Wildfire Kiss (Sir Edward 1)

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

William Shakespeare, Hamlet

In the Highlands, Scotland, where many honored their clans and chose to follow the old ways

1575

QUINN MACVANE HAD a great deal of weight on his shoulders, but those shoulders were huge and certainly capable of carrying the burden. This weight, however, was unlike any other he had ever lifted, and he was tired of dealing with it constantly.

He was more than six months away from turning thirty and thinking himself safe because he was a sorcerer with supreme powers.

Thus, he decided to go ahead and make the walk to the local tavern for a bit of revelry in spite of the gossip.

He decided that if there were something rabid out there … it was time to put an end to it. Besides, he could enact his shield.

He went out and took his chances because his mother had driven him near to insane, demanding that he marry and carry on the line. He was not only the eldest but the only son, which she enjoyed reminding him. She wanted to keep Valdane in a direct line. If he didn’t have a son, the castle and the estate would go to his father’s brother. What she didn’t realize was he didn’t care. He loved his uncle.

So he stomped out of his medieval castle and walked in the light of the full moon. Why not? He needed to walk off his temper.

The villagers had been whispering about a werewolf loose in the foothills. They hadn’t been able to contain the problem, because if anyone knew who it was, they weren’t sharing the information.

The first thing that assailed him was the odor. Musky and wild…

The second was the sound of an animal, a growl, low and throttled in mindless rage.

The third was the sure knowledge that something sinister, something otherworldly, stalked him and that it was near, too near to escape by running.

Quinn MacVane did the only thing he could do. He enacted a spell that enswathed him with a shield. It should have been enough. It should have set a circle the werewolf couldn’t cross. Something went wrong.

Drooling saliva, standing on two, eyes wild with madness, a were clawed the earth in the rays of the moon’s bright light.

Quinn’s mouth dropped. He had never before seen a werewolf, and this one had seen him! Huge, nearly seven feet in height. This one was larger than the werewolves his clan had often spoken about in the tales of how they had been routed out and destroyed. Quinn studied the were, whose body was covered in what appeared to be more hair than fur. Saliva dripped from its fangs, and violence governed its purpose. It needed to tear and kill. There was nothing of the human in it.

His clan had whispered amongst themselves, afraid of the were’s bite, that the change from human into were was so painful it enacted a temporary insanity …

This thing looked to be unmistakably insane, and yet Quinn fancied he saw purpose in its gold-lit eyes.

Reason would not work, and as it slashed through the barrier Quinn had enacted he knew he had but one chance for survival: the silver-edged short sword he was never without. He prepared himself for the were’s lunge and caught the beast directly in the center of its beating heart …

But even as the were roared with excruciating pain, even as it started to fall, even as death began to take it, the were’s jaws locked down on Quinn’s shoulder and bit—bit hard, and Quinn’s fate was sealed.

He was able to punch and beat the creature off, and he watched as it fell to the ground, rolled over onto its back, and began the transformation back into man.

He saw at once it was Whelan MacPoole, clan leader of the neighboring estate. Husband to his mother’s sister. They had never been friends throughout their family’s history. He should have known. He should have suspected. There had been signs all along.

Quinn bent and took out his silver-tipped sword from the man’s heart and stood to look up at the stars as he closed his eyes.

He had been bitten …