Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 48407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Keelan claimed to have descended from the werewolves of Ossory, a mythical Irish shapeshifter kingdom that was said to flourish in Ireland pre-Norman invasion. For a while, I wasn’t sure he was even Irish, since he played up the charming Celtic-rogue thing so much. But according to Curran, there might have been something to his Ossory claims, because Keelan was abnormally gifted as a werewolf. He had a huge warrior form, could keep it up for a long period of time, could talk while in it, and was absolutely lethal in a fight.
I’d interacted with thousands of shapeshifters in my life, and Keelan was the only shapeshifter who fought with a claymore. In the warrior form. The first time I met him, we were in the middle of a skirmish, and he just kind of waded into it. His claymore was 55 inches long, and he himself was 66 inches tall. He had pulled it off his back, looked around, and suddenly this enormous werewolf spilled out and started swinging the claymore, one-handed. It was all offense. He had zero sword training until me. He had just whipped the claymore around like it was a club, and it hadn’t hindered him any, because when a giant werewolf waved around 6 pounds of sharpened metal, it cleared his killing field in record time. It took me almost two years to make him into a half-decent swordsman.
“What are you doing here, Consort?” Keelan asked, petting Cuddles.
“I should be asking you that question. Why are you sneaking into the Farm? Are you trying to start a war?”
The shapeshifter with the bucket hid it behind him.
“What’s in the bucket?” I asked.
“Umm,” Keelan said.
Keelan had come to us a few months after our trip to the Mediterranean. He had been looking for something to do with his life, and once he’d heard the story of the Beast Lord and his glorious quest to obtain panacea for his pack, he decided to check us out. The moment he had seen Curran in a warrior form, Keelan decided he had found his purpose for living. Somehow my husband was the answer to everything Keelan was searching for. Curran, recognizing talent, had admitted him to the Pack on the condition he would give us 10 years.
And then Curran and I walked away from the Pack. Curran was Keelan’s favorite person, and I was his second favorite person, because I taught him how to use his claymore and because I was Curran’s mate. Keelan tried to separate with us, but Jim wouldn’t let him go until his contract was up. He counted on Keelan to counterbalance Desandra, the alpha of Clan Wolf. Except Keelan wanted nothing to do with being an alpha of the wolves. One time Desandra lost her patience and straight out asked him if he would ever make a bid for her spot, and he told her that only an idiot would want that job, because life was far too short for that kind of bullshit. Both Jim and Desandra tried to pull him to their respective sides, but Keelan proceeded to half-ass every task they had given him and was insufferably apathetic about werewolfing in general and following their orders in particular.
Although headquartered in Atlanta, the Pack claimed a good chunk of the southern Atlantic seaboard as their territory. Wilmington, close to that territory’s northern border, was one of the most dangerous areas because of Barrett and the Farm. The Pack maintained a minimal presence here, less than 20 people total, but all of them were highly skilled combat shapeshifters. Almost every promising render did a tour here if they wanted to move up, so when the alpha in charge of the Wilmington sub-pack had gotten herself killed, Desandra nominated Keelan as her replacement to get him out of her hair, and Jim, who’d given up on Keelan by that point, shipped him off.
And now he was sneaking onto the Farm with a bucket.
“What’s in the bucket?” I repeated.
Keelan fluttered his eyelashes at me. “The thing is…”
The cow. The cow coming out of the arena with a big-ass paw print on its butt. “Is that paint?”
Keelan surrendered to his fate. “Yes.”
“Please tell me that you aren’t tagging Barrett’s cows with your paws. Tell me you are not doing it.”
“I’m not doing it.” Keelan nodded. “He is.”
The guy with the bucket gave me a small, hesitant wave.
“It’s tradition,” Keelan said. “When new people come here from Atlanta, they tag the cows. Just to remind them we’re watching. It keeps the navigators on their toes.”
“I just saw a tagged cow,” I growled. “Why are you still here?”
“That was Selina yesterday. Today it’s Hakeem’s turn. We got two new people this time.” Keelan held up two fingers in case I couldn’t count.
My face must’ve been terrible, because Keelan raised his hands up. “It’s perfectly safe. I’m going to grab a cow and run with it to the left and Andre is going to grab another cow and run right. While they are chasing us, Hakeem will tag what’s left. They’re not expecting us for a second night in a row.”