A Kiss at Midnight

Chapter Seven

The light of day was losing its battle to the impending darkness on the horizon. Rustling trees would soon shed their neutral appearance and become ominous shadows to travellers and their leaves which shield those from sunlight may conceal other more dangerous beings once night fell. Ravendell horses were immune to the weapons of man but not to the claws of a beast or in the very rare case a single stream of vermillion and orange from the maw of a dragon.

As the horses' hooves thundered on the smooth dirt path, Mack kept a vigilant eye on his surroundings. A sigil of thorns on his wrist began to glow green, his powers ready to ensnare any highway men in vines if need be.

His gaze briefly flickered to the sky, tonight did not mark the arrival of a full moon when the silver tendrils tore away a werewolf's humanity, leaving behind a beast who could and would kill a man in cold blood. The reason why dynasties like the Van Helsings and the Dimitrescu bloodline were trained to hunt down those creatures who revelled in utter carnage on the night of a full moon.
No, that night would makes its arrival the day after Barrymore's ball and by then, Carrick would need to be a great amount of distance away from the enraged lord when he discovered what was stolen.

And Carrick would have it in his possession for the sake of his pack. The ones who taught him what it was to accept who he had truly become. While, yes innocent blood could be spilt on a full moon night, his pack preferred to feel the forest ground beneath their paws. Branches snapping underfoot as they yipped and barked. To watch as pups stumbled through patches of dry leaves. Occasionally one would lose its footing and fall onto the paw of an adult. Those tiny black button eyes staring up at him, the fluffy ball of carob brown having landed on his front paws. And for a moment Carrick felt...something.

They are my family.

He glanced down at Ilona who was asleep in his arms.

But she is my mate and though her heart may long for another, I will not let any harm come to her.

When he first stepped into the carriage earlier in the day, he had expected her to be curled up on the floor in wolf form. Instead, she was sitting to one side, hands on her lap. Ilona told him, she did not wish to ruin a dress or two by shifting as she only brought what was necessary for the trip.

"And this particular dress is a favourite of mine," she added, smoothing down her skirts of lavender with a hand.

"It is lovely," he murmured, moving to take his seat.

"Does your offer still stand?"

Her words stalling him in his tracks.

"Of course," he replied. Though it pained him that she would not look at him the way she had for that glimmer of time before he refused her request. His path retreating back to her.
Carrick felt her tense beneath his touch on her shoulder but after a moment, she rested her cheek on his chest.

"I won't let you fall, Ilona."

Now as she slept, Carrick noticed the subtle details he failed to during their previous encounter. Her long lashes of midnight which fanned her closed lids. A faint white scar cutting across one corner of her forehead. The cause of which most likely silver; the deadly weakness of werewolves. The soft rise and fall of her chest. The way her fingers twitched in sleep as if she was reaching for something unseen by him. A smile of affection lit up his face as he reached for her hand. His fingertips grazed her palm just as the carriage slowed to a halt outside the inn of stone and wooden beams.

His fingers closed over hers and he gave them a gentle squeeze.

"Ilona," he said softly. She stirred. "We have arrived at the inn."

A veil of darkness had fallen over the lands. The rooms of those not yet in deep slumber were bathed in the soft yellow glow of oil lanterns. Carrick was in his room, pacing back and forth. Sleep far from his mind. His steps faltered and he let out a sigh. Without a further thought to his actions, he strode towards the door. A few short steps later, he found himself outside Ilona's door. He knocked. No sooner had he done so, his hand fell to his side. Doubt beginning to swarm.

Perhaps I should have waited until the morning.

A slight frown marred Ilona's face as she studied the illustration in her book. A waterfall of brown swept down the warrior's broad shoulders, his armour of leather. A sea of spear and swords threatening to drown him. His jaw clenched in fury and above him the shadowy outline of a ferocious hound.

The image concurring up an old memory of hers.

"Cu Chulainn, Ireland's greatest warrior who in the heat of battle became a terrifying beast. It is said during the aftermath of one such battle, his paws soaked in blood that he collapsed at the feet of a woman whose pale curls rivalled the beauty of the moon. Her voice a melody and the pity upon her face broke the beast's hold upon him.

Though not without consequences for at the next full moon, a son was born. The first of what would be known as wolfwalkers. Us, Ilona," Zane said as a six year old Ilona peered over his shoulder at the book as they both sat on her bed. A tartan blanket draped across her shoulders, a faint scent of lavender still clung to the fabric.

Her small face wrinkling in confusion. "But, Papa you do not look like him."

Zane clutched a hand to his chest. "You wound me, little wolf."

"It is true," she countered. Her finger stabbed at the next illustration; the silver haired woman was holding a babe to her heart, a serene smile upon her face. "Did Grandma look like her?"

"My memories of her are faint, she died when I was just a boy." Sadness sinking his voice. "Not a lot older than you but what I do remember is her voice. She has this soft, harmonious voice that each night her lullabies never failed to lure me to sleep with the promises to meet forests of old and mythical beasts in my dreams. I sometimes wonder if the pack would gather just to hear her sing."

"And your Papa?" Her voice grew quiet.

"I don't remember him at all. Nor know of his fate. I was on my own for a long time, Ilona. Until I met Leo and later, your mother." His expression one of affection as he mentioned Annalise. The bronze band her mother gave him proudly adorning his left hand.

Zane was nearly knocked over as the small tartan bundle lunged at him, throwing her arms around his neck. He caught himself and then her in his arms.

"If your pack is gone then Mother and I are your pack."

A smile lit up her father's face as he hugged her. "You are not just my pack, little wolf. You and your mother are my world too and I will do anything to protect you. As will you one day."