The Wulver's Bond, page 5
The wolfman cocked his head in the direction of the cave. ‘Are you ready?’
‘I am if you tell me to be,’ Weed replied sullenly.
The Wulver sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll take that as a yes.’
Weed followed at his maximum allowed distance, ambling as slowly as he could in the Wulver’s wake. Shetland’s peculiar yellow twilight fell around them as they reached the cave, and once inside, the Wulver disappeared straight into his pantry.
Weed poked his head in, reasoning that he hadn’t been told not to. This small chamber was entirely lined with rock-cut shelves across two walls, while a couple of ancient-looking oak barrels next to a stone trough lined the third. The Wulver poured his fishing catch into the trough and looked up as Weed stepped in.
‘Tonight we shall have a good meal of trout, if you are up to it,’ he said, nodding at the fish. ‘And tomorrow I shall smoke and pickle the rest. I shall teach you how, if you would like.’
Weed noted the carefully organised rows of tinned food and foil packaged MRE pouches that would make any doomsday-prepper proud. These filled about half the shelf space, while the rest of the pantry looked conspicuously bare. A number of empty glass jars and bottles suggested they were awaiting new contents, and a large sheaf of waxed paper was neatly stacked at one end.
‘What’s in these?’ Weed asked, pointing at the barrels.
‘One is for water. One is for salt.’
‘That’s a lot of salt.’
‘Yes. I use it sparingly. Sometimes for cooking. But mostly for preserving food.’ The Wulver selected the biggest fish from the trough and motioned for Weed to follow him back into the main chamber.
He didn’t seem to require Weed’s assistance while gutting the fish, nor did he appear to care whether Weed showed any interest in it, either. So Weed left the Wulver to his dinner, and nosed through his bookshelf instead.
The books all had very practical and boring titles, covering subjects as dull as predicting the weather, coastal foraging, and maritime sailing. An old Shetland Almanac was particularly well-thumbed with lots of hand-written notes scrawled in the margins. The notes Weed could decipher related mainly to vegetable growing seasons and island topography.
Weed replaced the volume with a yawn. What silly lengths humans had to go to just to understand the particulars of growing their food. But then, he supposed, they couldn’t go ahead and ask a carrot what its preferred soil conditions would be, or what its favourite music was. (As a rule, anything with a heavy bass tended to go down well with root vegetables, as Weed had learned during his many scattered conversations with them.)
Weed’s mind wandered to Logan’s rucksack, and the radio hidden at the bottom of it. The Wulver still appeared to be busy. What harm would come from messing around with it for a while?
He grabbed the bag and lugged it to the cave entrance. Being around a corner, it at least afforded him some small measure of privacy.
First, he opened one of the protein bars and took a small, deeply appreciative bite. His stomach gave no complaints this time. Weed wrapped it up carefully and tucked the rest away for another time. Next, the radio.
At first glance the dials and buttons were just as impenetrable as before, but now Weed had the time to examine it properly. By merit of randomly pressing and twisting, he hit upon the volume dial which turned it on. It blasted static into his face.
Weed snickered, quickly turning it down. Next, he tried messing with the channels, or frequencies, or whatever they were called. All it seemed to do was change the texture of the static. Fleetingly he thought he caught a fragment of speech, or a note of music, but it was gone just as quickly. He tried pressing the button on the side and speaking into it, but if anyone heard him, Weed was none the wiser.
Eventually the cold evening air drove him to put the radio away. Weed retreated into the living space and sat musing on the absurdity of a communication device that wouldn’t let him communicate.
How interesting that humans were listening to each other all the time, and yet their network of conversation was virtually impenetrable to him. Perhaps that’s how it was for them with plants. The world was constantly abuzz with information, in even the quietest winter meadow, when all seemed dry and dead above ground. But roots continued striving. Beneath, the earth was raucous with the sounds of survival.
Weed was lost in such thoughts when the Wulver served a steaming plate of fish in front of him, alongside a cup of nettle tea—and in fact, he’d been so peacefully distracted that the interruption gave him a shock.
‘What’s this?’ Weed snapped reflexively, to cover the way he’d jumped away from the Wulver’s paws.
‘Dinner.’ The wolfman gave him a shrewd look. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you.’
‘You sneak around,’ Weed muttered. ‘On those soft paws of yours.’ He shot a glare at the Wulver’s feet: big, padded things covered in shorter, velvety fur. With claws retracted, they looked as soft as a gigantic bunny’s.
‘I shall try to sneak more loudly in future,’ the Wulver said wryly. He retreated with his own plate to the opposite corner of the cave.
Weirdly, with no one looming over him, Weed struggled to enjoy his food. He picked at the meal half-heartedly, even though for such an ugly fish it tasted beautiful on the inside. He wasn’t used to having space. Or the option to eat as slowly or as quickly as he liked.
He snuck a glance at the Wulver, who appeared to be enjoying his fish and paying Weed no mind whatsoever. After he was finished, the wolfman selected a book from the shelf—Weed made out the words Jams, Pickles, and Preserves on the faded spine—and proceeded to lounge on his bed, nose-deep in its pages.
‘What should I do?’ Weed spoke, breaking the silence.
The Wulver turned a page. ‘Whatever you like.’
Weed pouted, finding this unhelpful. He groped for the comfort of nearby florae, but the chatter of plants and their roots was distant, obscured by the thick walls of rock. Nearest, he felt the presence of the honeysuckle hanging outside the cave entrance.
If he’d been in a more impish mood, Weed might have taken liberties with the Wulver’s answer and used it as an excuse to call the creeping plant inside to wreak some mischief.
But something about the calmness permeating the cave was oppressive. Weed couldn’t shake the tension that clung to him like a fine mist on his skin.
Eventually he went and lay down on his fleece pile by the fire. Weed stared at the cave ceiling for what felt like hours, until he heard the soft snap of the Wulver’s book, and then sounds of him raking the fire to spread the ashes. The lanterns were turned off, and Weed was left to stare into the dark.
Chapter Six
Arran struggled to sleep, sensing Weed was also still awake. It put his animal instincts on edge to know there was another creature sharing his cave. Especially one that might prove dangerous.
He wasn’t sure what Weed might be capable of. How far did Weed’s mastery of plants extend? Did he have access to other magics he hadn’t divulged? Just how ‘creatively’ could Weed bend the rules of his curse?
Despite these reservations, so far Arran had observed nothing to suggest Weed meant him any harm. Weed mostly gave the impression of a scared rodent: just as likely to nip with its teeth as to totally freeze in response to a threat.
And if that’s all Weed really was—a cornered mouse in a wolf’s house—then it was also clear that he was an outrageously exhausted one. Arran had never known anyone to sleep so often and so deeply, aside from those he’d witnessed return from war. From devastation.
Perhaps Weed himself wasn’t aware just how far past the brink his human body had been pushed. He constantly woke up surprised, like the act of sleeping itself amazed him. Arran stealthily added more fleeces to Weed’s bed and tried not to stare at how peaceful he looked when he slept.
The fact that Weed was struggling to sleep now was like a warning bell to Arran. Something was wrong.
He’d noticed that Weed seemed fretful over the course of the evening and not so responsive to the prospect of food or rest. But, to be fair, it had been a tumultuous day for him. Arran needn’t look any further than Weed’s chaotic jumble of emotional reactions to be certain the young dryad was feeling unbalanced.
The incident by the river had been… vexing.
Arran turned over in his bed, pressing his nose into the sheepskins so as to drown out Weed’s scent. The memory of his scent.
Arran had no clue what was running through Weed’s mind by the river, but from the musky traces of lust and the way his body vibrated with arousal, Weed’s sheer desperation was both obvious and captivating. With his nose assaulted by that hot-blooded aroma, Arran himself had been thrown off balance.
And for the tiniest, most miniscule of moments, he’d considered ending Weed’s misery by planting him on all fours and railing him like the bitch in heat he’d declared himself to be.
Arran pushed the thought away immediately, with instant, intense chagrin.
He hadn’t entertained thoughts like that in centuries.
But Weed had a knack for being irritating. He was already making a hobby of attempting to bait Arran with his acerbic comments, and his sheer vicious persistence poked the beast in Arran. He feared it may even have woken up.
The little brat could do with being taught a lesson.
Arran almost choked. He dug his snout deeper into the fleece, muffling an appalled growl. What was he thinking?
Weed was under his care. Arran had a duty—no matter how much he resented it being pushed upon him—to look after Weed’s wellbeing, and most of all to ensure he never exploited the power he held over him.
And, Arran told himself sternly, it wouldn’t change anything if Weed wasn’t cursed to do his bidding. Arran still wouldn’t contemplate the thought of bedding him. The carnal impulse had been fleeting; a brief loss of judgement, nothing more.
Not at all a symptom of his prolonged, lonely lifestyle.
Eventually, Arran fell into an unsettling dream.
It was a memory of the fae realm. A cold, glittering place where eyes and tongues were sharp, and all words and hearts were guarded. Arran walked alone under the crystalline boughs of its silver trees. He longed for warmth, for companionship. For change.
Eventually, he came to a pair of trees that formed a narrow arch, like a doorway. Through the arch, he saw a different landscape. A grey, stormy landscape. There were jagged cliffs and a black, crashing ocean. It looked volatile, even foul, when compared with the ageless beauty all around him.
Arran looked from the sparkling silver forest to the angry grey cliffs.
His path felt obvious.
Without a backward glance, Arran stepped through the arch, to the human world.
* * *
The next day Arran woke early and filled a large bowl with water. Weed slept just as soundly as he had every day before, and Arran felt safe in assuming he was unlikely to wake up soon.
He snuck past the pile of gently snoring sheepskins and stepped just outside the cave—but not too far. He daren’t risk accidentally yanking Weed from his bed.
Mostly immune to the cold air, Arran stripped off his clothes and hastily dunked a washcloth into his bowl of water. It was a quick and sloppy job of bathing, but it was a task he didn’t wish to put off any longer, and also one that he wished to avoid Weed’s presence for. He would normally bathe in the river, but the distance would necessitate bringing Weed with him and, by extension, Weed’s ogling eyeballs.
Arran shook the water from his fur and donned his jeans and hoodie once again. Back inside, he decided to give Weed the same opportunity, albeit with a greater measure of comfort. He heated a pot of fresh water, siphoning some off for tea, and the rest he poured into a large basin in front of the fire.
The sun had risen by now, so he hoped Weed wouldn’t mind being woken a little earlier today.
Weed groaned in his sleep as Arran gently shook his shoulder. Then without warning his eyes snapped open and he bolted upright, alert, and clearly propelled by adrenaline.
‘What time is it?’ Weed barked, glancing around like he was trying to get his bearings. Arran could hear his racing heartbeat—and the way it slowed as Weed apparently registered his surroundings.
‘It is a few hours past dawn,’ Arran replied, keeping his tone light and passive. ‘I have prepared water for you, if you would like to bathe this morning.’
Weed stared past him at the steaming basin. His voice was deadpan. ‘You want me to get naked for you?’
‘No!’ Arran jumped back, waving his hands. ‘Nothing of the sort. I shall wait outside. You’ll have total privacy.’
Weed sniggered, and Arran realised he’d been made to look a fool. ‘Calm your teats, wolfie. Didn’t realise you were such a prude.’
Arran folded his arms, holding in his exasperation. ‘I simply do not wish you to feel uncomfortable.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that. I’m not shy.’
The smug way Weed said it should have clued Arran in. In a swift one-two motion Weed pulled off his shirt and snapped open his trousers.
Arran remained stoic as they fell around Weed’s ankles, baring all under the glimmering firelight. Weed planted his hands on his hips, grinning broadly. ‘What do you think, wolfie? Does this offend your sensibilities?’
Arran met his stare head-on, refusing to be cowed by such a ridiculous display. ‘Of course not. I know what a human body looks like.’
‘I bet you do.’
Arran made a show of rolling his eyes. ‘Wash yourself, or don’t. I shall be outside.’
He about-turned as Weed pouted, and left the cave inwardly cursing his infuriating lodger.
Infuriating, because Weed seemed intent on constantly testing his boundaries.
Infuriating, because he’d just learned that Weed was walking around bare-assed under his camo gear.
Infuriating, because the ass in question was pert and smooth and pale.
Infuriating, because the wolf in him wanted to take a bite.
Arran stifled a mortified growl. He remembered only just in time to stop a few yards away from the cave mouth instead of stalking off into the trees. His tail, freed of rigid self-control, began to wag.
Arran was furious with himself. This reaction was absolutely unacceptable.
Weed’s voice floated out of the cave. ‘Guess you still don’t want to shag, then?’
Arran closed his eyes, snarling some of his frustration into the air. Whatever Weed’s taunts, Arran wasn’t about to take advantage of him while Weed was under his command. He didn’t want to take advantage of Weed at all, Arran corrected himself.
His body was simply restless, his instincts agitated by the mere suggestion of some physical intimacy. It was a matter of self-regulation, not of any deeper need or desire.
At least, that was what he was going to keep telling himself.
Arran waited a long time for Weed to finish washing. Nearly an hour had passed when it dawned on him that Weed likely wouldn’t inform him when he was finished, out of spite if not mischief.
Arran raised his eyes to the heavens, lamenting the fickle fae.
Thankfully, Weed was fully-clothed when he stepped back inside. Arran cooked another fish for breakfast and watched Weed carefully as he ate. He was pleased to see Weed had regained his appetite. The strange melancholy that had come over him the previous evening appeared to have evaporated, perhaps cleared by another good night’s sleep.
It seemed the fog of exhaustion had also finally lifted from Weed’s shoulders. Weed’s body must have been desperate to refill all its reserves, taking every chance it got to catch up on rest. Now that he was fully awake, Arran invited Weed to join him in the day’s task of smoking the rest of the fish.
‘Haven’t got anything better to do,’ Weed drawled back.
‘Then, when you are ready, please follow me.’
Arran came to regret this. Weed turned out to be as useful as a shadow, and rather more of an incumbrance.
Arran showed him the way to the smaller cave he used for smoking, and demonstrated how to prepare and hang the fish over the smouldering embers below. Weed spectated from the entrance, unhelpfully blocking half the daylight.
‘That’s a lotta fish you gotta get through, wolfie,’ he said, smirking. ‘Boy, I bet you wish you had a servant to help you right now, eh?’
‘Would you like to help?’ Arran answered mildly. In truth, he enjoyed the work. But he’d enjoy it more if Weed left him to do it in peace.
‘Do you order me to help?’
‘No.’
Weed tutted with a grin. ‘Well, gosh, I guess I’m not going to, then.’
‘That is fine.’
‘Hm.’
Next, Arran offered to teach Weed how to pickle a few fish he’d kept back from the smoker.
‘Are you ordering me to learn?’ Weed asked, leaning over Arran’s shoulder as he sat mixing salt with water in a large jar on the ground.
‘No.’
Weed stuck his hands over his ears and gleefully shut his eyes. ‘Then I shan’t!’
Arran got the feeling Weed was keeping score on some imaginary tally between them. It didn’t seem to be sinking into Weed’s brain that Arran had no intention of using him. Or, perhaps it had, and the cunning fae was going out of his way to abuse that very notion.
Whatever the case, Weed played the same game over the next string of days.
Everything Arran suggested, Weed did the opposite. He took great delight in loitering outside the cave when Arran invited him in; in standing when suggested to sit; and most of all in being stubbornly idle, and yet maddeningly determined in the way he followed Arran around during the course of his daily chores.
It was far worse than when Weed simply fell asleep while Arran worked. He hadn’t been in the way then, nor obstinately talkative. Weed seemed to talk about anything, from patterns in the dirt and musings on the Shetland landscape to unwelcome studies of Arran himself.
‘What are your teeth for, if not for hunting?’ Weed asked, while trying to all but shove his head inside Arran’s jaws to inspect them up close.
