Chapter
Twelve
Calia rode as though born to it and had also surprised Mathison by befriending his ornery mount, Horse. The wicked-tempered animal barely tolerated anyone, but the beastie had taken to Calia right away. Her horse was just as large and difficult to handle, and understandably so. Calia’s mare and Horse were twins born from a Shire mother and Arion, the immortal horse of legend.
“Ye said ye were a warrior in yer time. A BIF agent. What happened to yer horse when ye left?” Riding alongside his newly bonded mate had proven most enjoyable so far. Mathison prayed it stayed that way. While an uneventful trip with no dangers would be a surprise, he would gladly accept it.
“FBI agent,” she corrected with gentle amusement, “Federal Bureau of Investigation, and we drove cars—although they were quite a bit larger than the one I left behind in Scotland.”
FBI agent, he repeated to himself, trying to commit the term to memory with more accuracy than he’d done before. “Considering yer time’s obsession with horseless travel, ye ride well. How so?”
She grew thoughtful, staring off into the distance as if traveling back in time. “One of the families I fostered with had a farm with horses.” Her faint smile became almost sad. “I turned eighteen while with them. They were the best, but when I aged out, I left so they could take in more kids and help them as they had helped me. They would’ve let me stay if I’d asked, and my caseworker offered to help me clear Tennessee’s red tape to remain in the system until I was twenty-one, but they really needed the room.” She pulled in a deep breath, then shuddered as if trying to shake off the burdens of her past. “They were the best people.”
His heart ached for all she had suffered before fate finally saw fit to lead them back to one another. That was the thing: even though their souls had spent lifetimes together, there was no guarantee that finding each other in the next life would be easy—or even possible. But, at least, they had now. “Ye will never be alone again, mo chridhe.”
Her smile still seemed sad. “I know,” she said, but didn’t sound entirely convinced.
Otto halted up ahead, then exploded in a storm of excited barks and yips and shot off deeper into the forest, disappearing through the trees.
“Otto!” Calia urged her mount to give chase, but the enormous horse couldn’t possibly weave through the overgrown woodland with the speed and agility of the dog.
Mathison tipped his nose higher, took in a deep breath of the crisp forest air, and caught the scent that had convinced his mate’s mongrel to charge forward. ’Twas a wildcat shifter. More than one. In their animal form. Poor Otto would regret his decision soon enough.
A bawling yelp soon split the air, followed by the pitiful yike yike yike of a dog in desperate retreat.
Calia leapt from the saddle with the strength and agility of a sleek feline. Even though she hit the ground in a crouch, it didn’t slow her. She stretched out her long legs, loping through the forest like the wild wolf within her. Mathison envisioned her shifting before his very eyes and was surprised when she didn’t. The yearning to run alongside her almost made him shift and throw his head back and howl.
“Otto!” The dog rushed into her open arms, whimpering and moaning.
“Let me see,” she told him in a soothing voice. “Let me see how bad it is.”
Shuddering, the dog wiggled deeper into her embrace, burying his head in the curve of her neck.
“’Twas a wildcat shifter.” Mathison dismounted, rummaged through his saddlebag for the bundle of healing herbs that Mynlis always packed, then took it and the waterskin to her. “More than one, judging by the scent. Here. Rinse off his cut. We’ll apply the dried yarrow. It will stop the bleeding and help him heal.” He crouched beside them, caught hold of Otto, and held the dog’s head so she could tend to him. “Ye canna run up on whatever ye find in these woods, my wee friend,” he told the unhappy pup. “Ye are lucky ye came out with but a slice across yer nose.”
“Could they not see he’s just a dog? He didn’t mean any harm.” Calia washed the cut with a bit of water, then dabbed it dry with a square of linen. “That’s going to be sore for a while.”
“It was probably a young one in its animal form. Ye canna blame them for defending themselves. Many a danger lurks in this part of the Highlands. Especially for wee ones caught unawares. Yer Otto is lucky the mother didn’t get hold of him.” Mathison took the small leather pouch with the symbol for yarrow painted on its side and worked open the cinched opening. “Hold yer foolish lad while I get this into his wound.”
Visibly distraught and frustrated, she hugged the dog closer and held his muzzle while Mathison pressed the herbal powder into the cut.
“I should have left him at Wraith Tower. He would’ve been safer,” she said.
“Aye, he would have, but he’s here now, and here he shall stay. He just received a valuable lesson about why it is better to remain close to us no matter what tempts him.” Mathison studied the dog’s nose. “This looks to be definitely from a young one and is naught but a scratch that will bother him for a few days. He will be fine.”
She hugged Otto closer, tucking her head against his. “I just hate that he was hurt because of my poor decision.”
Mathison understood her regret, but she didn’t need to blame herself for that which she couldn’t control. This was a new world to her and Otto, and incidents such as these were to be expected. “He’s a devoted beastie. If ye had left him, he would have mourned ye. This is not yer fault.”
His heart fell when she whispered, “I hate this place.”
He understood that too, but also feared it would keep her from loving him. Faint rustling in the leaves that was entirely too close for comfort shoved all else from his mind. He took a defensive stance between Calia and the source of the sound. “Show yerself.”
Ever so cautiously, a half-grown wildcat came slinking out of the bushes, partially crouched and ready to spring. Close behind it followed a sleek, muscular adult—more than likely its mother. With a warning growl, the mother stepped around her kitten, all the while glaring at Otto.
“That animal attacked my child,” she said with more guttural grumbling.
Mathison easily understood her since he’d once ruled the Ninth Realm. He understood all the clans. ’Twas his responsibility to communicate with his people. Unfortunately, the clans believed the Wraith understood them because the goddesses had ordained that he should be the jailer of those exiled from their clans. No longer were they able to see him as Chieftain Mathison Shadowmist. “’Tis but a pup the goddesses sent here from another realm. He meant no harm, and it appears yer young one got the better of him.”
