War of Hearts(7)

Ashforth shook his head. A grim sadness marred the sincerity in his eyes. “We have little time to waste, Alpha MacLennan.”

Every wolf in the room tensed at the title.

History had taught werewolves that, in general, humans aware of their existence were a dangerous thing.

“You’ve got some balls to walk into pack territory and declare your knowledge of us, Mr. Ashforth,” Conall replied, his voice low with menace.

Ashforth didn’t even blink. In fact, he took a step closer to Conall. “I need your help, Chief MacLennan.”

“And why would I help a stranger? A human one at that?”

“Because your sister Caledonia is dying from a rare lycanthropic disease that no drug on earth can cure … and I can save her.”

James sucked in a breath beside Conall.

Conall’s blood began to turn molten hot, his claws itching to protract. Nothing tapped into his temper like the disease eating away at his sister. Or people who wanted to use it against him as a weakness.

The growl of his wolf entered his words. “I’d advise you to run, Mr. Ashforth.”

The man had the good sense to feel fear, the musky scent of it tickling the air. “I can prove it. Please.”

James clamped a hand on Conall’s left shoulder. He turned to look at his beta. James’s expression was bordering on pleading. “Conall.”

He looked to Peter and Sienna and said, “It appears something has come up. Can we reschedule for later this afternoon?”

“Of course.” Peter scowled at Ashforth before addressing Conall. “If you need my assistance, let me know.”

Conall nodded and the father and daughter departed the pub. Sienna threw him a curious look over her shoulder before she left, and Conall cursed the interruption. He wanted the betrothal agreement signed and done.

There were only three other wolves in the pub, sitting at a table across the room. They were three of Mhairi’s fishermen but also warrior ranked. They were alert, waiting on Conall’s orders.

“Some privacy, folks,” he said.

They nodded and left.

Grace and Angus were still in the room. Conall didn’t ask them to leave. They loved Callie like a granddaughter.

“Prove it,” he demanded of Ashforth.

A knife, hidden up his sleeve, appeared in the man’s hand, and James made to push in front of Conall. Although appreciative of the protection, he stubbornly refused to move. If the man tried to attack, Conall would kill him. End of story.

Then to Conall’s stupefaction, Ashforth opened his suit jacket, tugged his shirt out of his waistband, and lifted it to show a hard stomach—that he then plunged the knife into.

“What the fuck!” James barked, backing off at the bizarre act.

Ashforth fell to his knees as he removed the blade, thick blood slipping out of the wound. Pale and trembling, he dropped the knife and reached a shaking hand into his suit jacket. He grimaced at Conall as he pulled out a vial of what looked and smelled like blood. “This … this is the last … the last of the cure.” He threw back the blood, drinking it like a fucking vampire. Whereas a vampire wore a look of bliss upon drinking blood, Ashforth appeared nauseated.

“Watch.” He gestured to his gut.

And just like that the wound healed.

Not only that, the color returned to Ashforth’s face, and he stood, seeming stronger, appearing to vibrate with an energy he hadn’t walked in with.

Conall had never seen anything like it.

Supernaturals healed faster than humans and could survive injuries humans couldn’t but he’d never seen a supernatural heal as fast as that. Like the injury had never happened. Moreover, it wasn’t vampire or werewolf blood. Despite what television and movies would have humans believe, vampire and werewolf blood did not heal a human of injury (although vampire blood was a key ingredient in turning a human into one of them).

“What the hell was that?” James asked.

With those sincere eyes of his, Ashforth turned to Conall instead. “It was the last of the blood cure. It cures any injury, ailment, or disease, fatal or otherwise. It will cure your sister.”

The air around James changed with his fury. “Then why not give it to us?”

Conall cut him a look. Calm down, it said.

His beta glowered but nodded.

“Why do you need my help?” he asked Ashforth.

“This blood”—Ashforth shook the empty vial—“it comes from a woman. A very dangerous woman of unknown origins. I discovered her abilities when I adopted her. I …” He gestured to a seat. “May I?”

Conall nodded, taking the seat opposite the man.

“Chief MacLennan—”

“Call me Conall.”

Ashforth appeared pleasantly surprised by the offer. He nodded. “Conall, I was an ordinary man. I had no awareness of the world of the supernatural. I ran a successful telecommunications company and considered myself a blessed man. When I adopted this girl, my wife and I thought we were doing a good thing. We tried to protect her when we realized she was … different. When we discovered she had these healing abilities … well … we asked too much of her.

“My son was diagnosed with stage IV cancer. We wondered …” He looked genuinely ashamed as he stared out the window, lost in memories. “We were desperate, and we asked the girl if she would let us try her blood on our son.” He looked back at Conall, eyes wild with awe. “It worked. Her blood healed my boy. Made him stronger even. Instead of rejoicing, the girl seemed to fear us. We would never have hurt her.” Ashforth shook his head, apparently horrified by the thought. “We did, however, ask her if we could keep the vials of blood we’d taken from her, for emergencies. She agreed but I fear she misconstrued our actions.