War of Hearts (True Immortality 1)

She held out her hand to Conall. “Nice to meet you.”

He shook it, even more impressed to find her palm dry. She wasn’t nervous then. “Nice to meet you too.” He gestured to James. “My beta, James Cairn.”

“Sir! Can I help you?”

Conall spun around at the sound of Grace’s raised voice, just as Angus moved with the speed of a much younger wolf from out behind the bar. A tall man dressed in a well-fitted suit strode into the pub with Grace on his heels. He drew to a sharp halt as he came face to face with Conall.

The man was human.

A stranger.

Of course that wasn’t unusual.

What was, however, was the way he was looking at Conall like he knew him.

“Conall MacLennan?” the man asked, taking a step toward him.

Something about the man caused the hair on the back of Conall’s neck to rise. He looked beyond the man at Grace, sensing she’d felt something from the stranger too.

“He’s not alone, Conall,” Grace informed him. “There are three SUVs outside with armed men.”

This knowledge pissed Conall off. Humans daring to enter his land, armed and loaded. For what?

“Who is asking?” he demanded of the man.

“Conall MacLennan of Clan MacLennan?” He was American, like the Canids.

Conall shot a questioning look at Canid but he shook his head. He didn’t know the stranger. This human.

“What is your business here?”

Sincere, dark eyes stared into Conall’s. There was an air of gentle culture to the man, the kind a werewolf could never hope to replicate. “I am Jasper Ashforth. I’ve come all the way from New York to meet with you.”

“Is that so?” Conall crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, Mr. Jasper Ashforth, although it may not look this way to you, I’m in a business meeting. Perhaps you and I can talk later.”

Ashforth shook his head. A grim sadness marred the sincerity in his eyes. “We have little time to waste, Alpha MacLennan.”

Every wolf in the room tensed at the title.

History had taught werewolves that, in general, humans aware of their existence were a dangerous thing.

“You’ve got some balls to walk into pack territory and declare your knowledge of us, Mr. Ashforth,” Conall replied, his voice low with menace.

Ashforth didn’t even blink. In fact, he took a step closer to Conall. “I need your help, Chief MacLennan.”

“And why would I help a stranger? A human one at that?”

“Because your sister Caledonia is dying from a rare lycanthropic disease that no drug on earth can cure … and I can save her.”

James sucked in a breath beside Conall.

Conall’s blood began to turn molten hot, his claws itching to protract. Nothing tapped into his temper like the disease eating away at his sister. Or people who wanted to use it against him as a weakness.

The growl of his wolf entered his words. “I’d advise you to run, Mr. Ashforth.”

The man had the good sense to feel fear, the musky scent of it tickling the air. “I can prove it. Please.”

James clamped a hand on Conall’s left shoulder. He turned to look at his beta. James’s expression was bordering on pleading. “Conall.”

He looked to Peter and Sienna and said, “It appears something has come up. Can we reschedule for later this afternoon?”

“Of course.” Peter scowled at Ashforth before addressing Conall. “If you need my assistance, let me know.”

Conall nodded and the father and daughter departed the pub. Sienna threw him a curious look over her shoulder before she left, and Conall cursed the interruption. He wanted the betrothal agreement signed and done.

There were only three other wolves in the pub, sitting at a table across the room. They were three of Mhairi’s fishermen but also warrior ranked. They were alert, waiting on Conall’s orders.

“Some privacy, folks,” he said.

They nodded and left.

Grace and Angus were still in the room. Conall didn’t ask them to leave. They loved Callie like a granddaughter.

“Prove it,” he demanded of Ashforth.

A knife, hidden up his sleeve, appeared in the man’s hand, and James made to push in front of Conall. Although appreciative of the protection, he stubbornly refused to move. If the man tried to attack, Conall would kill him. End of story.

Then to Conall’s stupefaction, Ashforth opened his suit jacket, tugged his shirt out of his waistband, and lifted it to show a hard stomach—that he then plunged the knife into.

“What the fuck!” James barked, backing off at the bizarre act.

Ashforth fell to his knees as he removed the blade, thick blood slipping out of the wound. Pale and trembling, he dropped the knife and reached a shaking hand into his suit jacket. He grimaced at Conall as he pulled out a vial of what looked and smelled like blood. “This … this is the last … the last of the cure.” He threw back the blood, drinking it like a fucking vampire. Whereas a vampire wore a look of bliss upon drinking blood, Ashforth appeared nauseated.