Guardian

Prologue

Shimmering fairy lights danced on the edges of Thomas's vision as he slammed the heavy front door to his family's home. Each step challenged him. The world tilted, and the need to roam wild was acute.

His mom banged a pan in the kitchen and he jumped out of his skin. "Och, damn it! Why? Just stop already!"

"Thomas McCreary, is that you?" His mum shouted from the kitchen.

"Humph." He tramped toward the stairs, only pausing to remove his coat and boots to place them carefully in their proper places. The sooner he made it to his haven the better. He needed to calm down, or else a cat he would be. And then, his mum would have his wee neck. He shuddered at the thought of what she would say if he couldn't keep it together.

Speak of the devil. His mom stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen, bandana in hair, comfortable pants and t-shirt worn effortlessly. "Who got yer panties in a twist?"

Thomas tried to rein in the temper that was about to spill over.

"Yer hair is a shade darker red than it should be."

As if he didn't already know. "Aye. I know." He fought the urge to march right back out the front door and aim for the nearest field. 

"Ye might also want to check yer eyes –"

" – Aye, Mom. I know." Thomas was quickly losing patience.

His mom tapped a foot impatiently, "Now, don't ye take that tone with me, lad. I put ye on this good earth, and I'll take no nonsense."

Thomas snorted in reply and headed toward the stairs.

"Ye'd best not get too wrapped up in nonsense. Dinner's soon!"

"Aye." Thomas acknowledged her words and then promptly dismissed them. His mind was still stuck on his friends' words from band practice.

Could his four best mates be any more irritating? He didn't think so. They downright drove him mental.

Band practice was meant to be a good time, a laugh, and a beer. They'd made a vow upon exiting Secondary School that they'd find a way to stay in touch. Their solution? They all loved music, so they founded Highland Rogues seven years ago. It was meant to be enjoyable, not vexing, but well, friends would be friends after all.

The door to his room stood out like a beacon with its "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging on the door, a tribute to his late rebellious youth.

As soon as he entered his sanctuary, he hefted the heavy window open to the balmy evening air with a resounding thump and grabbed his guitar on the way to his bed.

He hated enclosed spaces with a fiery passion. Therefore, the window in his bedroom remained open most of the time, except when his mum swept through and shut it. It didn't matter if there was a damp chill in the air, or if it was a warm balmy day. Anything was better than feeling so hemmed in that he couldn't breathe.

He settled onto the homey family quilt made up of scraps of cloth from his childhood for a good brood. Why, in god's name, did his friends have to go and mention his roving habits again? Every time they reminded him of his mid-childhood years, he wanted to shed all his worldly possessions and take another trip into the wild. The mere thought of it made his skin feel tighter than it should and left an itch right under the surface. They got a kick out of riling him up, and he knew it but could do nothing to ease the compulsion.

A slight breeze stirred the curtains. Finally, his insides started righting themselves. A squirrel nibbled on a nut in the tree and crickets told the world that it was officially time to head for bed. He caught subtle notes of the pending late autumn chill hidden underneath the scents of cow, horse, and decomposing earth. Everything would be alright.