Read Online Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance by Selena Kitt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Selena Kitt
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herself. She didn’t come from the wulver world, even if she now lived in it, and she’d never quite believed that it was her son’s destiny to fulfill some wulver prophecy.
Mayhaps that was only because she had wished it wasn’t so, he thought, watching as the two women faced each other across the pool, chanting softly. The light in the sky overhead had changed, and the slant that came in from above hinted that it was past supper time. They had talked long at the table as they feasted, he realized now.
Aleesa had been overcurious about her daughter, not that he could blame her. But he had little understanding of the woman. How could she leave her husband and infant daughter and set out for this place, when she hadn’t even known it existed?
Aleesa said she had been called here to the Temple of Ardis and Asher. By what? By whom? Griff glanced around, his senses keen, sniffing the air, getting the scent of herbs, the heather and the silvermoon, a heady combination. He felt no other presence here, heard no voices. The dark-haired woman didn’t seem consumed by madness or melancholy, aside from a natural longing in missing her offspring.
Mayhaps a temporary madness, then, when she made her way here to Skara Brae?
But what had kept her? He wondered. After Alaric found his wife, why had he not brought her home? They had a small child they’d both abandoned back at their den, and for what? To guard an empty temple, to chant over some quiet pool? Ridiculous.
It saddened him, watching the two women as they stood, facing each other, ceremonial swords held aloft. So many years wasted, the two of them alone—and now this young woman they were training to take their place. He watched her, the way her auburn hair brushed her cheek as she bent her head, how her eyelashes trembled when she closed them over those bright green eyes, and felt a longing he didn’t quite understand.
Mayhaps it was just that the girl was trying very hard to live up to someone else’s image of her. That much was clear—and he could definitely relate.
That’s when the swords caught flame.
Griff reached for his own sword, then realized, again, that it was no longer at his side. Across the pool, Alaric stood watching, unalarmed. Another trick then? The light overhead, cast in a certain way? Griff cocked his head, this way and that, frowning as the women chanted, louder and louder, in a language that sounded familiar, and yet he couldn’t quite make out full words. Then they began to repeat one word in Gaelic, over and over, one he did know—dragon.
Arach. Arach. Arach.
Something changed in the room. A shift, movement, mayhaps just the flutter of a breeze, but Griff felt it tickle his skin, like a coming storm. Something was rising. It hung there, like impending doom, expectant, waiting. He found himself holding his breath, his senses heightened. The hair stood up on his arms and the back of his neck. The red-haired woman, Bridget, stared into the pool, her sword still appearing to glow, but the fire had gone from a normal orange to something blueish silver.
Griff’s gaze followed hers and, deep in the pool, he saw a face. Leaning closer, for a moment, he thought it was just his own reflection— it must be —but then it began to rise, higher and higher, as if it was diving up from the depths. His heart thumped hard in his ears, the way it always did before a good battle was about to begin, and again, his hand went for his sword, finding only an empty scabbard.
Then, the dragon appeared.
It was there—and not there. A dragon’s head, all long neck and wide, flaring nostrils, its eyes looking straight at Griff. He saw the image of the dragon, and yet, he saw through it, too, could look right into and past it to see Alaric standing on the opposite side of the pool, Aleesa to his left, Bridget to his right. They were all there, staring at the image of the dragon, transfixed.
Griff shook his head, doing everything in his power to keep from
Mayhaps that was only because she had wished it wasn’t so, he thought, watching as the two women faced each other across the pool, chanting softly. The light in the sky overhead had changed, and the slant that came in from above hinted that it was past supper time. They had talked long at the table as they feasted, he realized now.
Aleesa had been overcurious about her daughter, not that he could blame her. But he had little understanding of the woman. How could she leave her husband and infant daughter and set out for this place, when she hadn’t even known it existed?
Aleesa said she had been called here to the Temple of Ardis and Asher. By what? By whom? Griff glanced around, his senses keen, sniffing the air, getting the scent of herbs, the heather and the silvermoon, a heady combination. He felt no other presence here, heard no voices. The dark-haired woman didn’t seem consumed by madness or melancholy, aside from a natural longing in missing her offspring.
Mayhaps a temporary madness, then, when she made her way here to Skara Brae?
But what had kept her? He wondered. After Alaric found his wife, why had he not brought her home? They had a small child they’d both abandoned back at their den, and for what? To guard an empty temple, to chant over some quiet pool? Ridiculous.
It saddened him, watching the two women as they stood, facing each other, ceremonial swords held aloft. So many years wasted, the two of them alone—and now this young woman they were training to take their place. He watched her, the way her auburn hair brushed her cheek as she bent her head, how her eyelashes trembled when she closed them over those bright green eyes, and felt a longing he didn’t quite understand.
Mayhaps it was just that the girl was trying very hard to live up to someone else’s image of her. That much was clear—and he could definitely relate.
That’s when the swords caught flame.
Griff reached for his own sword, then realized, again, that it was no longer at his side. Across the pool, Alaric stood watching, unalarmed. Another trick then? The light overhead, cast in a certain way? Griff cocked his head, this way and that, frowning as the women chanted, louder and louder, in a language that sounded familiar, and yet he couldn’t quite make out full words. Then they began to repeat one word in Gaelic, over and over, one he did know—dragon.
Arach. Arach. Arach.
Something changed in the room. A shift, movement, mayhaps just the flutter of a breeze, but Griff felt it tickle his skin, like a coming storm. Something was rising. It hung there, like impending doom, expectant, waiting. He found himself holding his breath, his senses heightened. The hair stood up on his arms and the back of his neck. The red-haired woman, Bridget, stared into the pool, her sword still appearing to glow, but the fire had gone from a normal orange to something blueish silver.
Griff’s gaze followed hers and, deep in the pool, he saw a face. Leaning closer, for a moment, he thought it was just his own reflection— it must be —but then it began to rise, higher and higher, as if it was diving up from the depths. His heart thumped hard in his ears, the way it always did before a good battle was about to begin, and again, his hand went for his sword, finding only an empty scabbard.
Then, the dragon appeared.
It was there—and not there. A dragon’s head, all long neck and wide, flaring nostrils, its eyes looking straight at Griff. He saw the image of the dragon, and yet, he saw through it, too, could look right into and past it to see Alaric standing on the opposite side of the pool, Aleesa to his left, Bridget to his right. They were all there, staring at the image of the dragon, transfixed.
Griff shook his head, doing everything in his power to keep from
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