Erotica Ebooks: Free ebook sample of "Call of the Highland Moon" by Kendra Leigh Castle

Chapter One

THE NIGHT WAS CALLING TO HIM.

Gideon MacInnes stood before the open window, inhaling the biting mid-December wind, savoring it as though it were the most intoxicating midsummer’s breeze.

Run with me, it whispered.

But was it safe?

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly, his shaggy fall of dark brown hair just grazing the tops of his shoulders with the motion, and scented the lay of this place. It was at once unfamiliar and yet not so very unlike the land, an ocean away, he called home.

Gideon’s nostrils flared slightly. Pine. Wood smoke. The rich, earthy smell of decaying leaves. The tempta­tion of a lone, foraging deer. And underneath it all, winding like a ribbon through each singular aroma, the unmistakable promise of snow. Judging by the heavi­ness of the air, there would likely be more than any of the locals would like by morning, even as accustomed as they were to spending close to half the year at winter’s mercy. He really ought to go, Gideon knew, if he didn’t want to find himself stranded for a few extra days. Especially when he’d just gotten off the phone after announcing his decision to return home at last. But then again …

Gideon opened his eyes, once more scanning the grounds of the small, luxurious inn he had selected specifically for its privacy. Then, satisfied, he trained his unnaturally golden gaze on the darkness of the woods that very nearly surrounded this place.

Alone.

Good.

Gideon shrugged off the simple button-down shirt already hanging open on his muscular frame, feeling his skin prickle at its contact with the open air. Already he could feel his blood rising with a kind of savage joy that he had not felt, had not allowed himself to feel, since fleeing Scotland some two months before as though the hounds of Hell were snapping at his heels.

What on earth had possessed him to think he needed the city? Gideon wondered as he slid his favorite pair of faded, weather-beaten jeans down over taut, sinewy muscle to the floor. He had tried them all, and fled them all just as quickly as he had run to them. Los Angeles. New York. Las Vegas. Chicago. All of them the same. He could admit, now that he was thousands of miles away from the man, that his father may have had a point when he’d accosted his resolute son on his way out the door.

“Go, then, you stubborn fool, and you’ll see exactly what it is you’re missing, what’s in all of this ‘life’ you think is passing you by. Too much light. Smells to send you running for the bathroom. Sound so that it could deafen a normal man. And though you may hate it, Gideon, you aren’t a normal man, and never will be. What they call ‘civilization’ was never intended for the likes of us. Blessing and curse our lot may be, but you’ll have to accept it. What’s in you isn’t about to give you a choice.”

Gideon fought down a snap of temper as the image of Duncan MacInnes rose in his mind, glaring at him as though he were nothing but a petulant, stubborn child and all but wagging his finger at him as he gave his parting shot.

“Some things are more important than sowing your own bloody oats, lad. I might have expected this from your brother, but you … well, have your time, then. But if you even dare to think you’re pushing this off on Gabriel, let that be followed quickly by the memory of who taught you to hunt. I’ll haul your sorry carcass back by the scruff of your neck, make no mistake. Now. Come and give your da a hug, then.”

So like Duncan, Gideon thought with a shake of his head as he straightened, fully nude in the biting air. The threat of a whipping, and then gruff affection. It had taken only a couple of rather painful lessons in Gideon’s teenage years for him to understand that Duncan meant both. His brother, however … well, Gideon didn’t think Gabriel had quite figured it out yet, which might explain why he was still intent on acting so consistently like a damned idiot. That, and the fact that Gabriel didn’t want the Guardianship any more than Gideon had. Gideon might have been the accurs­edly firstborn, but Gabriel, knowing Gabriel, probably considered his continuing irresponsibility in any and all facets of life as just one more bit of insurance that it would never fall to him.

He also, thought Gideon with a grimace, got to have a great deal more fun, and would continue to if things continued on their present path.

“Ah, well,” Gideon sighed softly as he lifted his eyes to the glowing silver of a moon not a week from reaching her fullness. “Might as well enjoy my taste of freedom, then, while I have it.”

He’d been brooding ever since he’d gotten to the States, trying to decide what was best to be done when, in his heart of hearts, he’d known all along he was fighting a losing battle. In city after city, his heart had done nothing but ache for the wild places, the things he had been so eager to leave behind. The great sights Gideon had dreamed of seeing had not moved him. The novelty of having multitudes of women from which to choose, rather than a handful, had not enticed him as he’d thought they would, plentiful and willing though they were. And in truth, he thought with a rueful twist of his mouth, skulking about public parks when the Change came upon him, in fear of being shot by some well-meaning officer with a tranquilizer gun and waking up in a local zoo, had been a rather humbling experience.

The fact that he had finally gravitated to this little town on the edge of Lake Ontario in rural Northern New York, a place both beautiful and forbidding due to the harshness of its climate, was most telling of all. And so it had finally prompted his decision, and the call. After all, it was the place that reminded him most of home.

And there was a sort of peace in accepting that, Gideon decided as he relaxed his muscles. His golden gaze sharp­ened, becoming oddly predatory before he dropped his lids, thick black lashes twining together, and willed the beast within to the surface. It wasn’t as though the idea of running herd on a pack of Highland werewolves really bothered him, nor even the weight of the responsibility of guarding the Stone. For if he, who had been groomed for the task his entire life, declined, then to whom would it fall? Gabriel had declared himself unfit whether or not it was true, and the thought of Malachi taking over would chill the blood of any sane person. No, Gideon thought, it wasn’t as though his lot was really so objectionable. The only question was, then, could he learn to live perma­nently with the restlessness that had been gnawing at him steadily for the past few years?

Since the one thing that might assuage it was looking less and less likely to ever materialize, Gideon supposed he would have to accept it, make his peace with it, and find contentment where he could.

He’d start tonight—right now.

Running had always been his freedom, and his peace … as was the wolf.

After years of practice, Gideon’s inner beast came quickly when it was bidden. Despite humankind’s multi­tude of amusing misconceptions about his kind, the truth was that while the Change was unavoidable at the full moon, he could shift by force of will at any of her phases. Although his powers wouldn’t be at their full strength at this time of month, Gideon was still, and always, a formidable adversary, so there was little fear of being overtaken by humans. Most of his pack Changed fairly often, really, if only for a quick run, or simply for the sheer joy of it. He had been no different.

Was still no different, it would seem.

There was a burning pleasure as flesh stretched and shifted, as bone shortened and changed. Claw and tail, fur and fang sprouted as Gideon dropped to the floor, pain blending with the pleasure of release, just as always when he opened himself to his true nature. Within moments, the figure that had been a dark, brawny Scotsman had been replaced by that of a large and powerful wolf with fur the color of midnight and uncanny amber eyes that seemed to give off a preternat­ural glow. Its muscles bunched. With one single, powerful leap, the massive beast was through the second-story window and racing across the hard-packed snow into the embracing shadows of the forest.

Gideon’s thoughts became simpler, more directed, his emotions clearer as what he always thought of as his wolf-sense took over. He was all lean grace and strength as he bounded into the welcoming trees, his senses sharpening, almost frightening in their acuity. When Gideon ran through the forest, he became the forest.

The creatures of the wood scattered from his path and then stilled, not wanting to betray their locations with a sound. This was an ancient beast that ran among them now, and while they had never encountered one of his kind, their blood knew his. It should have been, had always been, glorious. And yet …

There was a strange and sinister current slithering through this darkness. Some odd, bitter tang he had never tasted in every breath of arctic air. It enveloped Gideon as he pushed himself forward, spurring him on even as the night thickened around him. His father’s voice whispered through his mind, words that had been spoken in warm invitation. Now, with Gideon’s blood rising until it thundered in his ears, those same words became a sly taunt.

Or a plea.

“That’s a good lad, Gideon. Hurry home, then.”

Hurry home …

Hurry home …

It was a cadence in his mind as he ran, loping through the underbrush with the snap of dried branches and the velvety crush of snow beneath his paws as the only other music in the muffled quiet of the winter night.

A picture formed in his mind of the bright orb of the full moon scattering her light across the gentle waves of Loch Aline, the sheltering darkness of the Highlands behind him, the Sound of Mull beyond him, her islands cradling the ancients and their secrets still. Both sides of him, human and wolf, reached toward home in that moment. In his mind’s eye, the pine canopy above him vanished to reveal nothing but the millions of stars above as he imagined running along a distant water’s edge.

It was an image that had always brought him joy. But tonight, the thought of home made his heart swell with an almost frantic grief. It made no sense. He had lost nothing. But the ache intensified until Gideon finally sought the only release he knew. Upon reaching a small clearing in the trees, he skidded to a stop, threw back his majestic head, and howled. And for the first time in his life, his song was one of purest desolation. Purest pain.

It was what he had needed. There was finally a bit of relief from the inexplicable despair, the smothering sensation of the forest darkness. Until the last sound he would have expected here, in these woods, reached his ears.

As the ululating rise and fall of three more voices engaged in wolfsong answered him, Gideon’s ears pricked, and the fur bristled along his back. Ordinarily, he would have welcomed the company of a native wolf-pack, beasts that had always shown his kind loyalty and respect and often enjoyed joining in for a romp or a hunt. What sang to Gideon were no forest wolves, though.

Although none of his kind roamed this part of the world, Gideon knew the call of his people. And the intent expressed in that howl, difficult as it was for him to believe, was as clear as the night sky above.

Attack.

Gideon crouched low to the ground, paws spread, and growled a warning low in his throat. He cursed himself silently for his distraction earlier.

Followed. But why?

His pack was his family, all differences aside. And yet he was in an enviable position, especially to those who found what he had to be only slightly out of their grasp. The image of a familiar but unwelcome face swam quickly to the forefront of his mind as Gideon reached for some sort of explanation.

Jealousy, yes. Hunger, certainly. But ambush? Murder?

He wouldn’t have believed it until now.

Yet there was only one possible explanation.

Malachi.

The thought was staggering, and not only because the justice visited upon his cousin by the Pack would be both swift and brutal once this was discovered. Malachi, if this truly was his doing, would be breaking one of the Sacred Dictates, the cardinal rules that had governed their Pack since the time of Saint Columba. They were ancient things, handed down in oral tradition from generation to generation, but the years had made them no less venerated, and no less adhered to. Pack commu-nity—loyalty, trust, and solidarity—was the only thing that kept safe the Stone. Without those things, they were nothing but a bunch of vicious natural oddities, dangerous and unpredictable … even to one another. Hence, the first dictate, most sacred of all: First, no harm against thy brother Wolf.

Traitor, Gideon thought, baring his teeth as he moved silently back toward the trees, eyes never leaving the direction from which the voices had come. That his cousin would be so bold as to plot this sort of coup spoke of his supreme confidence that he would succeed.

Overconfidence. It was Malachi’s biggest flaw, and it was going to prove fatal. Gideon would live to see his cousin pay.

Gideon turned at the edge of the clearing and streaked swiftly off into the sheltering woods, melting noiselessly into the shadows and trees. He was miles from the inn at this point. It wasn’t in his nature to shy from a fight, but Gideon instinctively understood his vulnerability in this situation. He was alone, in unfamiliar territory, facing at least two adversaries stalking him with the intent to kill. Best to draw them into the open, take the advantage. He would not take the blood of another Wolf if he had a choice. It was how he had been raised, how he had been trained. No, the most important thing now was to alert the Pack, to let them know what wheels had been set in motion. Gideon might be the biggest obstacle to a change in power, but he was not the only one.

Speed, stealth before strength.

Keep safe the Stone.

Protect the Pack.

He flew silently over the snow, sensing, rather than hearing, that he was being pursued. His nose told him that he wasn’t far from civilization—only a mile or two. He pushed himself harder, though he was already moving at a speed that could only be called supernatural. The smell of humans grew stronger, and faint lights began to flicker through the trees in the distance. He was going to make it out.

Hurry home …

Hurry home …

The first blow forced the breath from his lungs, knocking his feet from under him in mid-lope with unex­pected force. Gideon skidded a short ways on his side, then scrambled quickly to his feet. He whipped around to face his adversary, hackles raised, a vicious snarl tearing from his throat. The smaller, stockier gray wolf faced him, yellow eyes seeming to taunt him, growling low in response. Gideon narrowed his eyes, claws lengthening, digging into the snow. This was no Wolf he’d ever seen, but a Wolf just the same.

No, not the same, Gideon thought, bristling. There was something off, something not right about this creature. He was smaller, but somehow radiated the sort of power only seen in the purest bloodline, a supernatural strength that threatened violence in the smallest flicker of movement. Gideon sensed this, and the oddity of it had him struggling to maintain his focus. But what was worse, what roiled his insides and screamed at him to retreat, to run, was the smell. It poured off of the Gray, befouling the air of the forest, burning Gideon’s nostrils. It seemed to radiate from within him, from the strange collar that glinted from around the beast’s neck, stinking of some unfamiliar and horrifying madness. It was an assault to his senses such as he’d never endured before.

He was suddenly determined to eradicate it at the source.

Gideon’s muscles tensed, ready to spring, to rip, to tear. Then, suddenly, the growling grew louder, and louder again as two more Wolves padded menacingly out of the darkness. Gideon stilled, drawing himself up, staring down his would-be attackers. These were unfa­miliar Wolves as well, and again, not Pack. Weaker. And yet their scent marked them as not entirely unfa­miliar, either.

It seemed that his cousin had decided to break more than one sacred rule.

And, as usual, he had sent others to do his dirty work.

The jagged scar that crossed Gideon’s right eye twinged a bit at the memory of Malachi’s last decep­tion, the wound inflicted by a Pack male who had been poisoned with tales of Gideon wooing his mate. It had been a painful lesson, but Gideon had tried to be thankful that he had at least kept his eye in the learning of it.

First, no harm against thy brother Wolf.

He’d always thought that Malachi had merely intended him maimed, a crime bad enough. Now, in this circle of Wolves with malice hanging heavy in the air, he was no longer so sure. From the ravenous look in these new werewolves’ eyes, maiming was kind compared to what they intended.

Traitors.

The Wolves began to circle him, teeth bared, eyes fixed upon Gideon. For his part, Gideon remained immobile, head high, letting his disdain for them show. In this form, he was magnificent, very obviously of the Alpha bloodline with his broad, powerful chest, long, muscular limbs, and more than that, the fact that he stood a head taller than the others. He was calm, focused. He had been trained to fight. It was in his blood. If he had no choice but to use that skill against his own kind, then so it was. These were not of his Pack, and they were no brother Wolves of his.

But he had never imagined that he would have to stand for his Pack, and for the Stone, so far from either one.

When it happened, it was fast. The Gray, who seemed to be the leader, uttered a short, sharp bark, and all three set upon Gideon at once. All the years of sparring with Duncan and his two lieutenants, Ian and Malcolm, came rushing back as he fought them off. Rolling, slashing at vulnerable flesh, sinking his fangs past fur and into skin. For a time, there seemed to be nothing to Gideon’s world but a snarling, snapping mass of claws and teeth, shot through with bright flashes of pain and brief moments of triumph when he caused more than he had received.

Impressions flickered, vanished, raced through Gideon’s consciousness as he fought to stay alive.

Hind claws finding purchase in a soft underbelly. A shriek of pain at the snap of his teeth. Vicious, tearing pain across his shoulder. And always, through the haze of blood and pain, the mocking gleam of yellow eyes like, and so very unlike, his own.

At last, Gideon managed to throw one of them off balance long enough to sink his fangs into the ragged brown fur at its throat. With no regret, he tasted blood as he found the jugular. The world finally seemed to still and right itself as Gideon gave the limp carcass a final shake and then tossed it from his jaws to land at the feet of the Gray, whose bloodied, battered sides were heaving as much as Gideon’s own.

Gideon snorted out a hot mist of breath in the frigid air, hunching for attack, ready to finish it. It appeared that this Wolf was no more invincible than any other, after all. They regarded one another for a moment that spun out into an eternity, the only sound the soft moan of the wind picking up as the first flakes of snow began to fall, in slow motion, through the canopy of trees from the endless blackness above.

The stillness was finally shattered when the Gray bared his teeth at Gideon, then limped slowly backward into the shadowy trees. In seconds, first he, then the angry violet glow of the chunk of stone dangling from his collar, disappeared from sight. His one remaining companion was decidedly worse off. Ginger fur matted with blood, it followed as quickly as it could, dragging a broken hind leg as it went. Gideon remained immobile as he watched them go, sensing their message as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud.

This isn’t over.

No, Gideon though, curling his lip. It sure as hell wasn’t. And damned if he was going to let them go without finishing it. But it wasn’t until he took a step forward—and the trees in front of him blurred and swam—that he realized the extent of his own injuries. He might have given better than he got, but it had still been three sets of fangs and claws to his one, and all of those had done some damage despite his best efforts. As Gideon stood there, swaying slightly, he licked the foam from his muzzle and tasted blood. As dread formed a leaden ball in his stomach, he looked down only to see more blood dripping from his chest, his legs, and his underbelly, slowly turning the snow beneath him crimson.

Hell.

He took another tentative step forward, and his vision rimmed with black. A draw after all, he thought ruefully. He’d lost too much blood. If it had been anything but other werewolves, he could have rested, assured that he’d heal quickly enough to stanch the lifeblood slowly exiting from his wounds. But it was different among his own kind. It was why they were forbidden from harming one another, why he still carried the scar of that surprising attack so many years ago when the rest of his body carried not a mark. Their healing powers worked much more slowly when the wounds were inflicted by one of their own, and sometimes, as in the case of Gideon’s scar, not quite as well.

Or not at all.

Gideon knew that if he didn’t want to die there in the snow, he was going to have to find help, and fast.

Keep safe the Stone.

Protect the Pack.

It took a Herculean effort to start forward, toward the lights in the distance. And as he half-walked, half-dragged himself in their direction, it became harder and harder to keep at bay the blackness that wanted to consume him.

Hurry home, the voice in his mind whispered, mocking his efforts.

Later, Gideon would think that he must have blacked out and somehow still kept moving. It seemed as though one moment he was still deep in the pine trees, and the very next, he was lurching through the tidy backyards of a small town, trying desperately to stay clear of the bright glow of windows, of barking dogs who smelled wounded animal and blood. He raised his head as much as he could and scented the air for what seemed like the hundredth time, confused in his weakened state. He was unsure whether he should attempt a Change, whether he even had the strength to make it through one, unsure of where to look for help in this unfamiliar place. He whined softly, his once glossy black fur now clumped and matted, exhausted from making it even this far. Despite his best efforts, he was going to have to lie down; and out here, with the storm coming in, Gideon was fairly sure that once that happened, he wouldn’t be getting back up.

Then, just as his legs began to buckle for the last time, Gideon caught the faintest scent of … something. It was barely there, carried on a breath of arctic wind, but it was compelling enough to bring the great head up again, his nose searching the air greedily for another trace of it. What was it? So familiar … like berries and cream, with a hint of vanilla … and perhaps a dash of spice, some­thing almost exotic.

And just like that, Gideon’s pain faded around him as he concentrated on that wonderful, delicious smell, a scent both familiar and unknown, yet holding some mysterious promise of coming home. Instinct took over—propelling him, driving him. He put one paw in front of another, then again, and then slowly, deliber­ately, he was moving again, the intense need to find out the source of the intoxicating aroma overriding his body’s every command to shut down.

Left, through a darkened churchyard.

There, a hint of cinnamon!

Now right, down a wide alleyway.

So much stronger, and impossibly, irresistibly sweet!

At last, all reserves of strength drained, Gideon got as close as he could to the source: a small red door, on which hung a simple holly berry wreath, that led into an old brick building from the alley. The door filled his vision. Its cheery color was a beacon that seemed, at that moment, made solely for the purpose of leading him out of the cold. In his delirium, Gideon lost all sense of time and place, hanging onto the promise carried on a whiff of arctic breeze.

Home?

He paused there, on the soft rubber mat, and willed everything he had left into raising one shredded paw to scratch feebly at the door. Once. He heard a voice from within, but it stayed distant. Twice, and then once more Gideon scratched, now whining pitifully as he sank to the ground, defeated.

Guard … Protect … Home …

Gideon’s mind struggled, but he felt unconsciousness barreling toward him like a freight train. In those seconds before the blackness claimed him, Gideon rolled his eyes heavenward and said a silent prayer for a mangy, flea-bitten cur such as himself to be taken Home.

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