Wolf Land Book Two: Storyfalls: Wolf Land, #2

By Fiona McShane

Ireland: 1659

In the castle's keep there is a room ...
And in that room there is a box ...
And in that box there is ...?

Sorcha Moore feels as though she has finally found her real home amongst the werewolves of Wolf Wood, but enemies may be closer than she thinks. With poisonings and attacks occurring within the wolves’ community, who can Sorcha really trust?

The werewolves must discover the culprit. And if they are ever to defeat the Tolberts, then they must do it fast.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiona McShane
• Release date: Feb 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386075998

Book preview

1659

Eleanora

The water was not hot enough.  The water was never hot enough.  I was clear on the matter.  Perfectly clear.  Stupid girl could get nothing right.  ‘But it is close to boiling,’ she would say.  Excuses.  Always excuses with that girl.

I sniffed my skin, and almost vomited.  I reached to the table that stood beside my bath, and poured in more scented oil.

I had killed him.  My chest lurched at the thought.  Dead.  The only one who could help me, the only one of the whole lot who was of any use or substance, was dead.  And I had killed him.

My cheek felt warm.  Something wet and salty rolled down over my lips.  My chest moved again, heaving now, trying to shake off some unshakeable weight.  More and more wet, salty substance rolled from my eyes and into my mouth.  He was the only one of the whole lot who was of any use.  And I had killed him.

Arthur

Arthur stayed crouched down, trying to ignore the smell of the dung heap on the other side of the wall.  Did it smell stronger than it might usually smell?  He sniffed again, and soon wished he had not.  Yes, it smelled stronger.  Everything smelled stronger.  And this was weeks before he was yet to turn, to become one of them for real.  Come full moon, he might need to find something to cover his nostrils.

He rubbed his legs, making sure he did not lose the feeling there.  It was hard to stay stooped like this, out of sight, when all he wanted to do was vault over the wall, crash through the doors of the keep, and put an end to Lord Tolbert.  He brushed his fingers along the arrows in his quiver.  Fine, he could not kill the man – he had tried many times before, after all – but he could damn well give it another try.

He heard a giggle to his left, and did his best not to turn and look.

Sorcha giggled a second time.  ‘Stop it,’ she said, pulling away from Rory.  ‘We are embarrassing poor Arthur.’

Arthur touched a palm to his cheek.  True, there was a little heat there, but that was down to excitement.  They were so close to the keep, watching for the man Arthur hated most in all the world.  Who would not be a little warm?

‘Sorcha, do not rebuke poor Rory on my account,’ he said lightly.  ‘After all, your closeness encourages bluebells.  You help alleviate the stench of the dung heap, just a little.’

Arthur still tried not to look at them.  Why, he was not sure.  Perhaps it was because of the bluebells.  After all, who wanted to be reminded that Sorcha’s and Rory’s was a love so perfect that bluebells – literally – sprung up from the ground whenever they came into contact with each other?

Arthur blinked, surprised at the resentment in his thoughts.  He was just tired.  He was happy for Sorcha.  This Rory, this leader of the werewolf pack ... he was a good man.  Arthur remembered him as a young blacksmith.  Even then Rory had something about him.  But seven years had passed since Arthur had last met Rory, and those years had brought about some changes.  Rory was sixteen when Arthur last knew him, but he had looked like a full-grown man at the time.  Now, his face had not aged – how could it when he was immortal? – but somehow he did look older around the eyes.  His smile was a cautious one, except when Sorcha was near.  His way of leading his wolf pack was cautious, too.  Arthur had seen many colonels during his time with the New Model Army, and he knew a good one when he saw one.

‘See?’ said Rory.  ‘Arthur does not mind.  Our ever-appearing bluebells are making the place smell better.  Anyway, it was just a tiny kiss.  The smallest, really.  And it need not have occurred at all had you not been eating honey.  I ask you, Arthur, what man could resist these lips when they have been coated in honey?’

Arthur cleared his throat and willed his skin not to redden any more as he said, ‘None, I am sure.  It is your fault most undoubtedly, Miss Moore.’

He turned his attention back to the castle.  They were at the back of the keep, behind the stables.  The stables had been cut into a hill, and it was on the other side of that hill, behind a wall, where they were waiting.  He could see it all laid out – the vast grounds, the surrounding walls.  There were two drawbridges between the front wall and the keep, and on the other side of both those bridges were portcullises.  The gates could be lifted or lowered quite easily as long as you had half a dozen men to do the work.

The first bridge was rarely lowered.  It remained upright for most of the time, flush against the portcullis behind it, providing an additional barrier to entry.  When it was down it covered a broad moat, filled with murky water.  The second drawbridge, on the other hand, was always down; that portcullis was never closed.  Perhaps the Tolberts thought they had little to fear.  Perhaps they were right.  That second bridge spanned a deep ditch.  It was rumoured that instead of water, there were sharp metal spikes at the bottom.  Arthur had always wondered about that.  Now that he was among the ranks of the werewolves, he finally understood.  A sharp silver stake was said to kill them, was it not?  That was the weapon of choice in the stories he had heard.  He made a mental note to ask Rory if it was true.

‘I have never seen the castle grounds from this height before,’ said Sorcha.  ‘Have those buildings always been there?’

Arthur looked where she had indicated.  Behind Lady Tolbert’s six long glasshouses there was yet another glasshouse under construction.  But it was what lay behind that, Arthur thought, that had drawn Sorcha’s attention.  There were three huge structures, built mostly out of wood.  They looked as though they had been hastily built – he had certainly never seen them before – and they appeared to have absolutely no windows.

‘Perhaps there are windows along the sides facing away from us,’ she said, reading Arthur’s thoughts.  ‘What do you think, Rory?’

Rory’s nostrils flared.  ‘There is too much going on here.  I do not like it one little bit.  Besides those buildings and what may be in them, there are other changes.’  He nodded his head towards the battlements.  ‘I count twice as many guards as usual.  And there may be more that I cannot see.  I do not recognise a single one of the men.  None of them are local.’

Sorcha bit her lip.  ‘They are fierce-looking men.’

Arthur knew what she meant.  Though he could only see them at a distance, it was obvious that these men were bigger and stronger than the previous guards had been.  Were they there because of Rory’s attack on Lord Tolbert?  Or were they there for another reason?

‘We will have to spend more time watching, I am afraid, before we even attempt to get inside.’  Rory sighed.  ‘I shall post men here around the clock.  That is, once we have discovered if the man still breathes.’  He arched an eyebrow at Arthur.  ‘And I am inclined to believe what you told us – that the man is not so easily done away with as I hoped.’

Arthur tried not to look at Sorcha.  He did not want to say what he believed.  Let her have hope, if only for a while longer.

‘You were a werewolf when you attacked him,’ he told Rory.  ‘During my many attempts on his life, I was a mere man.  There is a great chance you were successful.’

Rory shook his head.  ‘The extra guards say it all.  Tolbert is alive, and he has hired the guards to make sure he stays that way.  No mourning bells have tolled.’  He squeezed Sorcha’s hand, and fixed a firm expression upon his face.  ‘Our aim,’ he said, ‘is to get into that keep.  Yes, there are more guards than usual.  And yes, we do need to worry about what is in those sheds.  But my feeling is that we need to move quickly here, if we want to retrieve what Lady Tolbert stole.  I think we could do it, with careful planning and enough men.  I think that, come full moon, we may be ready to scale those walls and take out the guards.’

He was probably right.  They had many more wolves than the castle had guards, even taking the new guards into account.  At any time of the month the wolves had the larger army.  But at full moon ... Arthur shuddered as he remembered his first close encounter with a werewolf.  They were terrifying.  They were strong.  They seemed as if they could outmatch any man.  It was a mystery to Arthur as to why they had not attempted to storm the castle before.

‘But then why,’ said Sorcha, echoing the very thought in Arthur’s head, ‘did Cormac never attempt to get into the castle?’

Rory looked away from her.  ‘It does not matter why.  Whatever reasons he had for staying away from the castle, they are in the past.  He wants me to get in there now.  Lady Tolbert stole a box from your mother’s grave, Sorcha, and my sire entrusted me with getting it back.’

Maybe she would have said something in return, but instead her face scrunched and she held on to her head.  Arthur knew instantly that she was experiencing one of the headaches she had told him about – the ringing in her mind and in her ears which occurred whenever Lord Tolbert was near.  His stomach sank.  Any hope he may have held about Rory killing the man was gone.  Because this was Sorcha.  She was special – anyone could see that.  If she felt like Lord Tolbert was close, then Arthur believed he was.

In the stable yard there was movement, but very little noise, as a hooded driver expertly harnessed four horses and secured them to a sleek black carriage.  The horses made no sound, and seemed to read the driver’s thoughts rather than his actions.  Arthur marvelled, as always, at these animals.  There was something otherworldly about them.  The black of their coats was as deep as the night.  Their eyes and manes were the same colour, creating an odd experience when looking at them – they seemed to have no contours, no shades, only black – it felt like looking at nothing.  He was glad to be at some distance from them.  He had an unpleasant first encounter with them seven years earlier.  They had breathed out what seemed like mist, and it had rendered him almost helpless.  His thoughts, his intentions, were gone.  Under control of that strange mist, he would have done whatever he was told.  Instead of following Sorcha and her sister Peggy, as he had been doing that morning, he was suddenly compelled to climb aboard Lady Tolbert’s carriage.  Luckily, on that occasion, all that Lady Tolbert had wanted was to ask him how he was finding his time in Wolf Wood.  Well, that was all he remembered.  Anything could have happened on that misty morning, and he would probably not recall.  He made a mental note to himself that if they did attack the castle, they ought to have a guard at the stable doors, making sure those horses could do no damage.

Noises came from within the keep.  Arthur, Sorcha and Rory turned to watch the doors being drawn open by some unseen servant.  The outer portcullis began to squeal as the guards opened it and lowered the bridge.

The driver moved to his seat and softly tapped the reins, urging the horses from the stable yard and towards the keep.

As the keep’s doors stood fully opened, Sorcha, Rory and Arthur drew breath, and waited.  Footsteps.  Murmuring voices.  Sorcha was squeezing Rory’s hand so hard that Arthur was sure her fingernails must have been digging into his palm.  But Rory did not wince.  Like Sorcha and Arthur, he was intent on those doors.

Arthur’s body suddenly became hard to disobey, but disobey it he must, for now.  No matter how he may have wanted to, it was not the right time.  And so he remained there, coiled and restless, as Lord Tolbert strolled from the keep and took the steps down to his driveway two at a time.  He was whistling.  He was alive, he was well, and he was whistling.  Arthur did not recognise the tune, but nevertheless he hated it, because it came from that man’s lips.

‘Come along my love!’ called Lord Tolbert, turning back to the keep, impatiently tapping his cane on the ground.  The cane, Arthur noted, was a recent addition; if he actually needed it to support himself, then perhaps Rory had done some damage after all.  ‘The rector will not hold the mass for us, now will he?’

‘Yes, he will,’ said Lady Tolbert, her voice drifting from inside the building.  ‘You know perfectly well that he will.’

Could she be as miserable as she sounded?  Arthur lost interest in Lord Tolbert.  Instead he stared at the doors, until eventually she appeared.  As usual she was veiled.  But her stature was different.  She did not stand so tall.  As she made her way towards the carriage, she did not hurry.  She did, however, incline her head slightly in the direction of the dung pile.

When, finally, Lord and Lady Tolbert were inside the carriage and out of view, Arthur turned to Rory and Sorcha.  Whatever he may have been about to say was forgotten as he took in the expression on Sorcha’s face.  She looked pained.  She looked exhausted.  But the worst thing of all was that she did not look surprised.

Rory took a deep breath.  ‘It is as you said, Arthur.  He is the picture of health.’

Arthur imagined what Rory might be feeling.  Rory had left Tolbert with no breath in his body.  He had left him bloodied and scarred.  He had left that cottage thinking that Lord Tolbert was finally, deservedly, dead.  And yet there were no signs of injured pride in Rory’s voice.  He did not seem to take Lord Tolbert’s good health as a personal failure.  He knew, as Arthur did, as possibly every person in Wolf Wood knew but could not bear to believe: Lord Tolbert was not a man you could easily murder, because Lord Tolbert was not a man.

‘I wish it were not true,’ said Arthur.  ‘But now that it is confirmed, what do you want to do?  I think we should –’

Arthur let his words trail off, and turned his attention to Sorcha.  Rory, too, was staring at her.

‘Is it still him?’ Rory asked.  ‘Is he still making your head ring?’

Sorcha shook her head, looking dazed.  Her skin began to turn a greyish colour.  She held her stomach and rushed a little distance away, where she began to throw up violently.

Rory rushed to her, Arthur following behind.  She had stopped throwing up by the time they reached her, but she sank to the ground, despite Rory’s attempts to hold her.  Her face was no longer grey.  She was reddening, looking hot.  Worry washed over Arthur, and he longed to be able to do something.  Anything.  But Rory was gathering her in his arms, and they seemed like one person, one soul.  Anything he could have done would have been interference.  She looked worse, he thought, than the night she was taken by Lord Tolbert.

‘Perhaps distance will help,’ Arthur said hopefully.  ‘When we are away from the village, you might feel better.’

‘Good idea,’ said Rory, gathering her even closer and helping her to walk back towards the woodland.  Arthur followed behind, watching them.  He clasped his hands in prayer.  He had never been a religious man.  But now he needed someone, anyone, to come to Sorcha’s aid.  He looked to the sky, hoping that Peggy would appear there as a bright orb, to help her sister as she had recently helped Arthur.  But all the way back through the forest, no bright orb appeared.

Sorcha

Rory was saying something , but I could not concentrate.

‘What do you think, Sorcha?  Will you feel better with some rest or –’  He gave up speaking, realising I had no idea what he was talking about.  I was trying.  I really was.  I was gazing at him, trying my hardest to focus on his features.  My stomach heaved violently and I covered my mouth, worried that I might vomit again.

‘Sorcha?’  Rory was probably looking right at me, but his face and his body were hazy.  A sort of pulsation seemed to surround him, and Arthur too.  As though their substance was coming apart.  Ahead of us, another hazy person was moving.  It was Malcolm.  Ah, so my nose was still working.  I knew Malcolm’s smell instantly, though for a moment I could not make out his face.

As he drew closer, he became clear in a horrible way.  His face was too full of colour, too large.  His eyes seemed enormous.  His hands appeared to be elongating as I watched.

‘To the castle, was it?’ he said with a toothy grimace.  ‘Well, I would ask if you saw him or not, but I am privy to so little these days.’

Rory glared at his lieutenant.  ‘It is hard to keep a man in the know when he is nowhere to be found.  Where were you this morning, Malcolm?’

Malcolm’s huge face twisted.  Was he puzzled?  He looked puzzled.  I giggled.  His face was funny when he was confused.

‘Where was I?’ he roared.  His teeth were so very long.  ‘Where was I when you three sneaked away before any of the pack was awake?  Where do you think I was?  In my bed.  Where else?  Next you will be telling me that you tried to wake me.’

‘We did,’ I said, my voice sounding dreamy.  ‘We went to wake you early this morning but you were not there.  We searched but could find neither hide nor hair.  Surprising, when you are such a big wolf.  Hah!  Malcolm, the big bad wolf.’

They were wavy, now, all three of them.  Malcolm was becoming littler and littler, thankfully.  As little as a fox.  But he still smelled like wolf.  They all did.  Were they wolves?  Were they going to turn, here and now?  I gazed down at my forearms.  ‘Why are they not more hairy?’ I wondered.  ‘I am sure that, by now, they should be hairier.’

Two of the wavy figures reached out to me.  I must have been falling, or fainting, or something, because when their arms went around me, I was almost on the ground – so close that I was able to snap at a blade of grass and chew it between my teeth.  ‘Mm,’ I said.  ‘It tastes delightful.  Dee.  Light.  Full.’

‘Get your hands off her!’ one of the wavy figures said, pushing another one away.  ‘Wait for me in your cabin, Malcolm.  Arthur, help me get her to bed.’

MY EYES FLUTTERED AWAKE to the sight of Rory.

‘Good morning, beautiful.’

The door was open, and I glanced outside.  He was right.  It was morning.

‘I slept through an entire day and night?’

Rory tried to smile.  ‘The first time I drank whiskey I spent the following three days in bed.  You are a mere amateur in the sleeping stakes, compared to me.’

‘I might laugh, Rory.  Had my prolonged sleep been caused by whiskey.’

A shadow crossed the door and a woman entered, approaching the pit.

‘Ah, you are awake,’ she said with an unusual accent.  ‘And how are you feeling?’

I sat up and, with Rory’s help, I climbed from the sleeping pit.  ‘Are you the healer?’ I asked.

‘Maria is our healer, yes,’ Rory supplied.  ‘You can trust her.’

I took her in: her black hair fell in soft waves across her shoulders; her brown eyes were deep and warm.  I had seen her on the night of my arrival in the wolves’ territory, but I had not spoken with her.  Rory had told me as much as he could about the people he lived with in the heart of the woods.  As I grew more alert I recalled the things he told me about this woman.  She was Venetian, I remembered.  And she was more than just a healer.  She was a witch.

‘Rory tells me that you have always been physically affected by Lord Tolbert,’ she said.  ‘But never to the extent that you have just experienced.  Is that correct?’

I glanced at Rory.  ‘I am not ... I am not sure what happened.  I recall everything seeming ... different.  It was nothing like when I am around Tolbert, no.  Usually my head hurts and my ears ring.  But yesterday I felt sick to my stomach, and everything was hazy.  Wavy.  Unreal.  Except ... except the smells.  They were even stronger than usual.’

‘And what had you eaten?’ asked Maria.  She was touching my cheeks and looking into my eyes.