the biggest obstacle to a change in power, but he was not the only one.

Speed, stealth before strength.

Keep safe the Stone.

Protect the Pack.

He flew silently over the snow, sensing, rather than hearing, that he was being pursued. His nose told him that he wasn’t far from civilization—only a mile or two. He pushed himself harder, though he was already moving at a speed that could only be called supernatural. The smell of humans grew stronger, and faint lights began to flicker through the trees in the distance. He was going to make it out.

Hurry home …

Hurry home …

The first blow forced the breath from his lungs, knocking his feet from under him in mid-lope with unexpected force. Gideon skidded a short ways on his side, then scrambled quickly to his feet. He whipped around to face his adversary, hackles raised, a vicious snarl tearing from his throat. The smaller, stockier gray wolf faced him, yellow eyes seeming to taunt him, growling low in response. Gideon narrowed his eyes, claws lengthening, digging into the snow. This was no Wolf he’d ever seen, but a Wolf just the same.

No, not the same, Gideon thought, bristling. There was something off, something not right about this creature. He was smaller, but somehow radiated the sort of power only seen in the purest bloodline, a supernatural strength that threatened violence in the smallest flicker of movement. Gideon sensed this, and the oddity of it had him struggling to maintain his focus. But what was worse, what roiled his insides and screamed at him to retreat, to run, was the smell. It poured off of the Gray, befouling the air of the forest, burning Gideon’s nostrils. It seemed to radiate from within him, from the strange collar that glinted from around the beast’s neck, stinking of some unfamiliar and horrifying madness. It was an assault to his senses such as he’d never endured before.

He was suddenly determined to eradicate it at the source.

Gideon’s muscles tensed, ready to spring, to rip, to tear. Then, suddenly, the growling grew louder, and louder again as two more Wolves padded menacingly out of the darkness. Gideon stilled, drawing himself up, staring down his would-be attackers. These were unfamiliar Wolves as well, and again, not Pack. Weaker. And yet their scent marked them as not entirely unfamiliar, either.

It seemed that his cousin had decided to break more than one sacred rule.

And, as usual, he had sent others to do his dirty work.

The jagged scar that crossed Gideon’s right eye twinged a bit at the memory of Malachi’s last deception, the wound inflicted by a Pack male who had been poisoned with tales of Gideon wooing his mate. It had been a painful lesson, but Gideon had tried to be thankful that he had at least kept his eye in the learning of it.

First, no harm against thy brother Wolf.

He’d always thought that Malachi had merely intended him maimed, a crime bad enough. Now, in this circle of Wolves with malice hanging heavy in the air, he was no longer so sure. From the ravenous look in these new werewolves’ eyes, maiming was kind compared to what they intended.

Traitors.

The Wolves began to circle him, teeth bared, eyes fixed upon Gideon. For his part, Gideon remained immobile, head high, letting his disdain for them show. In this form, he was magnificent, very obviously of the Alpha bloodline with his broad, powerful chest, long, muscular limbs, and more than that, the fact that he stood a head taller than the others. He was calm, focused. He had been trained to fight. It was in his blood. If he had no choice but to use that skill against his own kind, then so it was. These were not of his Pack, and they were no brother Wolves of his.

But he had never imagined that he would have to stand for his Pack, and for the Stone, so far from either one.

When it happened, it was fast. The Gray, who seemed to be the leader, uttered a short, sharp bark, and all three set upon Gideon at once. All the years of sparring with Duncan and his two lieutenants, Ian and Malcolm, came rushing back as he fought them off. Rolling, slashing at vulnerable flesh, sinking his fangs past fur and into skin. For a time, there seemed to be nothing to Gideon’s world but a snarling, snapping mass of claws and teeth, shot through with bright flashes of pain and brief moments of triumph when he caused more than he had received.

Impressions flickered, vanished, raced through Gideon’s consciousness as he fought to stay alive.

Hind claws finding purchase in a soft underbelly. A shriek of pain at the snap of his teeth. Vicious, tearing pain across his shoulder. And always, through the haze of blood and pain, the mocking gleam of yellow eyes like, and so very unlike, his own.

At last, Gideon managed to throw one of them off balance long enough to sink his fangs into the ragged brown fur at its throat. With no regret, he tasted blood as he found the jugular. The world finally seemed to still and right itself as Gideon gave the limp carcass a final shake and then tossed it from his jaws to land at the feet of the Gray, whose bloodied, battered sides were heaving as much as Gideon’s own.

Gideon snorted out a hot mist of breath in the frigid air, hunching for attack, ready to finish it. It appeared that this Wolf was no more invincible than any other, after all. They regarded one another for a moment that spun out into an eternity, the only sound the soft moan of the wind picking up as the first flakes of snow began to fall, in slow motion, through the canopy of trees from the endless blackness above.

The stillness was finally shattered when the Gray bared his teeth at Gideon, then limped slowly backward into the shadowy trees. In seconds, first he, then the angry violet glow of the chunk of stone dangling from his collar, disappeared from sight. His one remaining companion was decidedly worse off. Ginger fur matted with blood, it followed as quickly as it could, dragging a broken hind leg as it went. Gideon remained immobile as he watched them go, sensing their message as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud.

This isn’t over.

No, Gideon though, curling his lip. It sure as hell wasn’t. And damned if he was going to let them go without finishing it. But it wasn’t until he took a step forward—and the trees in front of him blurred and swam—that he realized the extent of his own injuries. He might have given better than he got, but it had still been three sets of fangs and claws to his one, and all of those had done some damage despite his best efforts. As Gideon stood there, swaying slightly, he licked the foam from his muzzle and tasted blood. As dread formed a leaden ball in his stomach, he looked down only to see more blood dripping from his chest, his legs, and his underbelly, slowly turning the snow beneath him crimson.

Hell.

He took another tentative step forward, and his vision rimmed with black. A draw after all, he thought ruefully. He’d lost too much blood. If it had been anything but other werewolves, he could have rested, assured that he’d heal quickly enough to stanch the lifeblood slowly exiting from his wounds. But it was different among his own kind. It was why they were forbidden from harming one another, why he still carried the scar of that surprising attack so many years ago when the rest of his body carried not a mark. Their healing powers worked much more slowly when the wounds were inflicted by one of their own, and sometimes, as in the case of Gideon’s scar, not quite as well.