Souls to Heal Read online

  Souls to Heal

  Highland Wolves book 4

  Tilly Wallace

  SOULS TO HEAL © 2018 by Tilly Wallace

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Highland Wolves

  1. Secrets to Reveal

  2. Kisses to Steal

  3. Layers to Peel

  4. Souls to Heal

  * * *

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  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  One month later

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  This book is written using British English

  * * *

  Alice’s terrier is called Eilidh.

  In Scottish Gaelic it means “light”, and is pronounced AY-LEE

  Prologue

  Ewan

  Vitoria, Spain. June 1813

  * * *

  Most horses would flee if a predator landed on their backs, but not the equines ridden by the Highland Wolves. Their horses stood patiently beneath their lycanthrope riders while the mounts of other troops whinnied and jigged, unable to settle with the Unnatural creatures so close.

  Captain Ewan Shaw held his reins in loose fingers, hands crossed over the pommel of his saddle as he watched a horse farther down the line rear and unseat its rider. Ewan experienced a moment of envy as the rider stood and brushed dirt from his uniform. He ached to shift position and relieve tired muscles, but he resisted the urge. Fellow soldiers admired his sang-froid, and he wasn’t going to put his reputation in jeopardy by squirming like a new recruit. He would endure numb buttocks while the same bored look graced his features.

  In 1812, after two years of keeping the Highland Wolves a military secret, the army finally decided to let their hounds off the tight leash. For more than a year they had struck fear into the enemy. They rode hard towards the French as men, then stood on the saddle and shifted mid-jump so that enormous wolves flew over their horses’ ears.

  Covert missions under the blanket of darkness were replaced with frontal assaults in full daylight. The Highland Wolves were dotted among the regular cavalry so the French had no way of knowing where the Unnatural assailants would appear.

  While the French had their own monsters, their counter efforts were hampered by the sunlight aversion of their vampyres. The older ones were only weakened by bright light, but the youngsters smoked like wet, green wood on a fire.

  Some days Ewan though he might die of boredom waiting for something to happen. Their secret missions were quick and decisive. Regular battles with the other troops involved an inordinate amount of sitting around and staring at your fingernails. At times, battles required more orchestration than the most lavish of balls. Just as matrons spent hours pondering seating layouts, the generals undertook a similar exercise in their tents, except markers denoted troops rather than bachelors and debutantes.

  Ewan had been in the saddle since before dawn, watching the sun flicker over the horizon as they mustered. Distant cannon droned constantly like fat bees in summer. It was past noon, and the generals still hadn’t emerged from their tents. Dare he look at his pocket watch, or would that betray his boredom? It was hard work maintaining an air of ennui and indifference.

  They were arranged in neat parade rows, but the fellow cavalrymen around him shifted, wriggled, and muttered. Whispers of wolf swirled around him. The wolves were dubbed savage beasts by the rest of the army, much to Ewan’s chagrin. His wolf was lethal and efficient; there was nothing savage about it. He also bathed on a regular basis which, judging by the smell wafting off the other soldiers, could not be said of them.

  It was difficult to maintain a civilised reputation when your unit contained rough brutes like Alick Ferguson, who sat his horse virtually naked. Only the strip of plaid around his waist and tossed over his shoulder provided scant modesty. It was pointless trying to force him into a uniform that would be torn apart and scattered on the battlefield. But the generals wanted the dramatic impact of riders transforming, and that came with a hefty cost—a new uniform for each man every time they had to shift mid-gallop without the opportunity to remove their clothing first.

  The bloody reputation of the Highland Wolves had other benefits. Their captain rose to major and behind him, Ewan stepped from lieutenant to captain. More unexpected was the sheer number of men wanting to join their ranks.

  Bloody fools, Ewan thought. To be a wolf was to be reviled by most of society who thought you would shed on their furnishings. To spend your existence chained to a beast that would enact your deepest and darkest fears should it ever break loose.

  The major instituted a probationary period for any soldier wishing to become one of the Highland Wolves. New recruits were assessed for their suitability to life as an Unnatural creature. While parliament gave them the same rights as any other Englishman, it could not make men treat them as equals. Better that new prospects see the naked underbelly of their lives and turn tail than change men who would daily regret their choice.

  It took a special type of man to survive the bite. He had to hold himself still while the lycanthrope took his throat in its massive jaws. The wolf would bite down, tearing through skin and tendon and ripping open veins. The beast worried at the wound until blood poured forth. Then the creature would bite its own tongue and drool blood and saliva into the open wound, transferring the lycanthrope sickness to a new body.

  And that was only the beginning of the excruciating pain awaiting the new recruit.

  Some never survived their first transformation. The process of bones breaking and reforming, and skin tearing itself inside out turned a few into insane beasts. They had to be put out of their misery lest they go on unstoppable rampages. Major Logan hoped the probation period would weed out those unsuitable to be lycanthropes. The major took responsibility for turning the recruits himself. No longer did they use the wild beast from the Highlands that had been captured by a mage, and who had made the foundation members of the wolves' regiment.

  Ewan’s fingers curled on the reins, the only outward sign of his inner restlessness. He glanced around him, spotting the wolves interspersed with the regular cavalry. They didn’t need the distinctive tartan strip on their trousers—the stillness of their mounts showed the horses were used to carrying unusual riders.

  Major Hamish Logan was to his left with the newest recruit, a tough lad from Glasgow who took the bite with the ease of someone with lycanthropy in their family history. Some of them switched between man and beast as fluidly as a diver who never rippled the surface of a pool. The older wolves had spent weeks drilling the newest member in how to change forms while jumping from his horse, but this was his first batt
le and he had yet to be blooded.

  Down the line to Ewan’s right were sergeants Alick Ferguson and Quinn Muir. At least Quinn wore a uniform, unlike the rough Highlander with his scarred face. The two sergeants, along with Hamish and Ewan, composed a small band that undertook suicidal and secret missions. They were usually successful and to date only had one failure that haunted Ewan.

  In his mind, he saw the British vampyre who had his neck torn out by Alick and a hole in his chest you could stick your fist through, courtesy of Alick’s wildcat mate. The traitor had disappeared behind a wall of flames, and yet they found no sign of him in the smouldering rubble of the fire. At odd moments, Ewan found himself wondering what happened to the turncoat.

  Bad pennies always turn up. Eventually.

  Ewan’s horse snorted and shook its head, and he scratched its wither.

  “Soon, boy, soon,” he murmured to the eager mount. Both horse and rider needed to stretch cramped muscles.

  In answer to Ewan’s quiet words, a change fell over the battlefield. The enemy’s cannon fell silent. Men looked from one to another, and then the earth rumbled as a new sound washed over them—the steady march of thousands of boots as troops were mobilised.

  Ewan’s pulse quickened. His hand tightened on the reins. He waited, poised for a command to charge that was only moments away. Down the line, Alick tipped back his head and roared, causing the horses around him to startle sideways.

  “Is he really married to a fine lady, sir?” the soldier next to Ewan asked.

  “Sergeant Ferguson is wed to the daughter of a duke no less, as difficult as it is to believe.” Despite his fine-born wife, Alick had kept his rough edges. Or perhaps he maintained them by rubbing on her sharp tongue.

  Even the brute whose beast shimmered close to the surface had managed to find a mate. Both halves of man and beast were given peace and shelter by the woman who loved him. Yet Ewan, for all his supposed gifts and graces, remained unwed.

  Finally, the order to advance was relayed along the line. The air became charged like during a storm when lightning built in the sky. The excitement of hundreds of men relayed to their mounts, and they danced and jogged on the spot, pulling reins, munching on their bits and eager for their heads.

  Urging their horses forward at a walk, the cavalry advanced to the brow of a hill. Ewan nudged his horse into a trot and those around him followed, holding their line steady as they rode the gentle slope. As they hit the wide field, Ewan spurred his horse into a gallop. He had no sabre to draw like those around him because such a weapon was useless in his other form.

  The French foot soldiers were packed tight, shoulder-to-shoulder. Ewan grinned as their men had trouble firing. The closed ranks didn’t give them sufficient room to raise their rifles.

  As he advanced, Ewan kicked his feet free of the stirrups and rose up in his saddle. He dropped the reins as he stood, the horse well trained to hold its line. Ewan touched the beast inside him and drew a deep breath. He jumped and at the same time allowed the beast to rise up through him.

  Clothes and skin fell to the ground to be trod into the dirt by the following horses and men. He shifted form and continued over his horse’s head. The French soldiers before him faltered as the beast launched at them.

  Rifles and sabres were useless when men were packed so tight. The wolf with midnight fur and blue eyes lashed out with massive jaws. He snapped bones—arms, legs . . . whatever he could reach, as he ploughed through the enemy.

  While the large auburn wolf that contained Alick howled with blood lust, Ewan’s wolf remained detached. He downed a man and moved on to the next one. Alick would waste valuable time smearing the enemy’s blood over his muzzle as the berserker rage took hold of him.

  An enemy officer stood at the rear, a pistol in his outstretched hand. Ewan snarled. Something about this one was different. He wrinkled his nose as he caught a faint whiff unlike smells of blood, excrement, and gunpowder that threatened to overwhelm. The officer had the taint of rotten meat about him.

  Ewan shifted his weight and then sprang from his powerful hind muscles. The French officer fired his pistol as Ewan soared through the air. At first he thought the bullet had missed him, then fire bloomed over his right flank. He cried out and dropped awkwardly. The leg dragged behind him as pain crept along the bone and towards his spine.

  He snarled and lashed out, the wolf unable to understand why this bullet hurt more than others it had shaken off over the last year. He shook his head, trying to clear the mist that descended. His body no longer obeyed his commands, and his legs collapsed under him.

  At that moment, a riderless horse barrelled through the soldiers. A man struck out with a sabre, severing the artery in the horse’s neck. It buckled and went down, the animal tumbling to one side and over the top of the injured wolf.

  The air escaped from wolf-Ewan’s lungs with a whoosh as he hit the ground with half a ton of horse weighing him down. He tried to draw gasps of air through his compressed torso. Pain rippled through his body, spreading through his veins until he burned from the inside.

  The wolf howled. It could no longer hold its form. Fur and claws vanished to be replaced by a naked man, trapped under the dying horse. Broken ribs pressed into Ewan’s lungs, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t draw enough breath. The horse expired and rolled to one side, crushing Ewan’s outstretched arm.

  The French officer advanced, his pistol extended. Whatever the weapon contained, it was capable of downing a wolf. Ewan needed to warn his brothers. The French mages had created a weapon to target them.

  As Ewan struggled to breathe and the fire ate at his body, a strange thing happened. The world stopped turning on its axis and time suspended itself. The rest of the battle faded into darkness, leaving only Ewan and the Frenchman. They became starring players on a stage, acting under the spotlight while the rest of the audience watched in the shadows.

  In those few seconds, Ewan experienced relief that he would be the one to die and not one of the other wolves who were his blood brothers. That mattered to him, for they were well loved. At least he wouldn’t take a woman’s heart with him to his grave.

  When he lost his mother as a lad, winter had descended on his soul. His heart froze and he had never loved again. Now, as he waited for the final shot to pierce his chest, he wondered what it would be like, to love and be loved in return. But no woman could ever love a broken monster like him; he had held them all at arm’s length for years.

  Imminent death is a strange thing. In those long seconds while he waited, he swore he heard his mother whispering in his ear.

  “But what of a woman who is made of shattered pieces?” she asked. “What if tiny shards from a broken woman could pierce the cracks in your soul?”

  There was a puzzle. Did it take a broken woman to love a broken man? But if a woman were as broken as he, surely she would likewise be incapable of love? These were questions he could ponder for all of eternity, since he was about to greet his mother in Heaven. He wondered if he would be a man when he saw her, a wolf, or perhaps God might return him to the body of the ten-year-old boy who had cried for his mother.

  Pain seared through his body, blood thrummed in his ears louder than a trumpet, and the world resumed its spinning. The French officer’s finger tightened on the trigger, and Ewan’s vision went black.

  1

  Alice

  Northamptonshire, December 1813

  * * *

  Nightmares dwelt in the shadows. If Alice stepped too close or turned her back, they crept over her and pulled her under a wave of desolation. Yet at the same time, the dense foliage lured her near with its promise of encompassing embrace. The rustling of dead leaves on naked branches whispered of secrets to be told, and ancient trees contained magic carved in their trunks.

  Four generations before, a powerful mage had been born in Alice’s family. A trace of that power flowed through the blood of the generations following a mage and emerged as different talen
ts. Alice’s main gift was finding the lost and its inverse, hiding things.

  Two years before, she had torn apart and hidden something immeasurably valuable—her soul. A soul eater had wanted to consume her, and she used her mage-blood gift to foil him, but at a huge price. Now she was a broken thing, searching for her lost pieces.

  She walked a delicate path hiding among the trees like a woodland sprite, dancing free of the darkness that tried to capture her. Eilidh barked at her heels. The little grey terrier was her constant guardian. Always alert to danger, she chased her mistress from the denser forest back into the watery winter sunshine.

  Free of the shadowy foliage, Alice closed her eyes and spread her arms, letting the pale sun caress her face. Her once-alabaster skin was now tinted a shade of honey from her time spent roaming outside. Women in London, whether aristocratic or from the demimonde, would be scandalised; her lack of care for her appearance was so working class. In a world where status meant everything, milky white skin spoke of a life of ease and luxury.

  Alice revelled in darkening her face. It placed another brick in the wall she built between her former life and the one she now led. No one would compare the ethereal young courtesan who had been the toast of London to the otherworldly creature who ran barefoot through the fields of rural England and Scotland. Although she currently wore boots in deference to winter’s frosty bite.