Kaze let out a slow breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m not sure how I feel about you offering up Reaper to save the warrior.” His gaze cut to Viper. “Sir.”
Viper’s nostrils flared as he crossed his arms over his chest. The tattoos on his forearms, twisting, Irish knots and triskeles that had appeared like some kind of fucked-up neon sign after he’d mated with Ward, flexed with the movement. “I think if we’re going to go back to Tír na nÓg, then I’m gonna need to clear us some downtime, or command will lose their shit if we’ve all disappeared when they call us to spin up for a mission.”
“Traitor.” Just because Viper was happily mated to Ward didn’t mean he wanted what they had for himself. Hell, all he wanted was Derek to leave him the fuck alone.
“If there is even the smallest chance that you could die if we do nothing,” Viper squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then braced both his hands on the table in front of him, a sure sign he was trying to find words that would lessen the blow of a decision he knew the others wouldn’t like, “then we are going to make sure that does not happen, even if you end up with a Grá Croí for the rest of your days.” He turned his attention to Trace. “Is the timeframe the same as for you two and us?”
“It is always the full moon,” Trace’s fingers stilled on Juice’s hip, “and the next one is coming up fast in Tír na nÓg.”
There was a beat of silence before they understood what his words meant.
Are the full moons different in Tír na nÓg than here?
They should have had close to a month before the next full moon. If what Trace said was true, now they didn’t have that time…he didn’t have that time.
“What?” Reaper and Viper snapped at the same time.
Trace winced. “Time works differently there; the next full moon is in twelve days.”
Reaper’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “Oh, fucking fantastic. So I have less than two weeks to make a decision that maybe decides if I live or die?”
“It is the way of the Fianna, the Tuatha Dé Danann, and the Wolf Walkers. It has been this way since before we became myths and faded from the memory of man.” Trace’s eyes locked onto his, unblinking. “I do not know a way to change what the fates have deemed is your destiny.”
The words hit like a gut punch, and Reaper’s breath hitched. SEALs were a superstitious bunch at the best of times; throw in a side of growing up in the bayous, and markings on his arm that itched and burned, and he just wanted to wake the fuck up from this dream.
Wake up.
We’re done.
Wake. The. Fuck. Up.
Somewhere in the back of his mind an echo of a hunting horn sounded. He’d heard that noise herald some of the whacked-up weird shit that had happened since the battleground in Afghanistan where Trace had shifted in front of them for the first time. He pressed his hands to his ear, “No. Shut. Up. Stop.”
They all looked at him, but it was Viper who spoke. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”
“I’m fucking hearing things.”
“Hearing what?”
There was a strange demand in Trace’s voice that crackled around him, and as much as he didn’t want to answer, Reaper found he couldn’t prevent himself from doing so. “A horn. Kinda like what we heard in the ‘Stan and when that fucking volcano blew.”
“The Dord Fiann.” Trace got to his feet. “The hunting horn of the Fianna. It’s…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It’s a call to arms. A summons because of imminent danger. Cian is calling for you to help him because he is in danger.” He gripped Reaper’s shoulder and spun him around in his chair. “The Dord Fiann, the blood of your ancestors, and your Grá Croí have called you to fight, brother. Will you answer the call?”
The SEAL, who had gone to war on orders from his flag and his country, knew he should refuse. But somewhere deep inside the recesses of his soul, something darker and deeper flared to life. The words, when they emerged from his mouth, were filled with the snarl of a wolf. “Aye, Cú Chulainn, I will answer!”
4
The training groundof Dún Fianna was a storm of controlled chaos. Cian’s warrior’s blood roared in his veins like a wildfire at the chance to burn off some of the restless energy keeping him on edge.
Finding your Grá Croí was supposed to be the goal in life for both the wolf shifters and the Wolf Walkers. As a shifter, his time was running out. But as much as he craved the bond fate was offering, the need to do as his Grá Croí desired was stronger.
If I must die, then die I will.
The only problem was that he didn’t want his Grá Croí to die, too. If Reaper’s human blood was stronger than his other bloodline, he would, in a few years, become riddled with human diseases and also fade into death.
I do not wish him to die.
“Are ye coming to spar?”
