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It should have been enough.
He set down his lantern and withdrew his silver-tipped sword.
His shield should have worked like a coat of armor, but he had been right—this was more, so much more than a werewolf. This creature wielded Dark Magic and had stalked him with purpose.
It stood a foot taller than Quinn’s six feet. It clawed the air, its amber eyes burning with bloodlust. It was drooling saliva and blood from its recent kill, and it roared with fury.
Quinn looked into its eyes and knew he was looking into the eyes of madness. It swiped at him, but its claws bounced off his shield.
Infuriated, it went down on all fours, and Quinn heard the voice, its voice, in his head as it began reciting an ancient Gaelic spell.
And then he knew.
It was tearing apart his shield with its magic.
He looked up and noted the moon was in its full glory as the feral creature attacked with a ferociousness he believed would kill him.
He picked his spot and began maneuvering it in a circle. It kept its head low and stared at his sword, which seemed to deter it.
Quinn couldn’t get over its size … huge and pulsating with power.
He studied it, trying to get its measure, its weakness. Its fur was ragged, spotted with what smelled and looked like blood.
Fangs, sharp fangs snapped as it snarled. Violence governed its purpose, and that purpose was to tear, maim, kill—and something else. Usurp. It wanted his magic. He could hear its thoughts in his head. What kind of werewolf was this?
Devour … take … take Quinn’s magic. Damn, how did it know his name? How the bloody hell could it know his name? Who was this? Weres lost all memory of themselves, their loved ones—it was part of their curse. This one was a thinking, magical beast.
He could detect nothing of the human in it. And yet, somehow, it seemed familiar, must
be familiar if it knew his name?
This thing looked to be unmistakably insane, and yet, Quinn fancied he saw purpose in its amber-lit eyes.
Would his white magic work against the beast?
Once again it attempted to slash at him. Quinn jumped out of the way, knowing he had to call on darker magic to protect himself.
He needed a ward, but he had no time to create one. He had but one chance for survival.
The silver-edged short sword he was never without.
And then the werewolf sprang into action, and Quinn sneered as he shouted, “Well then, beast—come and get it if ye be a mind to!” He plunged his sword just at the right moment directly in the center of its beating heart.
But even as the were roared and suffered excruciating pain, even as it started to fall, even as death began to take it, its jaws locked down on Quinn’s shoulder and bit—bit hard—and Quinn’s fate was sealed.
He was able to punch and beat the creature off, and he watched as it fell to the ground, rolled over onto its back, and began the transformation back into man.
Quinn saw at once it was Whelan MacPoole, clan leader of the neighboring estate. Husband to his mother’s sister.
They had never been friends throughout their family’s history. He should have known. He should have suspected. The signs had been there all along, if only he’d noticed.
Quinn bent, pulled his silver-tipped sword from the man’s heart, and stood to look up at the stars before closing his eyes.
He had been bitten.
* * *
Enjoy reading about wild witches and warlocks—Come meet Lady X
