Page 10 of The Wulver's Bond
Arran’s shoulders sagged. He’d spent so much of the past year travelling, living in the shadows on the outskirts of civilisation, avoiding human eyes and the tiresome hounding of hunters. Elsie and her crew had chased him all over Scotland. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone—to be home, finally.
He tucked the phone away. The witch was a last resort, he decided. He’d look for other solutions first.
Chapter Five
Weed awoke feeling most peculiar. He appeared to have been swallowed by a cloud, going by the pillowy softness that enveloped him. Yet his limbs were leaden and his eyelids gummed shut so tightly that at first he couldn’t prise them open. In those first few moments of warm, comfortable numbness, Weed seriously wondered if he was dead.
Eventually, he managed to unstick his eyes. He rubbed at the gritty gunk that is produced by a truly long, restful sleep. The cloud he was wrapped in turned out to be a sheepskin. He brushed his cheek against it, existing for another moment in the softness of the wool curls.
The gentle click of a cup against stone brought Weed back to reality, and alerted him that he was being watched.
Weed shot upright, blankets and skins tumbling off him in a heap. The Wulver sat by a low fire in the hearth, stirring a pot with an iron ladle.
‘Good afternoon,’ the wolfman said. ‘I hope you slept well.’
Weed pinched himself under the covers, endeavouring to snap his mind out of the comfortable fog it was still swimming in. He flashed a sharp grin. ‘Solid six out of ten, wolfie. It’s not a bad situation you have here, if you don’t mind the stink of smoke and wet fur.’
Of course, the fleeces Weed had slept under—and which his fingers unthinkingly crept to stroke—were anything but wet, andin fact smelled soothingly earthy. The smoke from the fire was well-drawn through the chimney, and only a clean herbal aroma drifted from the pot over it.
The Wulver must have known this, but refused to counter Weed’s comment. Instead, he dipped his ladle into the pot and filled a cup, which he then held out to Weed. Alongside it he offered a thick, biscuit-like slab.
‘Breakfast is rather simple today,’ the Wulver said impassively. ‘Nettle tea and hard tack, if you can stomach it. I shall catch fish for later.’
Weed’s stomach growled loudly. He winced. He was used to it being achingly empty, but somehow the memory of filling it yesterday made the renewed emptiness smart more keenly than usual.
‘Cupboards running bare, are they?’ Weed snatched the food before it could be taken away. The biscuit was horribly dry, but he gnawed through it all the same, and spoke around messy mouthfuls. ‘Gonna have to lower my review for the poor menu.’
The Wulver placed the cup at Weed’s side on the floor. ‘I have not yet been able to go out to forage for fresh food.’
‘Why not?’
‘You were sleeping.’
Weed’s chewing slowed. ‘Oh, I get it. You were worried I’d make a racket if my leash dragged me after you. Scare off all the game.’
‘No.’ The Wulver tilted his head. ‘I simply didn’t wish to wake you.’
Something weird and unfamiliar fluttered in Weed’s stomach. The hard tack settling, he presumed. Still, he suddenly couldn’t meet the Wulver’s placid gaze. Was there pity in it? Weed hated to think so.
‘I saw tins of food in your backpack,’ he said, looking to brew some argument instead. ‘Don’t worry, I wouldn’t feed me the good stuff either.’
The Wulver choked out a shocked sound. ‘That is not true.’
The wolfman stopped himself, brow and muzzle scrunching as he reconsidered his answer. ‘You are right that I have other supplies. You are welcome to see the larder. But the tinned goods are the most reliable long-life food I have—and they are precious, for I cannot retrieve them often. We get bad storms here, the kind that would keep us held in this cave for weeks, and the food outside decimated or scared off. That is what the tinned goods are for.’
The Wulver’s solemn stare bored into Weed, clearly expecting some kind of acknowledgement.
‘Emergency supplies. Got it,’ Weed mumbled back.
The wolfman relaxed, though didn’t seem entirely satisfied. He huffed to himself and disappeared, leaving Weed to finish chewing through the dry biscuit.
Weed startled as a large rucksack was dropped next to him. Logan’s rucksack.
‘This is yours,’ the Wulver grunted. ‘I have not touched the contents. They are yours to do with as you wish.’
Weed’s interest perked up. He got all of Logan’s stuff? Not that he really wanted any of the foul man’s possessions, but the thought of owningstuffintrigued Weed.
He delved straight into the bag, gleefully counting the remaining protein bars and other snacks Logan had hidden away. Logan’s clothes Weed immediately discarded—he’d burn them, if the Wulver would let him.
