Blood's Shadow: The Lycanthropy Files, Book 3 (26 page)

“Then let me give you two things. The first is a piece of advice: don’t try to be a lone wolf in this. I’ve watched you and know you prefer to work alone, but Wolfsheim will be too powerful for you to take on by yourself. Even if it’s the fairy, you need to accept help. She likes you, and you may be surprised how willing she is.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Good. I wish you had more time to adjust to your alpha wolf form and discover what other talents you may have.”

“Like what?”

“For example, some of them can aim their wolf-mind speak so their intended target can hear them, but others can’t.”

“Interesting. What is the second thing you want to give me?”

“Follow me. We’re going to the storage room.”

We went through the Council Chamber, which was still empty, and I wondered if Morena had dismissed them all. It concerned me that we wouldn’t be acting as a pack, at least not for now, and it made the Institute’s initial unanimous vote that much more suspicious. Who had been pulling the strings at the time? If—no, when—I made it out of this evening’s encounter with Wolfsheim, I would have to do some investigating of his or her connections to the Council. It would be time for some deep house cleaning since he or she had had centuries to manipulate the course of events.

“Good, no one’s here,” she said. “Guard the door while I open this.”

I did as she asked, and she stood in front of the fireplace. She pressed one of the gray bricks and put two fingers in the middle of one of the carved Celtic knots on the lintel. The hearth rumbled, and she stepped back before it opened under her feet to reveal a staircase.

“Quick, now, follow me.”

“Great, another dungeon.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Of all the dungeons I’d been in, this one was the creepiest by far. The narrow stairwell wound downward, and the trap door above closed with an echoing thunk that sounded like it sealed our doom.

“You’re sure we’ll be able to get out?” I asked Morena in hushed tones. My whisper bounced off the stone and seemed to tumble into the darkness below. We relied solely on our non-sight senses to lead the way. Morena’s scent was manly with the palate of modern “unscented” personal care products with a little sweat and Scotch thrown in. She’d never had a romantic partner as far as I knew, and I wondered—not for the first time—whether she would choose a man or woman as a lover.

“Of course I know how to get out,” she said. “If it will make you feel better, there’s a torch at the bottom of the stairs.”

“I would like to see where we are. This is an aspect of Lycan Castle I’m not familiar with.” The texture of the wall under my fingers changed from rectangular stone with crumbling mortar in the cracks to natural stone with all its imperfections and seemingly random bumps and grooves. Morena stopped, and I hesitated on what I hoped was the bottom step.

“Ah, here it is,” she said.

The setting made me expect to hear the hiss of a match and see the bloom of a flame, but all I got was a boring “click” and the beam of an industrial-strength torch that swung over the walls to reveal shades of black and gray.

“Did the builders of Lycan Castle dig the dungeons out of the natural stone?” I asked.

“No, there was a network of caves here first. It’s difficult to tell with the twists and turns of the stairs, but we are actually just beyond the edge of the castle walls and under the hill.” She shone the light on a spot to my left, where someone had carved a series of numbers, possibly a date.

“Do you know what that is?”

“No, although it looks like it should be familiar.”

“You likely learned it at the Council School when you were there decades ago. The first Lycanthrope Council met here on the Summer Solstice of 685. At that point, it was a gathering of clan chieftains who reluctantly recognized their need to ally with each other to preserve their lands and their people from those who didn’t understand us and our abilities. That carving commemorates the date and occasion.”

“Ah, right.”

The light swung back and silhouetted her. “Now on to the stores.”

“Who knows about this place?” I asked and lengthened my stride to keep up with her determined steps.

“Only the Council Chair and her second-in-command,” she said with a meaningful look.

Her words caught me off guard. “Thank you,” I finally said. “Although I’m not sure what I owe this honor to. I’m but a newly minted full Council member.”

“Yes, but you’ve proven your worth as the Investigator, which is a role I’ll ask you to keep for the time being.” She then echoed my thoughts from earlier. “We’re going to have to look very closely at the others. I doubt that the Campbells are the only ones who have been influenced by Wolfsheim and his organization. I know you are trustworthy, but as of now, everyone else on the Council is under suspicion.” Another glance in my direction. “Everyone.”

What is she telling me?

Morena stopped at an extra dark place on the wall, and when she turned, the beam from the torch sliced through the darkness inside to illuminate shelves with metal and wooden boxes. Each had a tag, some of them brown and cracked with age. Words sprang into view, but the light passed over them too quickly for my brain to sort the handwritten letters into words.

“It’s in here,” she said and marched straight to a shelf in the back of the roughly rectangular room. “Hold this.” After handing me the torch, she reached up and pulled down a metal money box with a dented lid and covered in rust spots. The tag was so faded as to only show spots where the letters had been. By all outer appearances, it looked like it probably held nothing of value—or was disguised to look like it did. The fluorite in my pocket let off a little jolt of static when she opened the container and I had to grit my teeth to keep from squirming at the sensation so close to my sensitive bits.
Damn these spells,
I thought, but all other grumblings disappeared when I saw what lay inside.

A Celtic chieftain’s torc, or necklace, lay inside on a bed of black velvet cloth. In contrast to the appearance of its box, it shone dark gold like ripe wheat nodding in the late afternoon sunlight and glowed even when Morena placed the torch on the shelf and directed its beam toward the ceiling. The ends of the torc were wolf heads, and the one on the left held a dark stone in its mouth. The one on the right was empty.

“Do you have your fluorite on you?” she asked.

“Yes.” I handed it to her. She gently fitted it into the empty mouth of the wolf, and it stuck. She then placed the torc around my neck under my collar. It warmed more quickly than it should have, and the stones pressed into my collarbone, but only in a “so you know we’re here” way.

“Whose torc is it?” I asked in a hushed tone. Part of me felt like I had a sleeping golden snake coiled under my shirt—exciting and powerful, but also potentially deadly.

“In the legend of the Boar King, the boy who defeated the demon was a chieftain’s son who later grew up to assume the leadership of his clan. The Fey, happy to have the evil influence out of their lands—not because of their innate good intentions, but because they didn’t like the competition—made that and gave it to him.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “Those who tried to wield it in the past have failed, for legend has it that its power can only be harnessed by a direct descendent of that chieftain, but due to the loss of oral tradition and the many battles, the gnarled roots of the family tree have twisted and turned into the thick soil of obscurity.”

“And you think I am that descendant.”

“The only thing we know with certainty about the chieftain is that his nickname was the Gray Wolf. You know how rare it is for one of us to change into a gray before our human hair turns, and you did today.”

“What happens if I try to harness the power of the torc, and it’s not meant for me?”

“Then may whatever god you believe in have mercy on your soul.”

Before I could attempt to rescue Selene, I had one more stop to make in an attempt to gather more information. Laura said ghosts like to talk. Maybe they’d been gossiping with a certain little clairvoyant.

Alexander’s father Paul opened the door and looked at me with surprise.

“Investigator McCord,” he said, his tone cool but not unwelcoming. The sound of a football game came from the room behind him.

“Mister Taylor,” I said, “I apologize for bothering you and your family on a Sunday afternoon, but I would like to speak with Alexander.”

He nodded, and his mouth worked before spitting out the words, “He said you’d be coming by.”

It was blatantly apparent he wasn’t happy to see me, even more so that his son had predicted my appearance, but he stepped aside and let me enter. I followed the noise through the small house to the living room in back. Alexander sat up and hid the book he’d been reading between the sofa cushions, his young face a tight mask of pretend concentration on what was on the television.

“Hello,” I said. “I heard you were expecting me.”

He looked up with a broad smile and stood. “Investigator McCord, the soldier said you would come.”

“Alexander,” his father said, his tone tired. He rubbed his eyes. “Why not take Investigator McCord out back?”

Their narrow yard was littered with toys, mostly balls of various sports. Alexander nudged a football out of his way and wrinkled his nose.

“Is everything all right?” I asked him. He looked up, and his face shone hopefully before it settled into its usual neutral expression.

“It’s fine,” he said, but it was apparent that “fine” was a four-letter word for him.

“Is that what your mum says to tell people?”

He ducked his head so his blond bangs hid his eyes. “Yes.”

I knelt in front of him and put a hand on his thin shoulder. “But it’s not, is it? Does your Da hit you?”

He shook his head vigorously. “No, he mostly ignores me, but I have friends.”

“I suppose you don’t mean kids your age.”

“No, my other friends.” He did that disconcerting looking over my shoulder thing. “You have a new one. He’s wearing old tartan and a necklace?” He squinted. “And not much else. And he’s dirty, but he’s excited.”

“Is he talking to you?” Again I listened for something, but I only heard the breeze stirring the leaves on the trees.

“He’s a warrior, and he’s happy you have his favorite weapon.” He spoke hesitantly with the effort to translate spirit-speak as he went along. “But he’s also worried about you because you are alone, and warriors need their fellow soldiers like wolves need their pack.”

“I don’t have that many I can call on,” I told him, and I found myself speaking to him like I would to an adult. “The only other
vargamore
I know has a child to consider, so I can’t put her in danger, and I can’t trust my fellow Council members. My other friend died.” I stopped. What had my life distilled to—the Council and nothing else? If I were to be killed that evening, would anyone miss me besides Morena and Troy the bartender? And maybe Lonna and Max, but if I failed, they would have bigger problems to concern them.

Selene would, but would she only miss me temporarily before turning her attention to rescuing her brother? Or rescuing herself along with him. She’d made the sacrifice to save him, and family was her priority—as it should be—but I found myself wanting to be part of that or something like it. Since my father died, I’d been tossed out and knocked around on my own before taking his position on the Council, but in spite of the long lycanthropic history, I didn’t have anything or anyone to anchor me. Sure, that had stood me in good stead when I was away on assignment as Investigator, when I could take risks I might otherwise not have if I’d had a family at home, and they’d paid off.

“I would miss you,” Alexander said. “You understand me. So would Miss Reid. She smiled a lot when you were about to visit the Council School last week and was sad after.”

That would be an unnecessary complication in my life.
“She would only miss me a little bit, though. We’re only acquaintances. That’s different from friends.”

A heavy hand landed on my shoulder, and I looked up to see David Lachlan standing there, his flat, cold eyes upon me. His skin had the gray pallor of death, and his throat hung open in a jagged parody of a grin. Alexander’s eyes widened, and I stood to put myself between the apparition and the boy.

“David, what do you want?” I asked.

His words came into my mind as a ghostly wail.
“I cannot rest until you have vanquished the Boar King. Nor can the others.”
He waved over the empty lot behind the house, and I saw row upon row of soldiers in the garb of all eras of warfare from Highland clan warriors wrapped in scraps of tartan to modern-day soldiers in pixellated camouflage. And the murdered scientist and security guards from the Institute, yet three more victims of this crazy creature. What did Wolfsheim want? Did I even know it was a he?

“Can you tell me who, exactly, Wolfsheim is?”

But he remained silent.

“Are any of the others telling you anything?” I looked at Alexander, who hunched over on the ground, his hands over his ears. His mouth opened in a silent pained scream.

“Get out, all of you!” I yelled. The ghosts disappeared in a fog, and Alexander’s father ran outside.

“Who the hell are you yelling at, McCord? You’re as daft as the boy.” He knelt by his son, who still covered his ears and panted. “Alex, son, what is it? What did he do to you?”

Alexander moaned.

“Go. Get away from him!” He stood and shoved me with both hands.

I backed away, palms facing him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that would happen.”

“I’ll be telling the Council about this, McCord,” he snarled at me, and his eyes flashed like he was going to change right there. He grabbed his son’s shoulder and hauled him to his feet. “Are you okay, Son?”

“I’m fine, Da. There were just so many of them,” he whispered. The little clairvoyant flinched away from his father’s touch.

“I’m sure the Council will be very interested in all of this.” I wanted to reach toward Alexander, but I held back. “In fact, I’ll put a call into the Council School’s headmistress this afternoon and tell her about what happened.”

“Tell her she’s done a terrible job of toughening up my son.” He pushed Alexander toward the back door. His hand curled into a fist.

“Where’s your wife, Taylor?”

“At the market, not that it’s any of your business.”

“I need to borrow Alexander for the rest of the afternoon,” I told him.

He turned, slowly, his face a mask of anger. “Haven’t you done enough? The neighbors are probably already whispering about my daft boy and his daft friend yelling at nothing in the backyard.”

“It’s Council business,” I said, hoping that appealing to his inner sense of hierarchy would overcome his anger. Also that giving his son some importance would protect him, not backfire on him.

He looked down at his son. “Fine, then. His bedtime’s nine. Have him back by then.”

I held out my hand, and Alexander walked to me and slowly took it. He looked up at me with big brown eyes with smudges underneath them, and I noticed how thin and bony his hand in mine was.

“Come on, I’ll have you back by dark,” I said.

He nodded and wouldn’t look at his father, who grabbed his chin when we walked by and made him look up at him.

“Behave yourself and don’t disappoint me, hear?”

Alexander nodded. We preceded his father into the living room, and I grabbed the book he’d been reading out of the cushions and put it in my jacket pocket.

Once we’d settled in my car and backed out of the driveway, he turned to me. “Do I get to help with the ghosts?”

“Only as much as you can while staying out of danger.”

“You need my help. I sent the guard into the blue club when you went in when I told you not to.”