Christmas Wolf Read online

  CHRISTMAS WOLF

  Shifters of Dundaire 2

  By: Angelique Armae

  Publisher: Summerborne Books, LLC

  Copyright © 2017 Josephine Piraneo

  ISBN: 978-1-942346-06-7

  Cover by Glass Slipper WebDesign

  Formatting by Glass Slipper WebDesign

  Cover photo from Adobe Stock

  Shifters of Dundaire Series

  Novella 1: DARK WOLF

  Novella 2: CHRISTMAS WOLF

  Novella 3: VIKING WOLF

  Novella 4: HIGHLAND WOLF

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at mailto:[email protected].

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. All Rights Reserved. http://www.angeliquearmae.com

  Dedication

  To Matt – thanks for the encouragement.

  Chapter One

  Dundaire, Scotland

  Rhys MacGregor peered down from the upper hall of Wolfsden Keep and marveled at the eighteen-foot tall Christmas tree he had just finished decorating. Not that the task had been difficult, as head butler at Wolfsden he’d been setting up the tree for at least one-hundred years now, but never once had he lost a single ornament. And considering how all of Scotland’s oldest shapeshifting clan—including a good number of the Highlands’ most uncivilized wolves—descended on the castle every Christmas Eve, that wee fact was a true miracle.

  He leaned forward and unwound the string dangling the centuries-old porcelain angel over the tree’s top. Another minute and his yearly masterpiece would be complete. Lowering the gold-winged topper, he steadied his arm.

  Easy.

  The angel’s sandal-clad feet bobbed slightly above the tree.

  Just one more inch…

  A coarse howl echoed through the castle.

  Rhys cringed.

  The topper’s string slid through his fingers, forced the angel to snag on a branch as its halo-crested body toppled head first onto the shoulder of a kilted Highlander ornament.

  Damn it, Vidar.

  His alpha’s late wife’s sister-in-law’s brother had to have the most savage howl he’d ever heard. Bane inviting the Viking to family gatherings, he understood. But having that Norse nuance at the pack’s annual formal gathering was like tossing a lit match into a pile of oil-soaked rags. A verra bad move.

  He rewound the angel’s string and recalculated his next move.

  A second howl, louder than the first, shook the castle’s walls.

  His left foot teetered on the ladder’s edge as he gripped the tree topper by its wings, his knuckles going white.

  That savage was going to pay if his no-ornaments-lost record broke today.

  Rhys steadied himself and held his breath.

  The world went still.

  Thanks be to the moon.

  The castle rumbled, a low noise that sounded closer to an annoyed grunt.

  “I hear you, Wolfsden. I am not all that thrilled with Vidar coming for Christmas, either.”

  The castle fell silent.

  Rhys’s focus returned to the top of the tree. If he extended his arm, just so, the angel would drop into place perfectly.

  Inching forward, he gently unwound the string.

  The front door slammed open, rocked the keep’s stone foundation.

  String slid between his fingers.

  The ladder wobbled.

  Oh, fucking no.

  Rhys grabbed for his life, but he fell backwards just the same.

  The curved bannister with its mahogany twisted spindles blurred past his eyes, gold garland smacking his forehead as his skull cracked against every last marble step.

  A wedge of broken ladder pierced his side.

  Pain shot through him as if he’d been cut in two.

  The damn agony assaulted him all the way down to the entrance hall floor where a crash exploded at the side of his head.

  Porcelain shards dispersed in every direction.

  Bloody bastard.

  A khaki duffle bag landed a mere inch from his face. The scent of crisp linen filled his nose, forced him to thank the gods that at least he wudna have to put up with a smelly Viking.

  He untangled his boot’s lace from under the ladder, held his breath, and pulled out the wood wedge poking his right side. Thank the gods his body healed quick. By tomorrow he’d be back to his normal self.

  Sitting up, he huffed. Being immortal may have spared his life from the fall, but it cudna save him from spending Christmas with the Norse brute.

  Rising, he glared at Vidar. “You broke my angel.”

  “Maybe that was for the best.”

  “Hold your tongue, man. The angel is a Wolfsden tradition.”

  “Thor’s Hammer would be better. The tree should bear a sign of strength.” Vidar pumped his fists.

  “The only way one of your fangled heathen icons is topping my tree, is over my dead body.” He brushed bits of dust off his kilt and from his black Christmas sweater.

  Vidar studied the evergreen, his blue eyes squinting. “How many ornaments did you put up?”

  “Over eight hundred.”

  “You decorated this gorgeous, mighty pine, with eight-hundred skirt wearers?”

  “Yes.” He paused, a grunt escaping his lips. “I mean no. For the millionth time, man, it’s called a kilt. A fucking, bloody kilt. K.I.L.T. How hard is that head of yours that it canna comprehend one simple word?” Only a thick-headed Viking could make him swear against his precious kilt.

  Vidar slapped him on the shoulder, then came in for a full hug.

  Double bloody bastard. He pulled away. “What sort of wolf are you?”

  “A friendly one.”

  “I liked you better when you were that angry son-of-a-bitch who refused to talk to me. At least then you kept your distance.”

  “Those days are gone, my friend. I now have the MacHendries.”

  Blast them all. A cheerful warmongering Viking was not whom he cared to have around for Christmas. “Well, I’m a MacGregor. And you dinna have me.”

  “I think you are like Screwed.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “The correct name is Scrooge.”

  “Then you are like Scrooge. Is that better?”

  “Yes.” The man did it again. “I mean no.”

  Vidar raised one blond eyebrow. “I think you have played with too much tinsel today, my friend.”

  “First, I am not your friend. Second, yes. Scrooge is correct. But no I am not like bloody Scrooge.”

  “You certainly sound like him,” Bane, his adopted father and alpha, said, entering the hall with his son and head beta, Callen at his side. Robbie, an old malamute wolfdog bounded behind them. The dog ran straight for Rhys.

  He bent and rubbed the canine’s neck. “Good buddy.”

  “You are friends with a dog, but cannot be friends with me?”

  “Robbie is more human than you.”

  The Viking shook his head, then approached Bane and Callen, giving both a big bear hug.

  Sentimental fool.

  “Careful with the thoughts, Rhys,” Bane commented. “Or you might find yourself sleeping with the dogs tonight.”

  “What is it with you MacHend
ries and those damn kennels?”

  Callen smirked. “You know Dad is only teasing. He’d never toss you out three days before Christmas. The day after, maybe. But not before.”

  Vidar laughed.

  Bane chuckled.

  “Verra funny. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to go find another tree topper thanks to Leif Erikson here.” He hitched his thumb in Vidar’s direction.

  “You’ll have to go to the cabin for a replacement,” Callen said.

  “But that’s all the way up Mount Dundaire.”

  “Sorry. I needed room in the old storage container for Miranda’s Christmas gifts. She insisted on buying something for each member of the pack this year. But the cabin should be warm as I made sure the furnace was full and the stove kicks in on its own.”

  He didna like all these changes to his pack, all his adopted brothers taking up wives. Nothing was the same any more. “Then I guess I’ll be spending the night at the cabin as the forecast has been calling for blizzard conditions up there.”

  “Just drive into town,” Bane said, waving his hand as if going up the mountain was an unnecessary bother. “Buy a new topper.”

  Had his father gone mad? “You dinna decorate a beauty of a tree like this one, with a cheap plastic star or one of those angels that have cardboard for skirts. She deserves an old decoration, one worthy of her sacrifice of having been cut down.”

  Vidar clamped him on the shoulder. “Now you sound like the sentimental fool. Ya?”

  He tugged free of the Viking’s hold and frowned. “I’ll be back in the morning and I’m taking old Robbie with me.”

  He clapped his hands and the malamute wolf dog was at his heels and then out the front door.

  Chapter Two

  Mount Dundaire, Somewhere along the snow-covered banks of the River Wolfsden…

  Greer O’Keene lingered in the tree, her gaze watching the Range Rover coming up the main road. A squall of snow swirled around the vehicle, but didn’t seem to halter Rhys MacGregor and his excellent control of the unpaved path leading to Bane of Wolfsden’s sprawling cabin.

  Relief flooded her soul.

  “I want first crack at him,” Eithne said.

  Her eldest sister’s comment came as no surprise, though for once she wished the woman would feel at least a little sympathy for the soul they were about to take.

  The scratch of cat claws skimming the tree nipped at her ears.

  Frangag. It was bad enough Eithne had showed up today, but now her middle sister too?

  Fran perched on a nearby branch and pulled the hood of her green gossamer cape closer to her time-worn face. “You can’t have this one, Eithne. You took the last one.”

  “I can take any soul I wish.”

  “Cannot.”

  “Can to.”

  “Enough!” She hated how those two bickered. For twin banshees, they were a sorry duo. “No one is getting anyone, today.” She inched toward the edge of the tree. “Rhys MacGregor isn’t slated to die yet.”

  Eithne sighed. “But he’s going to on Christmas Eve and I don’t see a reason for prolonging the inevitable.”

  “You took an innocent woman’s life,” Greer said. “I will not have you take her son’s, too.”

  “But it’s what we do,” Frangag said, leaping into the opposite tree. “We need to redeem our souls.”

  “Not today.” She slid back along the branch and glared at her older, wrinkled sisters perched in the leafless, neighboring oak. “You both forced Rhys’s blood father to destroy everything he held dear because you took his wife before her time. You interfered with fate. I won’t do that.”

  Eithne hissed, then leaned forward. “Only because you haven’t taken a life yet. But once you do, you’ll look like us and then you’ll crave other souls to restore your youth, and the timing of their taking won’t matter to you.”

  She couldn’t imagine ending a person’s life. Let alone taking it early. “Rhys’s fate can always change between now and Christmas Eve. Until then, I wait.”

  “Don’t wait too long or I might steal him from you.” Frangag ran one crooked finger along the tree, splintering its bark. “His blood father’s death was quick and painless, and very unsatisfying to me. The younger MacGregor is strong. He will take longer to expire.”

  As if she’d ever allow her sisters to harm the man. “Go back to cleaning the stain of blood off your hands, Fran. And take Eithne with you.”

  Her sister snarled, but backed down.

  Below, Rhys pulled up to the cabin, cut the engine, and then exited the vehicle. He looked up, appeared to be studying the tree, maybe even her, if he had the Fae sight, which she couldn’t yet prove. But something about him was definitely different from the other shifters she’d observed over the last three hundred years. If only she knew what.

  Rhys’s gaze lingered in her direction.

  Greer’s breath caught. The man’s gray eyes were mesmerizing, even a bit spellbinding if she dared admit it. Which she did, but wasn’t so sure she was comfortable with that notion. Attraction to a shifter, for a banshee, could prove dangerous. And she had enough chaos on her hands with Eithne and Fran. If they even suspected she found the slightest thing attractive about Rhys MacGregor, they’d have the man dead in a heartbeat.

  Eithne jumped into Greer’s tree and came up behind her, the putrid scent of dead lilacs filling the air. “Take him, little sis. Satisfy your craving.”

  She would do no such thing. “Go away, Eithne.”

  Frangag leaned over from the other tree, her straggly hair falling free from her cape’s hood. “Wolves taste like honey. Their souls, the finest of all shifters.” She licked her cracked lips.

  “Get back, Fran.” She stepped to the edge of the branch.

  Eithne inched closer.

  “I’m warning the two of you. I’m in no mood for your antics today.”

  They closed in, their stench of rot infusing her space.

  “Don’t do this.”

  They leapt forward and pushed.

  Greer gasped, her body shifting into feline form as she fell from the tree. She twisted around, landed on all fours, and then looked up. “Bitches. Both of you. Thank the gods I’m good at keeping myself invisible to other species while shifting, or the two of you would have just now revealed our presence to the wolf.”

  Eithne perched on one of the finer limbs of the branch, her beady red eyes glaring down. “And you say we’re cunning? You’re hiding as a cat and you’ve resorted to telepathy. Afraid the wolf will hear us?”

  “I thought wolf shifters can read minds?” Fran asked.

  For experienced banshees, her sisters were a bit dense. “They can, but not that of a banshee unless they are mates.”

  “Maybe he should see us.” Eithne shifted to cat form and jumped from the tree. “Then he’ll know he’s slated to die soon.”

  “Unveil yourself and I go straight to the gods. My blood mother will punish you.” She raised her paw, claws out.

  Eithne blinked, moved her head to the side. “You don’t scare me, little sis. The Morrigan doesn’t have secret daughters. You’re nothing but a stray who believes in tall tales. But I’ll give you this one advantage, only because MacGregor is your first. You have until midnight, Christmas Eve. If you don’t take the man by then, I will.”

  The old hag was beyond a bitch. She may not have ever met her blood mother, and there was no official account of her birth, but she knew in the deepest depths of her heart, she was one of the goddess Morrigan’s secret daughters. Eithne’s own mother once told her so.

  Frangag scooted forward on the branch above. “If you don’t take the wolf by Christmas Eve, we’ll both have a go at MacGregor.”

  She wasn’t going to let that happened, especially not since Rhys had the ability to change his fate. Eithne and Frangag taking MacGregor’s life wasn’t a choice for her.

  She was going to help the man, even if it cost her the sanctity of her own soul.

  It was the r
ight thing to do.

  And his magnificent gray eyes didn’t factor one bit into that decision. Nor did the fact he looked damn hot in that kilt he liked wearing.

  Neither factored in one bit.

  Not one bit at all.

  Chapter Three

  Rhys tilted his head and watched the falling snow slide from the tall oak near the end of the driveway. Something in that tree was not right, but he cudna tell exactly what was off. Maybe it was just his soul itching to be wolf. When the animal in him stirred, the whole world seemed different.

  He turned away and grabbed the overnight bag from inside the vehicle as Robbie scooted out. The old malamute ran up to the cabin porch and sat in front of the door, his brown eyes watching Rhys’s every move. Of all the rescued dogs now living in the MacHendrie kennels, Robbie was his favorite. And that surprised him as he never cared much for pets before Bane took in the then injured dog a month ago, but he and Robbie seemed to be in tune to one another.

  A whine reached his ears.

  “Hold your horses, buddy. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He double checked the pocket of his leather jacket for his car keys, then slammed the Range Rover’s door and headed up toward the cabin. Thoughts of the smashed angel circled his mind.

  He knew he shouldn’t let Vidar get to him, but that darn Viking had him so riled up over the tree topper, it was going to take at least one good run around the property to work off his anger. Going into town to buy a replacement as Bane had suggested wudna have done anything for his agitation.

  Thor’s Hammer on the top of my tree. Who ever heard of such a ridiculous thing? The man’s mere suggestion was an insult to his Scottish heritage, never mind the whole skirt wearer comment about the eight-hundred Highlander ornaments. Why cudna Vidar just call it a kilt? It was not that difficult a word to remember.

  A howl rose in his throat.

  Heel boy. I’ll bring you out in due time.

  His wolf grunted.

  Robbie barked.

  “Dinna worry, buddy. You can come along for the run, too.”