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  Kincaid felt more alive than ever when he permitted his alter ego to come forward. As a proud, dominant creature, it seemed as though nothing could prevent him from doing as he pleased. He panted like the wolf he’d become, yet his mind, though riddled with bestial prowess, still held carefully controlled human thoughts. He wasn’t suddenly ravenous to hunt human flesh and dart about as a wild thing. No, his intents were calculated and measured out with precise, intelligent decisions.

  Nevertheless, within his ribcage, his heart pounded with carefree release, ka thump, ka thump, ka thump… Nothing, he decided, could be better than this. There had been times when he’d remained in wolf form for months, wishing he never had to return to the concerns of the world. Eventually, however, he’d returned to his human form. His free spirit was a wolf, his true heritage, a man.

  Over time, he’d learned that he could bring about the transformation from man to wulver within seconds if he merely envisioned the majestic animal in his human mind, or vice versa, envisioned his human body. The shift came about faster and faster when he discovered how easily he could change back and forth as needed.

  His ability to transform in a heartbeat made it easier for him to engage in his profession of helping people with wandering spirits who needed assistance returning to the other side. Additionally, he’d developed the ability to send wicked entities bent on pestering their human counterparts back to where they belonged. Like Lizzie’s banshees. His wolf form, combined with supernatural wulver skills, enabled him seek out what he needed to resolve problems, and to move stealthily while doing so.

  Yes, this was the life he’d come to appreciate and enjoy.

  You enjoy being with Lizzie, too.

  Reluctant to dwell too long on how she affected him, he tossed his shaggy head and growled. Juices flowing, he focused on the cool fingers of night wind ruffling his fur. It invigorated him as he navigated through the thick fringes of trees, jumped over ravines, climbed hills and plodded across dirt trails.

  Whiffs of interesting odors filled his snout with loamy scents and those of hidden forest creatures. His mouth watered. The woodland flourished with abundant wildlife species—bears and deer, bobcats, owls, snakes, squirrels, and much more, all provided by nature for the sustenance of predatory animals.

  The cycle of life was simple and necessary.

  If he hadn’t been on a mission to rescue Wysteria’s coven and their brooms, he would have stopped for a quick bite to eat—perhaps a rabbit or a mouse. Though his empty stomach begged him to seek nourishment, he refused. He didn’t have time.

  Lizzie needed him.

  A seductive thought, he realized. She didn’t desire his love; she only needed his hunting skills. He needed to remember that.

  She claimed to have heard various stories about the Spirit Wulver and he wondered exactly how they described him and his people. If rumors claimed wulvers were flesh-devouring werewolves that preyed on humans during the full moon, it would garner her disgust.

  Even hatred.

  And how could he blame her?

  Though he loved the full moon’s silver, luminescent glow while out hunting, he wasn’t a slave to its lunar phases. Neither was he ravenous for human flesh. He and his people lived to protect all human or supernatural beings, especially those who were vulnerable and couldn’t defend themselves.

  Since the age of ten, he’d had the ability to become a wolf and dash through the wilderness without detection. Before that tender age, Kincaid hadn’t been aware of his unique abilities or powers. At his first turning, he’d been bewildered and frightened, lost in a strange new world. Ronan, his father, had bounded along at his side, guiding him on his first hunt.

  Ronan had attempted to explain Kincaid’s heritage before his wulver blood took root, but he had refused to listen, instead believing his father engaged in more of his typical drunken ramblings. Afterward, everything Ronan had told him finally made sense.

  As his paws drummed across the ground, his heart grew heavy. Aye, he had a rich heritage but his mother had been human, therefore, he was a half-breed who had been rejected by his father’s people.

  He had no home, no people. He belonged nowhere.

  That’s why he’d left Lizzie. Back then, he’d thought her to be mortal. While he’d loved her body, her mind, and her soul, he’d believed he had nothing to offer her. Just as his mother had left Ronan, Lizzie would have left him, too. The memory left a bitter taste on his tongue, and he realized Lizzie was truly the only woman who had ever made him long to settle down.

  He wished like hell things could be different, but he knew that wasn’t possible. Not now, not ever. To spite him, a beautiful image of the bewitching, enchanting woman tormented his memory. Being around her rekindled intoxicating flames not only in his loins, but in his soul.

  Aye, you’re a foolish man, Kincaid McAllister. Lizzie won’t have ye now. Not after ye broke ’er heart.

  He knew it was true by the loathing he saw on her face and the sparks of hatred emanating from her dark brown eyes. He’d hurt her, and he doubted she would ever get over that. Her angry, standoffish behavior indicated as much. Even now, she tolerated being around him only because she needed his help.

  A lead weight settled in the pit of his stomach. Their love was never meant to be. His solitary quest wandering the world and eradicating restless spirits was a good one for a man like him.

  An ache pierced his heart, burrowing in like a shard of broken glass. He arched back his head and howled—a mournful sound filled with longing and loneliness.

  Focus, he told himself.

  Inhaling a deep breath through his snout, he concentrated on the aromatic bursts of ferns and pine needles. Upon his arrival at the Royal Witch Arena, he would more easily detect the banshees’ scent.

  That would be important when he decided how to exterminate the swarm. Certain methods would be more effective, depending on what part of Scotland they hailed from. Long ago he’d discovered that different scents attached to different paranormal entities depending upon their originating location.

  Panting, he lifted his head and glanced toward the arching canvas of midnight sky covered in a network of branches and leaves. Brightened by moonbeams and starlight, the panorama stretched above.

  Movement caught his adept canis lupus eyes, and he saw Lizzie riding her vacuum through the wispy clouds, her long hair streaming behind her like a banner of obsidian-colored silk. Her emerald green cape swirled around her, lending an ethereal quality to her presence in the heavens. The sight of her shapely woman’s figure—one he’d once held so close—caused his heart to lurch.

  By all the elemental spirits that existed in this world—earth, air, wind, and fire, she held an exquisite allure. Yet she would always remain beyond his reach. Their worlds were completely opposite.

  She is not for you.

  Raising his snout, he released another long, low tormented howl.

  ***

  Lizzie waved her hand in front of her face, doing her best to dispel the thick, noxious cloud belching from Vera’s undercarriage. “Phew, you weren’t kidding about exhaust fumes, were you?”

  “No dearie, I wasn’t. Your Aunt Aggie did her best to try and cure me of that little problem, but she was never successful as you can smell.”

  “Stinking bat’s breath, it’s foul.” Lizzie glanced down at the undulating Pacific Ocean and the familiar ridge of coastal bluffs that ringed the Royal Witch Arena. “Thank the stars we’ll be coming in for a landing shortly. Otherwise I might suffocate.”

  “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

  “Do rotten potatoes stink?”

  Vera revved her engine, which Lizzie assumed must be the vacuum’s version of a disparaging snort.

  Lizzie steered Vera’s handle toward terra firma. A few seconds later, they touched down next to the ceremonial center. It discouraged her to see the constant deterioration. Outrage rocketed through her as she thought of her coven still being held hostage by the bans
hees.

  “I swear, if it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m going to send those wailing wenches packing,” she said to Vera in a low voice.

  “Be careful, toots,” the vacuum whispered back. “They’re pretty nasty.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, sweetie.” Lizzie leaned the vacuum against a stone wall, then stepped closer to the structure. Pressing an ear against the cool stone, she listened. The smooth surface remained silent, but she knew those hags must still be inside ranting, raving, and screeching.

  “I wonder where Kincaid is?” Lizzie peered around. “Surely he’ll arrive soon.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Vera said. “The man wants his blood money, after all.”

  “No doubt,” Lizzie agreed. She scanned the forest’s ragged edge. Bushes and leaves rattled. A split second later, a shadowy animal crept from a stand of pines. Her vision blurred. Damn that magic mushroom dust. It was messing with her sight. Frustrated, she rubbed her eyes, then looked again.

  Now she only saw the outline of a tall, broad-shouldered man moving toward her. Kincaid. A slight shiver, like the whisper of a lost soul, swept up her spine.

  Kincaid silently eased up beside her. Lizzie’s eyes opened wide at the sight of his nakedness. Heated desire rose within her and her mouth fell open. Realizing she must look like a fool, she clamped it shut.

  Kincaid’s body appeared just as she recalled, like that of a finely sculpted, perfectly muscled Greek statue. Unfortunately, the leaf that often covered the groin area was missing. Or fortunately. Either way, she tried not to stare. She, the witch, had been struck spellbound at the sight of Kincaid’s thick manhood nestled in a swirl of curled groin hair.

  He grinned at her like a lunatic.

  A frown creased her lips.

  “Holy dustbins,” Vera said. “Kincaid’s naked.”

  “Not for long.” Lizzie waved a hand. An instant later, a shirt, trousers, and boots covered his disturbingly gorgeous male body. Disappointment caught her off guard, but she shook off her disturbing response.

  “Thank you, lass,” he said. “I’d have preferred my kilt, but this works. I’ll be needin’ my cape, though. I dropped it back in the forest. Can you be so kind as to fetch it for me?”

  She murmured a spell, snapped, and the bright material mantled his broad shoulders. “I’m not going to ask why you arrived here in your birthday suit.”

  “I think you ken why,” he said. “I’m a wulver, after all. Transforming into a wolf is my nature. Comes in handy.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  Reaching out, he laid a palm on a thick rock wall. “This is a very old place.”

  “It’s existed for centuries, though mortals aren’t aware it’s here,” she said. “They see only rock cliffs.”

  “How do we enter?”

  “Vera, you wait here. Kincaid, follow me down the secret passageway.” Lizzie walked between two thin rock walls and led Kincaid along a winding path. His large body loomed behind her and she sucked in a ragged breath as his musky scent wound through her nostrils. It evoked vivid memories, but she instantly squelched them.

  Lizzie stiffened when she heard banshees’ wails and screams. The sounds infuriated her. Taking a deep breath, she peered around the edge of the arched stone entrance.

  Kincaid leaned in to get a better look, his body pressing intimately against hers.

  His moist, warm breath caressed her cheek.

  Her knees turned into soupy witch’s brew.

  With difficulty, she managed to ward off yet another moment of weakness. Stinking bat’s breath, it was difficult to concentrate with Kincaid so near. Every fiber of her being exploded with awareness.

  Get it together, Lizzie.

  Moonlight flooded the arena where blue-gray banshees flew in circles around Lizzie’s coven and the brooms remained encased in a ribbon of glistening goo. It seemed thicker than before, and Lizzie clenched her fists. The Supreme Witch’s Council also remained in the cluster of chairs, slumped in their seats, their faces pale.

  “Imps of hell,” Kincaid whispered in her ear.

  Nerves frayed, Lizzie looked up at him and whispered, “I don’t care what it costs. I want these hags gone ASAP.”

  “Doo’na speak of the fee, lass. We can talk about that later, once the banshees are gone.”

  “Fine. What do we do first?”

  “I’m going to try the plaigh delbaeth. It will banish the pests and their hostile energy.”

  Kincaid swept his hand through the air and muttered in a strange language. The swirling, cackling banshees, along with her coven and the witch’s council, faded from sight.

  A strange sensation swept through her, like she’d stepped off a ledge and now fell through empty air. Lights flashed, and the arena brightened with an unusual light. Everything swirled like leaves in the wind, and dizziness swept through her. Her knees wobbled, but Kincaid’s steadying arm around her shoulders prevented her from tumbling forward.

  “Wh-what’s going on?”

  “We’ve taken a wee trip back in time, lass. And doo’na worry we’ll be seen—we are invisible.”

  After everything settled into place, she watched as coven members and her family descended the steps, preparing to take part in the ceremony. “This is amazing, Kincaid. We really have gone back to when everything started—before the banshees arrived.”

  “It’ll be amazin’ if it works.”

  She blinked, unnerved to watch an instant replay of the events leading up to the banshee attack. Ghostly white figures of coven members took shape in the seating section. Mistress Hawkthorne and her bubbling cauldron appeared in the center of the arena. She spoke to the gathering for a few seconds. Though her lips moved, no sound came out.

  “The banshee swarm is approaching.” Kincaid pointed toward the eastern horizon where dark clouds mounded with ominous portent. “Do you see them?”

  She studied the swirling mass. “They travel in clouds? Weird, it just looks like bad weather to me.”

  “Aye, ’tis a banshee storm. And they’ll be screeching to their doom, hopefully.”

  Merciful ancestors, please let this work. Lizzie clasped her hands together.

  “Watch now.” Kincaid nudged her shoulder. “The devil’s spawn is drawin’ closer.”

  Sorcha separated herself from the swarm. Hovering at the top of the amphitheater, she crossed her scrawny arms, and Lizzie noticed her metal wristbands. A bright flash, similar to that produced in a lightning storm, flared across the arena. All of the coven members froze.

  Several banshees flew down the hallway past Lizzie and Kincaid, creating a familiar, terrifying whirlwind. Mesmerized, she watched as her ghostly image suddenly appeared, ran away from the creatures and dodged inside a preparation room.

  Bent on gathering up the witches’ favorite mode of travel, the banshees threw open the doors to the inner sanctum, collected the screaming brooms and hauled them back to the arena. Unearthly howls issued from the hags as they unleashed curses. An outpouring of thick, stinking goo oozed from the walls and covered everyone in the audience.

  Once again, Kincaid spoke in the strange language. He reached down and picked up a piece of driftwood. Reaching inside his cape, he brought out a small vial and poured oil on the stick. With a snap of his fingers, flames erupted. He tossed the driftwood into the arena and it swept a ring of fire around the banshees.

  They screeched and began writhing in what appeared to be pain.

  Lizzie grasped Kincaid’s arm. “Won’t the flames hurt the coven members?”

  “No, this is spiritual fire and will only cleanse unholy spirits.”

  “If you say so…”

  The images of the recent past began to fade and darkness filled the arena, illuminated only by wide swaths of silver moonlight.

  “Are the banshees gone?”

  Kincaid shook his head. “Patience lass, I’m not sure. We must wait and watch.”

  The banshees appeared, performing once ag
ain in their swirling frenzy. The Wysteria Hedge Haven Clan and their brooms reappeared, still held hostage in ectoplasmic goo.

  Lizzie groaned with disappointment.

  “Damn Sorcha and her banshees! She’s a hellish pest to be certain,” he said in a gruff tone. “What’s it going to take to eradicate her for good?”

  Lizzie trembled, enraged her coven had been targeted by Sorcha and her banshee swarm in the first place. As if that wasn’t unsettling enough, now mistrust of Kincaid and his methods assailed her.

  He frowned. “Don’t start doubtin’ me now.”

  How had he known what she was thinking? Did enough magic mushroom dust remain in her system that he could still read her mind?

  “Why shouldn’t I?” she muttered, keeping her voice low so as not to give away their hiding place. “I trusted you once and that didn’t work out so well.”

  Nostrils flared, Kincaid said, “Come on.”

  Firmly, he grasped her hand and pulled her down the earthen corridor toward the inner sanctum. Lizzie hurried to keep pace with his long stride, hoping he had another plan in mind. She wanted to tell him exactly what she thought of his lousy Spirit Wulver tactics, but held her tongue. There wasn’t enough time for her to find anyone else to help.

  What if calling upon Kincaid had been a mistake? What if he couldn’t really get rid of Sorcha and her wicked wailers?

  Unease sifted through her limbs, and a sense of vulnerability coated her like hot candle wax. Prayers to the Goddess rushed through her mind, and she begged for assistance. At the moment, she and her clan needed it more than ever.

  Unfortunately, Kincaid was all she had. She needed to trust him.

  No matter what.

  Chapter Eight

  Kincaid drew Lizzie inside of the inner sanctum and closed the doors with a soft click.

  “What are we doing in here?” she whispered, her furrowed brows portraying her concern.

  He began to pace. “I need some quiet so I can think about another extermination tactic. I’m missing some element that will do the trick, but I can’t figure it out.”