Chapter Sixteen
The next day, the weatherwas awful. Endless sheeting rain. Lindsay and Francis stayed indoors all day and by evening Lindsay was pacing the floor. When the rain finally stopped, close to midnight, Francis suggested that he and Lindsay shift and run.
“The full moon is still two days off,” he said. “But your beast is terribly restless. It would be unwise to go to Cruikshank’s without letting it free beforehand.”
Lindsay stared into the flames of the parlour fire, nursing his untouched brandy glass. Francis was right, but in truth, it wasn’t only the moon bothering him.
“You will need to stay close to me if we shift,” he admitted tightly.
“Why?”
It was not an unreasonable question. This was not something Lindsay had ever had to ask of Francis before.
He sighed. “Given a chance, I suspect my wolf will run straight to Nicol. It... wants him.”
Francis eyed him with concern, then he nodded. “I’ll stay with you,” he promised.
They waited another hour, till it was profoundly dark. Then, donning their oldest clothes, they walked down the Canongate, past Holyrood Palace and into the King’s Park. In a copse of trees, they stripped, hiding their things in the damp undergrowth, and shifted.
Lindsay’s transformation was instantaneous, a swift, intense ripple of sensation that overtook him with the suddenness of diving into water. His wolf claimed his body with joyful ease and bounded off into the night, Francis close on his heels.
They ran for the joy of running. Then, disturbing rabbits, for the joy of the chase. Catching a fat buck, they made a quick meal, then trotted uphill, making for the summit of Arthur’s Seat. Francis set a tidy pace, his sleek black body moving with economic grace, and Lindsay followed at his heels. When they reached the top, they basked in the strong, pale light of the moon, lifting their muzzles to howl.
They ran all the way over to Duddingston, skirted the fields at Peffermill and woke a sleeping flock of sheep to nervous bleating. Continuing onwards, they made their way back to the King’s Park tackling a steeper path to the top of Arthur’s Seat. Through it all, Lindsay’s heart beat for Drew, and his blood sang for him, and the song it sang wasmate, mate, mate. His human self might be afraid of that truth, but his wolf brimmed with joy over it.
Francis was true to his word and stuck to Lindsay’s side, sensing his distraction. But though he stayed close, keeping Lindsay’s attention on the run with playful nips and nudges, he could do nothing to block Lindsay’s aching desire for Drew.
As they descended the hill, they came upon a tiny stream—little more than a trickle of water over stones—and stopped to drink. While Lindsay was lapping at the water, he detected a familiar, enigmatic mineral scent. It was the scent he associated with Drew, subtle as a whisper.
Nosing around the wet rocks and grass, Lindsay frantically sought out that scent, flinching when the cold water struck his sensitive nose. He found the source of his excitement at last, a small and ordinary-looking stone with a faint glitter on its rough surface. Lifting it gently between his teeth, Lindsay closed it in his mouth, ignoring Francis’s silent amber stare. And then they were running again, back to the city.
When they came to the spot where they’d left their clothes, Lindsay whined and paced, yearning for his mate, reluctant to change back to his doubtful human self. Francis, though, wouldn’t let him rest. He worried at him, barking and nipping till at last Lindsay gave up and lay on the ground to let his human self resurface.
When he came to, he was cold and dirty and exhausted. He spat the stone out into his hand and stared at it. It was small and dark in his hand.
“What’s that?” Francis asked.
“Nothing,” Lindsay said, his tone discouraging further questions. Turning away, he reached under the leafy branches of the undergrowth to pull out his clothes. Once dressed, he tucked the stone in his breeches pocket, even though he knew he should probably throw it away.
By the time they were on their way, dawn was prodding the sky with pale, tentative fingers. It wasn’t a dramatic sunrise. In fact, it was little more than a gradual lightening of the sky from midnight blue to azure, just a tint of rose at the horizon.
In their human skins, they trudged home. Wynne answered the door on their second knock, still in his nightshirt.
“I’ve left food out in the kitchen,” he said.
“Good lad,” was all Lindsay could manage, his voice rusty, his mind still struggling with the change.
Wynne had left out pie and sawster and cold beef on the kitchen table. They ate hungrily, messily, without washing, wiping their greasy fingers on their dirty breeches. They only stopped when every scrap of food was gone, sitting back in their chairs, sated. When Wynne entered the kitchen again he was fully dressed. He set the kettle on for tea and informed them he was heating water so they could bathe.
“Thank you,” said Francis, who’d returned more quickly to his usual self than Lindsay. “We’re both filthy.”
