Call of the Highland Moon

Page 10

Malachi watched placidly as Moriah opened her mouth to speak, but then, unable to give proper voice to her fury, simply bared her teeth at her son, growled angrily, and then spun on one highly overpriced heel to tap tap tap back to whatever sick hell she existed in when she wasn’t bothering him.
Once the door was slammed, however, Malachi gave in to his instincts, if only for a moment. His face contorted into a mask of rage as he stared at the door, his teeth lengthening and becoming wickedly sharp, his clenched hands beginning to drip blood as claws emerged to slice deep into his palms.
“You’ll soon learn,” he snarled in a deep, raspy voice that was almost completely inhuman, “not to turn your back on me, Mother.”
t t t
Much, much later, when the setting sun had turned the December sky to fire, Malachi turned from watching well-bundled humans scurry up and down High Street four stories below him and reached beneath his desk. He slid one long finger into a groove invisible to the naked eye, unlocking one of several secret compartments he’d ordered incorporated into the design, and withdrew the ill-fated cell phone from earlier. Aside from being a little dented, it seemed to be in working order, and that was a relief. After all, this was his only way of communicating with Jonas and Morgan, the only sure way he had of contacting them that couldn’t be traced back to him. He knew his men would answer only calls placed from this number.
It was just a damned good thing the phone was still operable.
He really was going to have to try to rein in his temper, Malachi decided as he thought for a moment, then punched in several digits and hit Send. Assassination was proving to be a tricky and frustrating business, but it would, he was sure, prove valuable education for the future, if only he could keep his cool and focus. A bit of good news would certainly go a long way toward achieving that. All he could do now was wait for an answer, and hope. There was a click as someone answered on the other end.
“Tell me.”
Jonas’s rough, low voice, like the rustling of field grass as some unknown predator passed through it, answered him without hesitation. “It’s still snowing. Most of the roads are closed, and the ones that aren’t are basically impassable. He’s not going anywhere.”
Malachi began to toy with a small sculpture on his desk, something priceless even by human standards, and even more so because of what it represented to him. “How soon, then?” He wasn’t about to throw a screeching fit like his mother surely would have, but any further delay really was unacceptable. He would hate to have to kill Jonas while he still had so much use for him. Jonas’s answer, however, was not at all what he’d been expecting.
“That may depend, sir. Our target has chosen an interesting sanctuary.” Jonas’s tone held something Malachi rarely heard from his loyal servant, a sort of black glee that seemed to precede only his bloodiest and most satisfying kills. He leaned forward, tense with anticipation, his eyes emanating a faint glow. Jonas was his prized possession, a wanted criminal who had killed far more than the authorities could begin to suspect or fathom. Malachi had been patient, tracking him, watching him, waiting for the right moment, then stealing away with Jonas’s bullet-riddled body, so nearly dead, once the police had found him.
He’d given Jonas a new life that night, and in so doing had gained a soldier both fiercely loyal and utterly ruthless. And he had, it turned out, unwittingly done what no Wolf before him had ever even dreamed of.
He had turned a being that had never even been human to begin with. A being with secrets, with connections. Most importantly, with a master sympathetic to Malachi’s cause. A master with the key to the Lia Fαil. He reached up to draw a small violet chunk of crystal, hung on a thin silver chain, from where it was hidden beneath his shirt. Jonas hadn’t been pleased when he’d discovered the piece missing from his own crystal. But he’d needed Malachi’s help too badly to retaliate. Jonas’s collar was cursed, impossible to remove. But through it, the great Andrakkar could see, could hear.
Could whisper, and redeem.
Jonas’s master. His master, he thought as he toyed with the crystal, feeling the current of power that flowed just beneath the smooth, cold surface of it. Here, he was expected to serve the good of the many and gain nothing. But when one served a High Drakkyn well and faithfully, the rewards were endless. As was the pain that came with betrayal. Jonas had discovered that the hard way. And in his fervor to regain the trust of the Drakkyn lord, he had provided Malachi with the purpose he had sought all his life.
Gideon had no idea what sort of beast had been unleashed on him, Malachi thought with a tight, hungry grin. And now that he’d drawn Jonas’s blood, no idea what sort of an enemy he’d gained.
“Where is he? A church? After meeting you, does he really think you’ll respect the sanctity of hallowed ground?”
“He’s given himself into the care of a woman,” rasped Jonas, a dark smile in his voice. And for a moment, Malachi could say nothing at all. In all the years he’d spent watching and loathing Gideon, this was only the second time he’d ever done anything that surprised him. When the stoic, fearless Gideon, ever the dutiful son, had gone running off to America, it had been a shock. It had also been a gift, as far as Malachi was concerned, because all at once his problem of isolating his cousin for an attack had been solved. But this … “gift” did not even begin to describe what this was.
“What have you seen?”
“I’ve tracked them to a small cottage. That won’t pose a problem, of course. We could take him tomorrow night, once Morgan’s leg has finished healing.”
Malachi tapped a long, dagger-like nail on his sculpture, a rectangular piece of obsidian engraved with golden Aramaic characters which had disappeared from the National Museum under mysterious circumstances several years ago. It was said to be an accurate representation of the Stone of Destiny from the seventh century, although the slab of sandstone the British had recently “loaned” back to the Scots to display at Edinburgh looked nothing like this beautiful, magical thing. Malachi smirked as he toyed with the piece. He couldn’t wait for the bloody English to finally discover exactly what they’d been crowning their kings and queen on for the last seven hundred years. As he rubbed his slim fingers over the carvings, soothed by the smoothness of the stone, Malachi considered how he could best turn the situation to his advantage.
“Have you gotten a look at the woman?” he finally asked.
“Mmm,” Jonas confirmed. “A delicious little morsel.”
“And he gave himself into her care, she didn’t just drag him off, you’re certain? ” Malachi knew he was probably being overcautious, but so much was riding on this.
“I watched. I’m certain.”
Malachi lapsed into thoughtful silence. Relief mixed with adrenaline and flowed like quicksilver through his veins. He leaned back into the soft leather of his chair, a faint smile on his lips. A beautiful distraction. He would never have dared to hope. And now he needed to be careful, so careful, in deciding just how this should be played. Should be used. The possibilities, after all, were myriad. Endless. And so, so appealing.
“This may change things,” Malachi finally said. “Until I’ve decided, do what you do best. Watch. Wait. And keep me informed.” There was another click as Jonas hung up on his end, but Malachi was too adrift in his own thoughts to hear it. Well, well … our boy may have found himself a mate. It was almost too good to be true. Almost. But as long as the snow held, as long as Gideon stayed put, he would watch, and evaluate. In the woods last night, Malachi had simply meant to have Gideon killed. Now, presented with the possibility of destroying him mentally and emotionally first, well … it was something one wanted to consider, in any case.
“Really, Gideon, after all this. A woman,” Malachi murmured softly to the empty room. “How very clichι of you. But you won’t find me complaining.” He rubbed the small black stone again, this time for luck. “Thanks for the weapon, Cousin,” he continued, a far-off look in eyes as gray as the Atlantic on a cloudy day. “I only need to learn how best to wield it. But when I do,” and he smiled, a terrible thing full of sharp, biting teeth, “I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
In his mind, the velvet darkness of the Hunting Grounds called to him, at last within his reach.
Delicious, Jonas had called her.
He could only hope that Gideon would take the time to find out.
Chapter Five
“I THINK I NEED A MINUTE.”
“Is there anything I can, um … I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”
Carly moved the hand she’d placed over her eyes slightly to look at him. Gideon. Her wounded werewolf. He actually looked apologetic, like he really wanted to help but couldn’t figure out how. Her eyes dropped, then slammed shut as she covered them back up, hoping that her hand would also cover most of the red flush she now felt spreading across her cheeks like wildfire.
“Carly. Silver. And if we’re going to have an adult conversation, pants would be a good start.”
“Oh.” There was a pause as her words sunk in. “Oh. Right.”
Good. Now at least she wasn’t the only one who was mortified. He started to move, then stopped, his uncertainty actually audible. Carly took pity on him.
“Spare bedroom, second drawer down. There should be some sweats of my brothers’ in there. They’ll be a little short, but they’ll work.”
“Thanks. Be right back.” When the sound of his bare feet padding across the rug faded off in the direction of the bedroom, Carly finally felt safe enough to open her eyes again. She blinked twice, looked around. No, she finally decided after a quick once-over of the short hallway that connected her bedroom, another smaller bedroom, and a decent-sized bath to the living area and the rest of the house. Pale yellow paint, the photographs of her shop, downtown, the lake in their thin silver frames still hanging straight and tastefully on the walls. She hadn’t gone to Oz after all, it seemed. Crazy, maybe, but not Oz. Was it wrong, she wondered, that she was starting to wish her body had simply wandered off to pick up a man last night, instead of this? Whatever “this” turned out to be.