Walking down the town square, Talam heard Sky humming a song behind him. The tune was kinda cool, almost like the wind in the alder trees by the stream.
Sky was always humming or singing. Talam glanced back, meeting his brother’s blue eyes that were just the color of the sky like Mama always said.
Talam wrinkled his nose. His name meant earth in old Irish—because his eyes and hair were brownish. Talk about boring…but he kinda liked his name anyway.
As they passed the café, he caught the smell of bacon, and his belly twisted up something awful. When his stomach gurgled, his littermate laughed.
“Shut up,” Talam growled, and the sound was almost like the one coming from his empty stomach.
At Sky’s flinch, Talam hunched his shoulders. He was a shitty weasel to lash out.
Especially since his brother looked awful. His skin was always whiter than Talam’s. Only today, he was almost the color of snow. An’ maybe Sky was a finger or two taller than other twelve-year-olds—and Talam—but he was so skinny no one was scared of him. “Sorry, brawd. I got the grumpies.”
Sky bumped Talam’s shoulder in forgiveness. “It’s cuz you’re hungry. Me too.”
“We need to find food.” Talam put his hand over his stomach. “And if the Cosantir isn’t gonna use us anymore, we have to start stealing our own money and food.” None of the kids working for Mr. Wendell had seen him in the last week. Mateo said the Cosantir was holed up in his big house. And maybe he wasn’t even the Cosantir anymore. Like that’d ever happen.
“We can’t steal anything here. Mr. Wendell would get madder than…than the beaver when we messed up its dam.”
Yeah, the stupid beaver had tried to bite them with those huge teeth. “We don’t have a choice, Sky.”
Yesterday, they’d tried to catch food in the forest. Major fail. It sure wasn’t like they had guns like human hunters.
Maybe sometime this year, he and Sky would have First Shift and be able to snag mice and rabbits. Talam heaved a big sigh. Spit, with their luck, by the time they figured out how to be whatever animals they turned into, all the food prey would be hibernating for winter.
Didn’t matter. They’d manage. They always did.
But…why’d Mama have to die? Anger made him want to bite something. Bite her.
And then he felt lower than the gnome peeking out of a storm drain.
It made a face at him, and he couldn’t keep from grinning back. Ailill Ridge didn’t have a lot of OtherFolk, but it had more than the human town of Cle Elum where Mr. Wendell had taken them sometimes.
The other kids said Cle Elum was where they’d be bused to middle school. If they were in school. Since Mama was gone, nobody knew to sign them up or anything.
And they hadn’t wanted to be. Because…what if they shifted in a human town? Kids had trouble controlling their trawsfurring for a while.
Talam shivered. Just thinking about First Shift was scary. He’d heard the whispers; kids sometimes died.
Farther down the square, an old woman came out of Espresso Books. She had whitish hair, some wrinkles even. Mr. Wendell said old people were the best targets being how they were slow and didn’t give chase. They usually carried more cash than the younger ones too.
Cash was what he and Sky needed.
“Brawd, look,” he whispered.
Sky turned. “Okay. Let’s.”
Talam rubbed his palms on his jeans as he thought. Usually, he’d get the prey’s attention, and his brother did the pickpocketing. Sky had fast hands.
But not today. “This time, you do the bump; I’ll do the dip.”
“I can—” Sky stopped and held out his hands. He was shaking. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”
“Not your fault.” It wasn’t Mama’s fault either. Not for dying. Not even for moving them here cuz she liked people and wanted to live in a bigger town.
She couldn’t have known a hellhound would attack their neighborhood. And she’d… He swallowed at the ugly memory. Of the screams of the renters in the other side of the duplex. Mama had shoved him and Sky into the tiny root cellar. But it was too small for her. After smashing a bottle of pickles to make the wooden cover stink of vinegar, she’d run. And the hellhound had caught her.
Maybe she hadn’t been a perfect mom, always falling in and out of love with stupid males, but they’d had food and a place to sleep and clothes. And love.
She’d saved them. And she’d died.
When his eyes burned with tears, he rubbed his arm over his face. He wouldn’t start crying like some baby cub.
He and Sky had to take care of themselves. Since he was the older brother—by at least ten minutes—he’d make sure they had food today.
Stopping outside of Espresso Books, Heather smiled at Ina, who’d talked her into a coffee break before heading to the Gathering House’s workday.
One coffee and a chocolate donut later, she was ready to paint some rooms.
She pulled in a breath, enjoying the fresh air. Around the square, the small maples were turning gold and red to herald the arrival of autumn. Only a few people were strolling around. Tourist season was almost over.
She glanced across the way to the dark windows of the realty office. “Have you seen Pete since he lost his title?”
“No. As far as anyone knows, he hasn’t emerged from his house.”
Pete and his brother, the pack alpha, lived near downtown in a massive house. Oftentimes, the current alpha female also lived there.
The alpha females in Rainier Territory never lasted long.
According to gossip, Roger and Pete weren’t getting along, not since the shifters realized Pete’s public posts about the June festival had brought the Scythe mercenaries down on them. Some of the wolf pack had died, and Roger blamed his brother. A lot of shifters did.
Pete really was an arrogant boggart-brain. Boggarts were the stupid—and vicious—cousins to house brownies…and Pete could be just as malicious as they were.
“I’m faster than you are.” The shouting of young voices came from near the café.
“No, I’m faster.” Two teenaged boys chased each other down the square. One barreled right into Ina, knocking her back a step. The shorter, bigger-boned boy grabbed her arms to steady her.
“Oh sorry, lady. Sorry!” The blond looked up at Ina with penitent blue eyes.
Ina smiled. “I’m fine, lads. Don’t you worry…”
As Ina talked, the shorter, freckle-faced boy slid his hand into Ina’s purse.
“Hey!” Heather made a grab for him and missed.
Wallet in hand, the boy sprinted toward the park, followed by the blond.
Niall was just leaving the park.
“Niall, stop those boys!” Heather yelled.
Moving faster than she’d have thought possible, Niall grabbed one boy by the back of his shirt and the other by his arm.
“Let go!” The short one tried to punch at him—and hit nothing.
Ignoring the struggling boys as if they were baby mice, the cahir strolled toward Heather. “You need them for a reason?” he asked, his deep voice easy.
“They’re pickpockets.” Heather grabbed the wallet from the brown-haired boy’s hand and returned it to Ina. “The blond deliberately ran into Ina so the other could raid her purse.”
“I’m afraid that’s true, cahir.” Ina shook her head.
Seeing the lads turn pale, Heather bit her lip, starting to regret involving the cahir. The boys had dirty faces and hair. Their clothing was equally dirty, as if no one had bathed them recently.
Where was their mama?
Heather put a hand over her belly. If her cubs had lived, they’d never be on the street stealing. Why were these two?
If they were hungry, she needed to make sure they had some food. “Can you tell me where your mother is?”
Not releasing his hold, Niall studied the two scruffy boys. The thought of children stealing...
By the Gods, they couldn’t be older than twelve or thirteen. All bony arms and hollowed faces. Dirty hair past their shoulders. The slimmer one looked like an English-Irish mix with light-skin, blue eyes, and blond hair. The other was a sturdier lad. He had brown hair with a reddish hue, brown eyes, and freckles.
Shouldn’t they be in school? Or maybe the fall session hadn’t started yet in the States.
He frowned at them. “Answer Heather, please. Where is your mother or father?”
The boys hadn’t washed recently, and the pungent teen sweat almost made him choke. He couldn’t tell if they were Daonain. If they hadn’t yet had First Shift, they wouldn’t carry the scent of the wild.
“None of your business.” The sturdy one nailed Niall’s leg with a hard kick.
“Hey!” Still gripping the back of his shirt, Niall lifted the kid and gave him a shake.
“Leave Talam alone!” The other one went berserk, hitting and screaming.
Screaming. High and shrill. The panicked sounds from his nightmares were a knife through his soul. Had Trevor and Sydney screamed like this in terror and pain…before they died?
“Niall. Cahir.” The bite in Heather’s voice pulled him from the black abyss.
He realized he was holding both boys up in the air. “Fuck.”
You fucking brute. He set them down carefully.
They’d been scared into silence but not hurt, thank the Mother of All.
“What the hell is going on here?” A male’s booming voice came from far too close.
Turning, Niall saw a human had come from behind him while he was in a brain fog. Appalled, he relaxed his grip.
Yanking free, the boys fled.
Gnome-nuts.
“I asked what is going on.” Chest puffed out like an aggressive turkey, the man moved into Niall’s space.
Oh, right. This was the arsehole cop who’d wanted to arrest him for breaking into the realty office.
Hissing under his breath, Niall moved back. Knocking a law enforcement officer through a wall would annoy André.
Ina cleared her throat. “Niall Crichton, this is Ailill Ridge’s Chief of Police—Chief Farley. Chief, Niall kept those two boys from stealing my wallet.”
“Stealing?” Farley had a burly build like Madoc’s. His weapon’s belt held an American cop’s usual mix of firearms and handcuffs. “I’m sure you must be mistaken.”
Heather’s irritated snort showed her opinion of the cop’s statement, and her irritation diffused Niall’s initial desire to punch the idiot.
Her voice was very even. “Chief Farley, I saw the boy pull Ina’s wallet from her purse—and then he and his buddy ran.”
“Oh, hey, I’m sure it’s just kids being kids.” The Chief flipped his hand in dismissal.
Kids.
Trevor and Sydney hadn’t been much more than kids. Niall swallowed. His mouth tasted like metal, and the air felt too cold. “Hardly.” He pulled in a breath from a chest that didn’t want to let air in. “They were stealing and—”
“Listen, you.” The cop poked his shoulder with a hard finger. “I run a quiet town here. We don’t have problems and don’t need outsiders causing any.”
Don’t hit the human, cahir. Gods, the way he felt right now, he’d likely break the cop’s neck.
I need to get out of here. Into the forest. Into fur.
He unclenched his jaw. “Well, then, I’ll be on my way.” Turning, he walked away.
“But…” At Heather’s protest, he almost stopped. No. Staying wouldn’t be smart.
He walked faster. Heading for the south of town.
For the forest.
As André strolled down the sidewalk toward the Gathering House, worry chewed at his gut like a hungry shrew.
Niall had planned to meet him at the Shamrock building. He hadn’t shown—and wasn’t answering his phone.
André sighed. The cahir wasn’t back to normal, at least not mentally. Not surprising after the murders of his trainees and then dealing with their killers. From the pictures of the warehouse, it had been a slaughter.
How much did those deaths weigh on his brother?
Where are you, brawd?
André blinked, because he had a way to know, didn’t he?
Stepping under a shade tree, he let everything go, opening himself to the God so his internal sight would reveal the location of shifters in his territory.
Two near him. The house he was heading for was lit up like a wildfire with the numbers of Daonain there, and he wasn’t experienced enough to separate them out. He sent his gaze farther out, and…there. Niall’s slightly blue light was moving fast somewhere in the mountains to the south.
He’d gone to seek the solace of the wilderness.
Be safe, my brother.
After a moment, André released the sight and refocused on the present.
Time to concentrate on the clan and getting them to pull together. With any luck, this would be a positive, joyful day for everyone.
A few minutes later, he went through the gate and had to stop and stare. It appeared a lot of people had started early.
The Gathering House was a two-story clapboard with ornate Victorian trim and a wide wrap-around covered porch. The building would have been beautiful if maintained properly.
It would be beautiful again. Much had been accomplished in the past few days.
As he strolled up the lawn toward the house, he saw the Moreno crew was working on replacing a broken window. Madoc and a couple of females were sanding the porch floorboards. The front door was open, and there were shifters on ladders, painting the interior.
Under a female’s watchful eyes, several elementary-school-aged younglings were kicking a soccer ball around. Badly. Seeing their frustrated expressions, he paused to coach them on using the inside of their feet to pass the ball. They picked up the technique quickly.
Smart cubs. Good cubs.
As he continued up the lawn, one of the females on the porch started singing. After a few beats, Madoc’s booming bass accompanied her, and they were soon joined by others, inside and outside.
André smiled. This was what he’d hoped for.
“You!” A male’s angry voice carried above the song. “You stole my powers. Ripped them right out of me.”
As the singing came to a stuttering halt, Pete Wendell stomped across the lawn. Since last week, his face had thinned, and the lines around his mouth were deeper. “You stinking piss-ant; you’ll pay for what you did.”
“Yeah.” Brett, the black-haired, stocky male who’d tormented the pixie, was right behind him. “You’re a fucking thief.”
André sighed. “No, I’m not.” He’d figured this confrontation was inevitable, but the timing was unfortunate.
“You stole Pete’s powers,” Brett shouted, spittle flying.
Seriously? Did the male lack the wits the Mother had gifted him? “A Cosantir’s powers come directly from Herne. There can be no theft.”
“Oh, like we’d believe a foreigner. Pete wouldn’t hand off his power.” Brett’s mouth twisted into a sneer.
“Never,” Pete asserted.
“I don’t know how you did it,” a beefy male shouted, “but you give them back.”
If only I could.
But no, even if he could, he wouldn’t. The more he learned of the territory, the more he saw how badly Wendell had done.
André eyed the three males. How to diffuse this situation?
“Brett’s right!” Another male crossed the yard followed by three more. “You’re a stinking foreigner, and you don’t belong here.”
“Yeah, go home, Canuck.” Brett’s tone made the word into an insult.
This wasn’t good. If they attacked, it was likely the God would respond—and take over. From what he’d seen in the past, Herne had no problem with ending a misbehaving shifter’s life.
Killing off my own clan? Unthinkable.
André kept his voice even. “I’m sorry the God decided your previous Cosantir was—”
Shouts and jeering drowned out his words.
Daonain crowded onto the porch and the lawn to watch.
When Madoc came down the porch steps, André motioned for him to wait. Better to handle this without assistance.
When Brett stalked forward with a long branch in his hand, André almost rolled his eyes. Did the fool think he could escape a Cosantir’s power by using a branch?
Before André could speak, a very familiar female yelled, “If you’re upset with the change in Cosantirs, blame me.”
Heather stood on the top step of the porch, her red hair blazing like dark fire in the sunlight. She planted her feet and crossed her arms. “You beetle-headed maggots, I’m the one who performed the Call to the Gods and asked for a change.”
“Holy cat-spit.” Moya stared at Heather. “Seriously? You performed the ritual?”
“And nearly died, yes.” Heather’s brows drew together. “We needed a Cosantir who could lead the clan and protect it, not one who used the title to prop up his overblown ego.”
Merde. The female had unsheathed her claws, hadn’t she?
Then, what she’d said sank in. She’d called on Herne to replace Wendell. He had a second of anger, the urge to blame her for upsetting his entire life.
And yet…good for her. Her territory needed help, and she’d stepped forward to do something about it.
Impressive.
As the shouting increased, Heather met André’s surprised gaze. And guilt assailed her. She had no remorse for calling on the Gods. No, she’d done what was needed.
The guilt was because she’d done the ritual and planned to wash her hands of the territory’s problems. The new Cosantir could deal with everything, and she could go back to being uninvolved, right? Her suitcases were still packed so she could leave as soon as Pete’s accounting was straightened out.
Closing her eyes, she faced herself in an internal mirror and didn’t like what she saw. Not at all.
This is my territory. My clan. And I am better than this.
A louder shout drew her attention to where Pete’s cohorts were still trying to incite a battle.
She had a pixie-like urge to throw things at the caterwauling fleabags. Would a hammer to the head knock some sense into them?
A male’s shout rose over the others. “Let’s kill the thief and see if Pete gets his powers back.”
The appalling idea—kill a Cosantir?—silenced the entire crowd.
“Has your brain gone missing?” In the quiet, Murtagh stepped out of the crowd. “Look at André. Pete never carried that much power. Anyone trying to kill our new Cosantir will be returned to the Mother, no ifs, ands, or buts.”
Duffy joined Murtagh. The short police officer was in his eighties. Unlike the human Chief of Police, Duffy was a shifter—and had always despised Pete. “Have you thought about why we are here today? Maybe because the Gathering House is filthy and falling apart. It’s a disgrace, an embarrassment to our clan.”
Pete reddened. “There wasn’t any money to—”
“No money, because our territory funds have been going into your pockets, Pete,” Heather snapped.
“We know who’s the real thief.” Talitha stood beside Moya, face red with outrage. “There you are in a big house filled with pricy furniture. Buying expensive gifts for the female of the month…yet you don’t work at any job.”
“How long has it been since Pete enforced any of our Daonain Laws?” Quinn, a short, gray-haired retired teacher asked in a quiet voice that carried across the lawn.
“Far too long.” Maeve, Murtagh’s mate, shook her head. “He hasn’t protected our clan—not the females or the cubs.”
“Pete’s stupidity was the reason the Scythe attacked the festival last summer.” Sinead’s voice rose to a shriek. “Why my mate was shot and almost died.”
Several people called agreement.
Because it was true. Even knowing the Scythe were hunting shifters, Pete had openly posted festival flyers around town. The happy weekend had turned into a bloodbath.
One where Heather had killed. The taste and smell of human blood and their deaths still haunted her.
Swearing, Pete and his friends shoved through the crowd. Leaving.
At the gate, he turned to glare at André…and then at her. The depth of hatred in his eyes shook her.
A minute after the gate clanged shut, Madoc clapped his hands together and said loudly, “Well, I hear the sandpaper calling my name. The porch won’t sand itself.”
Jolted, the shifters headed back to work, although Heather could hear discussions breaking out everywhere.
Okay, I’m done. Inside, she cleaned her paint brush, gathered her stuff, and headed for the door.
As she feared, the Cosantir was on the porch. With a cub leaning against him to help with sanding the railing, he chatted with some shifters on how to secure their homes against hellhounds.
When the group left, she bit her lip, not knowing where to start. “Cosantir.”
He turned. “Heather.” His smoky baritone was soft. “You performed the Call to the Gods?”
“I did.” She sighed. “I didn’t think about how Herne chose someone. I just told the God how the Cosantir here had lost his way, and I asked for help.”
Under his dark gaze, she straightened her shoulders. “I think Herne selected well. And I’m thrilled Pete is no longer the Cosantir.”
Their conversation wasn’t exactly private, and several other shifters murmured agreement.
She shook her head. “But I’m sorry this turned your life upside-down.”
“I doubt Gods understand human conventions like countries and borders.” The wry humor almost broke her heart.
How would she react if the God dumped her in Canada and said she could never go home?
As she regarded him, she could feel the power coming from him like heat waves. Herne definitely had his hand on this Cosantir. “André, Cosantirs, cahirs, healers are named the Gods-called, not the Gods-forced. Did Herne not give you any choice at all?”
André rubbed the back of his neck then admitted ruefully, “I was shown the mess the territory was in and agreed to take it on.”
Because the kind of person the God would pick wouldn’t be able to refuse.
After a second, he added, “Because I’m still chafing at the bit doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. Heather, only a very few brave souls call on the Gods, especially to help their clan, rather than themselves. You do your territory proud.”
The wholly unexpected compliment made her eyes prickle with tears. She’d been afraid he’d hate her for her small part in forcing him here to live.
But André had too much compassion.
Now it was time for her to take the next step. And this was the right time and place to share her thoughts.
Because, from the quiet inside, she knew everyone was listening.
It just sucked she had to start with a confession of her self-centeredness. She raised her voice. “When I made the trip to the Gods, I figured I’d done all I needed to do. The God would call in a new Cosantir, and I could wash my hands of the territory’s problems. Unload everything on him.”
She pulled in a breath. Mother’s breasts, this is hard. “And today, I realized I spend my days working on my business, being with my family or alone in my cabin—I do nothing to help my clan here in Rainier Territory. I’m a slacker.”
There was silence.
Farther down the porch, her friend Moya made a sound like she’d been kicked in the stomach. “Me, too, girlfriend. Me too.”
Heather faced André. “You’ve been working constantly since Herne dumped our territory in your lap. But”—she looked around at the others on the porch, in the yard—“Calum, the Cosantir in the North Cascades, doesn’t do it all himself. His whole clan pitches in to help.”
Turning back to André, she spoke into the heavy silence. “So, as you fix our clan, Cosantir, I’ll be right there working beside you.”
His gaze warmed.
She looked around at the other Daonain. “I’m glad we have a Cosantir who will use my help—and that of the rest of us—to make this territory a good one again.”
The shout of agreement shook the porch.
Shifting to cougar had been an exquisite joy, and when the wave of love from the Mother filled his soul, Niall had opened to it like a flower greeting the dawn.
For hours, he’d run through the pine-scented forest. He’d splashed across rippling streams that chilled his paws. Two unwary field mice had made a crunchy noon snack. Finding the perfect ledge, he’d napped, the sun warm on his fur until a scolding tree fairy wakened him.
And then he’d run again, leaping over downed trees, springing across creeks and gullies.
The sadness of the past sloughed off like a winter’s fur in the spring. Green leaves and evergreen needles brushed against his sides, cleansed him, made him new again.
Eventually, he remembered his duty to his clan. To his brothers.
And he returned.
It was early evening when he headed down the sidewalk toward the Gathering House. A relieved breath escaped him at the sound of conversations and music. He wasn’t too late.
Guilt tightened his shoulders. He’d totally let his brothers down today, running off like a little cub into the forest.
And he’d also failed his Cosantir. Gods, André. You’re my Cosantir.
Life could sure be weird—and Niall would make the best of it. Since the Cosantir was his littermate, he might not get slapped into the next life right away for screwing up today.
André would remember they were brothers…right?
At the fence gate, a blond male in his twenties held up a hand. “Sir, could you wait a—oh, cool, a cahir. Yeah, um, go right in.”
“I’m Niall. Did André put you on guard duty?”
“I’m Jens.” The male drew himself straighter. “Yes, the Cosantir assigned me to make sure no humans get past the gate.”
“Did he send you something to eat?”
“Oh no. Guards are only working here for an hour at a time; he didn’t want us to miss the fun.” Jens looked down. “He’s sure different from Pete.”
“So I hear. But André’s a guardian from his whiskers to his tail.” Looking back over the years, Niall knew his brother had always been one. Just…now he had the power to go with it.
Of course, the ability to fry a shifter might be a problem if one was a straying brother. When pissed off, Madoc would simply swat Niall into the nearest creek.
André, though… Fuck, with him, it only took a look for Niall to feel the guilt.
Time to face the music. “Nice meeting you, Jens.”
“You, too, cahir.” Jens opened the gate and let him through.
Striding across the long expanse of lawn, Niall realized it might not be easy to find André. There was a crowd at the food and drink tables. Scattered here and there were families sitting on blankets, eating and talking. More shifters filled the porch, some still working.
Like sparkling bubbles in a brook, laughter floated out from inside the house.
As Niall passed four young adults sprawled on blankets, a male was telling another, “…really thought Brett was gonna kill the Cosantir.”
Niall halted so fast he almost tripped. What the fuck?
“If he’d tried…” The female sitting on the blanket was probably barely out of her teens. “What would have happened?”
Niall snapped out, “He would have died.”
Startled, they all jerked around to stare up at him.
“Herne will kill anyone who attacks a Cosantir.” His anger turned his voice into something harder than granite. “Whatever the God left, I would shred and piss on the bloody remnants.”
Two of the young adults cringed lower to the blanket, two tilted their heads to expose their throats.
“Hey, brawd, get up here,” Madoc shouted from the porch.
As Niall strode toward the house, relieved sighs came from behind him. By the God, by the fucking God. As he moved away, the anger raged so hot it was a wonder the grass didn’t burn beneath his feet.
Madoc greeted him with a swat on the shoulder and quick sniff of the air. “You spent time in fur?”
Niall nodded.
A simmer of power announced the Cosantir’s presence as he joined them. “Do you feel better?” His eyes narrowed, undoubtedly seeing the fury still steaming from Niall.
“It helped.” Until a minute ago. “I hear someone named Brett tried…” He growled under his breath. “Cosantir, I regret not being here when I was needed.”
“Easy, brawd. I was in no danger.” André gripped his arm. “There was no need for a cahir.”
Niall’s muscles started to loosen. Tactful or not, André never lied.
With a smile, André added, “Although more hands are always welcome, you’ve worked double-time since I was called. You were due a day to yourself.”
The understanding in his littermates’ faces made his throat tighten. “Thanks, my brothers.” He glanced at Madoc. “Later, you’ll give me the whole story about what happened.”
Madoc grinned. “It’s a good tale. You’ll like it.”
Seeing the bear wasn’t worried, Niall was able to relax completely. “I’m starving. Is there still food?”
“Aye.” André’s expression was pleased as he looked around. “I think everyone brought something to share.”
“What’s that female up to this time?” Madoc’s gaze was on something behind Niall.
Niall turned.
Heather was climbing the porch steps. She handed a guitar to her friend Moya. “Here, I brought this for you.”
Her friend narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t ask for my guitar.”
“I knew you’d want it so you can stay on tune when you sing.”
Niall grinned at his brothers. “She’s as managing as you are, André.”
Madoc nodded. “Very manipulative. Of course, André’s smoother about it.”
André gave them both a dour look…but didn’t deny the charge.
“I’m not going to sing, Heather,” Moya protested.
“Sure you are.” Heather smirked. “Didn’t you tell me how music pulls people together?”
Moya eyed her suspiciously. “Yeeees?”
“As it happens, André is trying to pull the clan together. Aren’t you going to help our Cosantir?” Heather turned toward André.
Niall could see the amusement in André’s eyes, but his brother merely inclined his head in agreement.
“Oh.” Moya bowed her head slightly to the Cosantir, then shot a glare at Heather. “I guess I’m singing.”
“The two of you together are frighteningly effective,” Niall said under his breath.
André smiled slightly. “Let’s be grateful the redhead is on our side.”
With a light strumming of the guitar, Moya started singing.
After a minute, Niall leaned against the wall and simply listened with a happy heart.
Moya had a hauntingly resonant voice. The ballad, Chosen of the Gods, told of the first days of the Daonain after the Fae withdrew from the world. Unlike the other half-bloods, the children of the Wild Hunt—the shifters—couldn’t reproduce with humans at all. Seeing their plight, the Gods intervened, and Herne chose the first Cosantir to watch over the clan.
All over the grounds, people had stopped to listen. When Moya reached the chorus, Heather added her voice—a lovely contralto—and motioned for people to join in.
Within a minute, the air filled with the sounds of the Daonain lifting their voices in a heartfelt refrain of gratitude to the Gods.
And to the Cosantirs who were a gift from those Gods.