It was a braw day for a drive into Edinburgh. The sky was bright as a wee bluebird’s head.
One of Scotland’s treasures, and Arran’s favorite to watch, he’d set up a dozen bird feeders throughout his garden just to glimpse the delightful creatures.
He'd inherited his family cottage in Roslin a few years back. Being responsible for its upkeep was a good distraction from the demands of his job and one of Arran’s great passions.
Scotland was a hard place for some, but to him, it was home. He loved the fierce blue skies and the dark green hills, the incessant rain, and the almost constant whistle of the wind through the eaves whenever he was back on his property. Colors seemed brighter there, for whatever reason.
If only Gerard hadn’t darkened his door that morning. No matter where his path took him, Scotland was always home. The Highland Herd was having a hard time of it, but they’d get through it. They always did.
Still, he dinnae ken why Gerard had to make it so damn uncomfortable for Arran to remain. The man was like a dog with a bone, never letting go once he had an idea. Breeding season laws had been mildly enforced during their lifetimes, but Gerard was pushing for more and more. He’d have to make a choice soon or have it out with his cousin.
But Arran was not a fighter by nature. He was an intellectual. He preferred books to brawn. Maybe he should just leave, then?
As a successful author, Arran owned various homes and condos around the world. He loved to travel when he was not holed up with his writing.
The first time Arran had left the green hills of his youth was to see the world during his gap year. Of course, he’d mostly wound up face down in his own sick on barroom floors all over Paris and Rome—some right manky alleys in those parts of the world.
He’d been young and sowing his oats. Of course, he more than made up for it with the staid life he led these days. Simply put, Arran was a geek.
What could he say? He loved reading and learning. Research was his favorite part of writing.
Right out of university, he’d tried his hand at teaching at a private European school where all the local supes sent their children in order to keep their secret from the humans.
But Arran had no time for bad manners and spoiled chits. Not all of them, but enough to make this Bull think twice about his career choices. He dinnae have the patience to teach basic skill sets, such as respect. There were others much better suited to the task.
Arran had quickly realized his mistake and handed in his notice almost immediately. He simply had no tolerance for youthful discourtesy. Arran preferred old, stodgy, quiet folk.
Then again, what he really preferred was no folk at all. That was a universal truth, far as his life went.
As a youth, he’d heard the girls' whispers as he’d walked by. Herds dinnae have much respect for nerds and geeks.
Sure, he made money writing fantastical stories—a fairytale in and of itself to hear many indie authors speak—but he’d gotten lucky.
The Fates had smiled down on his career. But he couldn’t say the same for his love life, eh? Arran’s books had been picked up by a world famous blogger and after that, he’d skyrocketed to instant fame.
For a shy Bull, it was nerve-wracking at first. But after he’d landed an agent, and found his current publisher, things got easier.
At this point in his career, Arran set his own schedule. He could spend his days researching and writing in his own time to his heart’s content.
He loved his life despite whatever Gerard and the others in the Herd said about him. It dinnae matter at all what they thought.
Arran was happy with dull. He was comfortable with orderly. He downright relished his solitude.
“Greetings, Mr. Balloch!” the animated, and decidedly human clerk at Wulver & Dracos called out as Arran entered the store.
He grumbled his reply, barely slowing his stride.
“Off to the occult section today? We’ve got a few—”
“Aye,” grumbled Arran.
The clerk knew he did not like chatty. For all the normal’s hemming and hawing, he had very little to say. Total fuckwit, truth be told. Still, Arran had to keep his distance, lest he give something of his preternatural nature away. Especially in his current mood.
Already aggravated by his cousin, Arran strode past the man with nary a wave. He had a purpose as he jogged up the wooden staircase behind a multitude of shelves, housing everything from modern day self-help manuals on how to cut cholesterol from your diet to ancient scrolls written in languages long since dead and tucked away in the very room Arran was headed for.
It was true, Arran was a fairly well known writer. His books sold in mainstream stores and all over the internet—heck, talks about a mini-series on his first popular trilogy were even gaining steam.
His writings were a combination of fantasy and thriller, supernatural suspense with hints of romance and plenty of action. Many were not aware, but much of his catalog was based on information he’d gathered from Keepers.
They were the most important part of any supernatural group far as Arran was concerned. They were the lucky ones who recorded their stories, and what could be more important than that?
He was damned grateful to be one of the very few to be granted access to secret annals and logs from various Clans, Herds, Packs, Covens, and the like.
Of course, humans thought they were fairy tales, but Arran, and all supernatural kind, for that matter, knew better. He really had the best job ever.
Now, to be fair, he gave nothing away of actual supernatural peoples nor their customs. Research was merely a way to clarify what he knew and what the human world knew. It also helped him steer as far from the truth as he could possibly get.
Every word he wrote was carefully scanned by a select group of beta readers, made up of the very same supernaturals whose annals he used to research.
Keepers, all of them. They truly were the most overlooked, and, in his opinion, the most important part of any supernatural culture. They could keep their Alphas and Omegas, the lot of them.
Keepers were the storytellers, the history takers, and the lesson givers. Without them, nothing would be known. Arran would have loved to be a Keeper, but he was born of the wrong male to get that position.
Shifter tradition meant Keepers came from one lineage for all time per group. It was an honor, or a curse, depending on the chosen. Arran was not a Keeper, but he was the next best thing—an author.
Doing what he loved was a tremendous gift, but he was not so vain as to think the gods had given him such talent, he had no work to do. Quite the contrary. Being a wordsmith meant Arran took research seriously.
It was all the more important now in this day of misinformation and the lightning fast rate at which it circled the globe. Writing was hard work, and like any craftsman, he had his own rituals before starting.
But this was not just a research trip for writing. Arran was trying to save his own arse from being used by the Herd. He dinnae want to leave, Shifters did not do well without a group. But he would go rogue before he bowed to Gerard’s shite ruling.
Eager to get on with it, Arran hurried down the hall. His pulse racing as he traversed the aisles to the secret, occult room only precious few had access to. Lucky for him, Arran was the only Shifter in the area who ever entered these halls. It was his domain. His secret place.
Sure, Wulver & Dracos was a bookseller, but some of the ancient tomes that had been passed down for generations were kept under lock and key in that’s tone building. There they were guarded.
Yes, some volumes were for sale, or trade. Mostly with other occultist bookshops, but no one ever seemed to look for the treasures he’d uncovered ages ago.
“It pays to be a nerd then, doesn’t it, Arran?” he whispered to himself as he traced a line across one of the dusty shelves with his finger.
Arran was a collector of precious books, as well as an author of modern fiction. He purchased what they would allow, but many were priceless. Whatever magic had been imbued in the deal made with either or both the Wulver and/or Dracos ancestors, those tomes could never leave the premises.
It was actually impossible.
They were available for observation only. Of course, that had drawbacks, too. It meant there was always a chance he'd run into people on his research expeditions—yuck.
Arran simply could not stomach people.
What about Wolves?
His inner Bull pushed the question into his brain before he could comprehend the animal’s reasons. What kind of thing was that for his beast to say, anyway?
Wolves? Och.
Arran was just rounding a corner when his Bull’s surprise question had him scratching his head and muttering to himself. He’d been walking so fast, he dinnae see the wee lass bent over at the waist before it was too late.
Holy. Shite.
His legs were still moving, but his brain had gone numb from the sway of her perfectly heart-shaped arse swaying to and fro at him in a long skirt so sheer it was positively sinful. She wore red panties beneath it if he wasn’t mistaken. And the fact Arran had his prescription glasses perched on his nose meant, no, he was not mistaken.
A certain part of him growled in jealousy at that tight crimson material caressing her nether bits. There were sayings about bulls and red flags for reasons, after all.
Lucky piece of silk.
He had neither the time, nor the sense, to pause his stride as she wiggled her bottom ever faster.
What in the world was she trying to—oof!
“Hey!”
“Och! Watch out!”