Page 3 of Love At First Roar
The forest answered with a shiver. A stand of beeches bowed in unison, leaves whispering his name in a language only shifters and the very old trees knew. Callum’s lion stirred, hackles lifting beneath the man-skin. Not fear, not yet. Territory. Instinct.
He dropped from the lookout, boots crunching on pine needles. Gold-and-midnight fur threatened to burst through his arms, but he kept the shift at bay, jogging along the trail instead. Patrol always calmed the beast. Tonight it barely dented the unease.
Halfway to the lake, the Veil bucked again. Magic scraped across his senses, wild and floral, like lilacs after lightning. Callum skidded to a halt. That scent had no business inside Hollow Oak. It was fresh, potent, alive.
“Who the hell are you?” he growled at the dark.
The only reply was the distant hoot of an owl—a night guard’s warning that something crossed the border. He broke into a run, branches clawing his shirt sleeves. Vines writhed in the underbrush, rooting and unrooting in frantic pulses. The forest never behaved like this unless provoked, and nobody in town was foolish enough to provoke it. Which meant outsider.
He cleared the last ridge and saw her.
A young woman lay crumpled at the lakeshore, half-lit by moonlight and the ghostly glow of the Veil. Pale hair splayed across moss like spilled starlight. Her clothes were road-dust plain with leggings torn at the knee, faded jacket, traveling boots but magic clung to her skin in a bright aura even his human eyes could read. Roots curled protectively around her ankles, easing back as he approached.
The forest was guarding her. That alone raised every alarm in his head.
“Well, sweetheart,” Callum said under his breath, “you’ve stirred up a mess.”
He knelt, careful not to touch her yet. Brambles had sliced her palms; dried blood freckled slender fingers. He caught the faintest scent of fear threaded through lilac and cedar. Not bleeding out, at least. He touched two fingers to her throat. Pulse strong, steady.
“Unconscious but stable.”
The lion bristled. Very few mages could knock themselves out without shattering bone. Whoever she was, power squatted in her bones like a sleeping dragon. When she woke, she mightblast the first thing she saw. For safety’s sake he should bind her wrists, march her straight to the Council Glade for questioning.
Instead he brushed a leaf from her cheek. The skin beneath was soft, cool. Moonlight silvered freckles across her nose.
“Damn it,” he muttered, and scooped her into his arms.
The moment he lifted her, the Veil that concealed the town shuddered again, but the tremor eased seconds later, as if the forest recognized its newest carrier. Callum adjusted his grip, one arm under her knees, the other cradling her back. She weighed little more than a bundle of herbs, yet heat pooled in his chest where she rested. The scent of lilacs deepened, edged by a note of burning.
He set off toward town at a fast walk. The path, usually winding, rearranged itself, straightening beneath his feet. Hollow Oak wanted her inside the borders. Callum muttered a soft thanks to the trees anyway.
As the rooftops came into view with cozy dormers, chimney smoke curling above lantern-lit windows, he caught a flicker of movement. Twyla Honeytree stood under the Griddle & Grind’s awning, shawl wrapped tight against the chill. Her brown eyes widened.
“Evenin’, Ranger,” she called. “Bringing home strays?”
“Found her by the lake. Veil’s in a temper.”
Twyla’s gaze softened when she spied the unconscious woman. “Poor love looks wrung out. Hearth & Hollow’s got empty beds tonight. Miriam will fuss.”
“Counted on that.” Callum jerked his chin toward the inn. “Wake Varric while you’re at it. He’ll want to know.”
“Already sent a sprite.” Twyla’s smile flashed impish. “Council elder’ll be waiting in his nightclothes. Go on, big cat, get her tucked safe.”
Callum grumbled something about matchmakers and nosey fae but lengthened his stride. Cobblestones clicked under hisboots as he crossed the quiet square. The town smelled of chamomile steam, fresh bread cooling on windowsills, damp earth kissed by fog. Normally the comfort of it wrapped him like a blanket. Tonight it felt fragile.
At Hearth & Hollow, he nudged the brass knocker with an elbow. The door swung open before it struck wood. Miriam Caldwell appeared, silver hair pinned in a messy bun, spectacles perched on the end of her nose.
“Land sakes, Callum, what have you dragged in?”
“Found her on Veil patrol. Unresponsive but breathing. Need a room and hot water.”
The widow’s sharp gaze swept over the girl, cataloguing every bruise. “Room three is clean. Bring her.”
Inside, flickering hearthlight painted the foyer in amber. Lace curtains fluttered in a draft. The inn always smelled of cinnamon and soapstone, a comforting counterpoint to the wild outside woods. Callum carried the stranger up narrow stairs. Floorboards creaked; the sound echoed like memories. He remembered bringing wounded shifters here during the Briar Pack skirmishes years ago. Miriam had never lost a patient.
Room three held a quilt-draped bed, a washstand, and a window overlooking town square. Callum laid the woman down. Miriam bustled in with a basin and cloths.
“Fetch the tonic from the shelf in the hall,” she ordered.
