He’d need to get a room for the night and head back to Dublin in the morning.
Farren held up her hand as he sped past her, but he quickly turned onto the main road in search of one of the boarding houses he’d seen upon his arrival.
The second one had a single room available, and he handed over his credit card, signed the register, and headed directly for the tiny pub attached to the place.
Two hours later, after spending more on whiskey than he had on the flight from London, he staggered up the stairs, his vision blurry and his stomach protesting every movement. He’d regret this. Probably within the hour. But fuck. He couldn’t possibly fall asleep with Farren’s words rattling around in his head all night.
“I am the silver wolf. The silver werewolf.”
Werewolves weren’t real. The woman was as daft as the old crone in the Greenwich pub. And he’d wasted his time coming here. First thing in the morning, he’d head for the airport and be home—or at least at a hotel in London—by late afternoon.
The dreams came for him moments after he lay down, fully clothed save for his shoes. Almost drowning. The way the ocean had shuddered, sand and rocks forming a bridge underneath him, keeping the waves at bay until he and the surfer had been safely to shore.
He felt the same rumbling now. All around him. Not as strong, but just as shocking. Eli pushed up on an elbow and blinked hard. He’d failed to turn off any of the lights, and the one hanging from the ceiling was swinging back and forth, the tray on the dresser with glasses and an ice bucket rattled.
Earthquake.
A mild one, but he didn’t think Ireland had many quakes. Then again, he’d seen the news reports a couple of months back. Several meters of the Cliffs of Moher had been completely destroyed by tremors unlike the country had ever seen.
“It’s the end of the bloody world,” he muttered. His stomach pitched, and the shaking stopped abruptly. Thank God or he wouldn’t have made it to the bathroom before he heaved up the liquor and the remaining contents of his stomach.
Never drinking like that again.
He rested his back against the wall, letting the cool plaster wash away the last vestiges of the nightmare.
Only to have the horrible images replaced by memories of Farren. Her eyes. The softness of her hands as she’d taken his. The musical lilt to her voice and the way her smile had stirred something inside of him he’d never felt before. A longing. A base need as strong as breathing.
Mostly sober, though with a headache that threatened to split his skull in half, he climbed back into bed and pulled out his phone.
Did one simply search the internet for werewolves? It seemed like the best place to start. Though most of the results led him to romance novels or video game characters.
The rest... A Wikipedia entry with references to the origin of the “werewolf mythos” and links to famous werewolves in historical fiction and lore.
Unwilling to risk sleep, he kept going. Pages and pages of results. Eventually, he admitted defeat and set the phone on the nightstand, closing his eyes and hoping this time, the dreams would stay far, far away.
* * *
Farren
She’d run half the night away, and still tossed and turned for the few hours she tried to sleep, unable to forget Eli’s eyes. His scent. The way he’d moved. The feel of his hands on hers.
Something about him made her all warm and soft in places she’d never been warm and soft before. She had a healthy stock of batteries and a couple of toys in her nightstand that took care of her needs when she was desperate, but even those hadn’t worked to help her sleep.
It hadn’t been hard to track Eli down. There were only eighteen hotel rooms in Doolin spread among three establishments. His scent lingered at Doolin House, and she’d stood outside the window of the hotel’s small pub and watched him drink himself into oblivion.
She’d spooked him. No. Scratch that. She’d scared the piss out of him. At least she knew he wasn’t a practitioner. Or an elemental.
Morning dawned clear and cool, and she was shocked to find Liam pouring himself a cup of coffee when she padded downstairs. “What are ya’ doin’ up so early?” she asked as she grabbed a mug for herself.
“Mara had another episode a few hours ago. Caitlin’s been up with her since four. She’s gettin’ worse. I don’t know how much more Cade can take.”
Farren moved to the living room and sank down onto one of the leather couches. Tierney and Caitlin had left half a dozen pages of transcribed sigils scattered over the dark wood table in front of the hearth, and she picked one up, staring at letters and symbols that made no sense to her.
“There has to be a better way than this. I haven’t seen Paddy in town in weeks, and without him, we’ll never find Diedre again.”
Unless she went back and talked to Eli. While there was no guarantee the woman he’d met in that Greenwich pub had been the practitioner they’d been looking for, it was their only lead.
“What is it?” Liam stood in front of her, his eyes narrowed. “Ye’re on to somethin’. Tell me. I’ve never seen Cade this close to losin’ control. He’s an alpha to his core—just like you—and he can’t stand seein’ his mate in pain.”
