Seduced by the Highland Werewolf

Chapter One

DUNCAN O'CAHA LIFTED his beer and took a swig, letting the cool liquid move down his throat as he put his other hand on the old oak table. He tapped his finger to the beat of the music that was playing throughout the establishment.

For as dumpy as the bar was, it had small touches that were far from low-end. Such was the case with the table. While it was old, it had been hand-carved. Time had been spent on the piece. Someone with a steady hand and a passion for the craft had labored over it. He could spot good craftsmanship a mile away, thanks to a number of his family members who were woodworkers in their spare time.

The top of the table was extremely worn from use and age, yet the legs weren't in such poor shape. They still held a good deal of detail. Small Celtic symbols were carved into them, each emblematic of power, battle, and eternity. Everything that reminded him of his kind.

Of druids.

He took another sip of his beer as he continued to survey the bar. For the most part, the crowd in attendance was much like him. Rough around the edges and not very chatty. Each had an air about them that said they didn't want attention drawn to themselves unnecessarily, and he got the distinct impression it was because they didn't want issues with the law.

A common occurrence with the circles he ran in.

It wasn't as if Duncan wasn't guilty of having his fair share of dustups with the authorities over the span of his exceptionally lengthy life. Seven hundred years was a long time to roam the earth. More than enough time to find trouble and have trouble find him.

And it had.

More than once.

Over the course of his life, he'd spent time in various prison cells. Too many to really recall the number. Sometimes it was for legit reasons. Other times it was because of something stupid the person with him had done or simply from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Guilt by association was a very real thing, and he associated with some guilty people.

He snorted.

From the looks of it, so did most of the people in the establishment with the exception of a few. Namely, a group of college boys near the front of the bar who did nothing but talk endlessly and were about as scary as baby lambs right before the slaughter. He knew the boys were in college because a number of them were wearing clothing from their university, and they'd been proudly telling anyone and everyone who would listen that they were fraternity brothers and students.

Not that everyone hadn't surmised as much for themselves from the number of times the boys had launched into their fight song. They seemed to take great pride in the fact they were from a Big Ten school.

Assholes.

There was a table full of bikers sitting close to the college boys, and Duncan had to laugh at the looks of annoyance the boys were drawing. If they didn't stop with their entitled behavior, they were likely to end up on the wrong side of the bikers' temperament.

His gaze drifted in the direction of the entrance, as he awaited the arrival of his cousin who was running late—as usual. He was just happy Liam hadn't been there to witness him taking a big gulp of shitty beer and nearly spitting it everywhere. No doubt his cousin would have recorded it and sent it to everyone they knew.

Normally, Duncan wasn't a fan of any locally brewed beers, especially with the hipster craze of blending flavors that he didn't feel went together, but the one he drank now wasn't bad. It had a hint of lemon to it. It was far better than the coffee-flavored beer the waitress had brought him by mistake some fifteen minutes prior. He could still taste it and wondered if he'd ever be able to wash the taste away or if it would stick with him forever.

He shuddered.

Coffee-flavored beer?

What was next?

Popcorn-flavored?

Black licorice?

They both more than likely already existed.

Och, I sure the hell hope they're nae something that's real.

Hipsters seemed to go to great pains to find things that should not go together and try to make them catch on. And to make the old relevant once again.

His stomach twisted. Alpha men did not drink coffee-flavored beer. At least no alphas he knew did. Only skinny-jean-wearing boys did.

Classic rock music pumped through the dive bar's substandard sound system. There was a cracking every time a guitar solo came on. His guess was, the sound system was as old as the bar. It was more than likely held together by duct tape, dust, spider webs, and sheer willpower.

Much like the bar.

As the legendary rock front man Robert Plant hit a high note, Duncan moved his head along with the beat. That was as close to dancing as he got. Unless he was shit-faced and surrounded by his brothers and cousins. Anything was possible then. Once, he'd started off partying in Scotland and woke up in Australia.

Thankfully, that was before the advent of social media, or he was sure his misspent youth would have been viral by this point.

Guid times.

The music kept going and Duncan continued to do his version of dancing, despite never leaving his seat. The band sang about the elder race, and Duncan couldn't suppress a grin, always having enjoyed the band, especially with their obvious like of magikal creatures, as noted by the themes and lyrics of a number of their songs.

They'd fucking love him if they ever met him. After all, he was the real deal. Magik personified. What they'd see as the elder race, for lack of a better label. Duncan was more than met the eye.

Something most humans couldn't wrap their fragile minds around, beyond their comprehension.

An immortal druid sorcerer.

A man born in another time and place.

A man who could change forms into a wolf and who struggled daily with the beast he carried within.

And a man who possessed magik.

At times, the wolf and the magik were at odds with one another. Thankfully, now wasn't one of those moments. Although the wolf and his magik side had been butting heads more and more as of late.

Duncan was in the home stretch of his mission —even though he wasn't a hundred percent sure what that mission was. But he felt it in his bones that the end was drawing near. Hopefully that didn't mean his death was on the horizon. That would certainly suck ass.

If I die now, I die now.

Shrugging, he drank more of his beer. He'd eluded death for hundreds of years. His time would come due. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. But it would certainly come to pass.

As would everyone's eventually.

He waggled his brows at his "happy" thoughts.

If his cousin Liam ever got his ass to the bar, like he was supposed to already be, he'd be the first to tell Duncan he was being morbid—again.

He checked his watch once more.

While the night was still early, the sun having only just set two hours prior, his wolf wanted to run free and frolic in the moonlight.

He wasn't entirely sure what in the hell frolicking entailed, but he was positive his wolf was into that shit. Regardless, the wolf wanted free. It wanted to run under the moon's rays—something he'd denied it for five full cycles of the moon. It wasn't pleased in the least with him, as noted by the pressure it created in his chest, letting him know it was still there, lurking just below the surface and, if Duncan wasn't mindful, the wolf would take charge —despite the black magik runes he was using in an attempt to subdue the beast.

His wolf was as old as he was. That meant the wolf was no slouch. No wimpy, sniveling animal. It was fierce. And it didn't like being denied. He couldn't blame it. He'd be pissed if roles were reversed. Which had happened more than once in his life span.

His wolf could be as big of a dick as him.

Sometimes an even bigger one—which was saying something for sure.

They both had a lot of practice at perfecting the art and were Grade-A douchebags when need be— sometimes even when it wasn't called for.

A grin touched his lips as pride welled in him over being a dick.

He wore the label with honor.

Most days.

Chapter Two

WHILE DUNCAN HAD BEEN alive just over seven hundred years, he appeared to be only in his early to mid-thirties. It was typical for his kind to stop aging then, to be forever locked in that state. He would remain that way for eternity. Or until a dark mage or another of his enemies finally won and killed him. That, or his own people had to hunt and destroy him.

That was a very real possibility.

Especially with his calling: serving the side of good, policing its magikal community, while protecting nature, mankind, and aiding in the instruction of new generations of magiks. The perks were immortality and magik. The downsides were also immortality and magik. Both brought with them a set of challenges.

For one, it was difficult to have any sort of meaningful relationships with a human. Not that he found any of them particularly interesting enough to bother with. Still, the not-aging bit tended to become noticeable after a time. And magik was a fickle beast. While he considered himself a master of the craft, there were times he felt as if he was no more than a mere custodian of power. That the magik was too wild to ever be tamed or fully harnessed. That it was simply biding its time with him, waiting for the perfect moment to burst free and control the man.

As of late, that time felt as if it was drawing closer and closer by the second.

Magik was both light and dark. After seven hundred years, the darkness ate at him. It had beat at his resolve slowly for centuries and had finally made an ample dent in his armor. He knew it wouldn't be much longer before he fully succumbed to the lure of dark magik.

The seductive pull to dabble already had him in its clutches. Already he felt the desire to cast another dark spell, to draw upon the darkness for additional power and strength. Just a little spell. Just enough to take the edge off his insatiable hunger.

A hunger for what, he wasn't sure. All Duncan knew was he wanted something more out of life. And if he didn't figure it out soon, he'd be the next evil entity his family hunted.

The next ultimate threat.

Not that the world had a shortage of them or anything. There were plenty to go around. Some asshole was always waiting in the wings to make a power grab. They never learned. A fair number of the assholes had once been people he'd thought of as friends. Power had corrupted them past the point of redemption—just as it was threatening to do to him as well. The rest had been evil pricks to start with and only living up to their full potential.

Their mothers had to be so proud.

For as long as there had been evil, there were warriors of good, fighting to protect the innocent. Humans didn't realize how lucky they were. Men like Duncan put their lives on the line to assure humans were safe, and they never even realized they were at risk. If mankind ever understood exactly what was out there, they'd shit themselves.

"Aye, they'd totally shite themselves for sure."

Whenever he finally succumbed and lost his battle with his growing darkness, he'd be sure to avoid clichéd bad-guy moves. One of the worst was when they announced their intentions and made ridiculous threats. Rue-the-day types were long-winded and bored the hell out of him. He really wished they'd just shut up and do their evil-doing. It made killing them that much sweeter.

If only evil would take constructive criticism.

His life would be so much easier.

A man in his early twenties walked past, in the direction of the restrooms. The guy didn't exactly fit in at the dive bar. If Duncan was right, he and his buddies were slumming it for the sake of excitement.

Probably a way to rebel against Daddy, who was no doubt footing the bill for their college education.

The boy—because there was no way he qualified as a man—had on light blue skinny jeans and a T-shirt with a gaming logo. Over the T-shirt, he wore a button-up shirt, that was not buttoned. That shirt had small blue old-style bicycles all over it. Honest-to-the-goddess bicycles, paired with pants so tight Duncan wasn't sure how the boy wasn't singing soprano.

Who on earth thought it was a good idea to squeeze a man's balls in a denim vise? Did the maker have no desire to ever reproduce? Whatever it was, skinny jeans seemed as if they were a barbaric form of self-inflicted torture, and he'd never be caught dead in them.

No thank you.

He preferred his balls to be as free as possible, which was why he passed on wearing underwear. The only way he was ever truly comfortable was when he was in his tartan. Riding his motorcycle in a kilt was an issue, so he made do with jeans.

The boy nodded to the row of empty beer bottles on Duncan's table. "Nice. Have you tried the coffee-flavored one? It's great."

Duncan let his gaze go hard. The boy was the reason he'd gotten a coffee beer earlier? The bottle of it had no doubt been headed in the boy's direction to start with.

The bad taste in Duncan's mouth was the kid's fault.

He now had a target.

Someone to blame.

A slow, deep growl emanated from Duncan as he set his sights on the man.

The boy swallowed hard and took a step back before rushing off to the restroom. He was smarter than he looked, and he looked like he'd break in a strong wind. Not to mention he was sporting a handlebar moustache with a haircut that he'd no doubt paid too much for. One that didn't know if it wanted to commit to long or short, so it mixed the two—poorly at that.

Duncan set the empty beer bottle next to the others on the table, which were accumulating nicely, and leaned back, propping his feet on another chair. He picked up a dart from the row of them lying on the table, and aimed at the dartboard that was about fifty feet from him on the wall. He didn't bother to stand. He threw the dart and it hit the board dead center. He repeated the action, this time hitting the previous dart, making it fall to the floor.

Bullseye.

Boredom gnawed at him as he took a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the table and ate them. Even with being immortal, he didn't want to chance eating the food the dump served. Everything coming out of the kitchen smelled old and long past its date. How anyone could order and eat it was beyond him.

His stomach twisted just thinking about it.

Yet the proof that humans were dumb enough to eat anything went by him on the tray the waitress carried to a table in the back corner. The fools seated at it would all be dealing with a nasty case of food poisoning later.

The bar was bottom of the barrel, and Duncan wasn't sure it had ever actually had what could be termed a heyday. He suspected it had been run-down and held together by sheer will since its inception. He knew it hadn't changed any in the last two decades. He'd been in it before, nearly twenty years ago. It was as shitty then as it was now.

He wasn't entirely sure why he was back at the hole in the ground. All he knew was he'd been dreaming about it for three weeks and couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to be there. That something big was coming, and he should be there for its arrival.

What that something was, he didn't know.

His luck it would be an archenemy, or a new threat. He'd probably played right into their hands by coming to the establishment.

Oh well. It wouldn't be the first time that kind of shit had happened.

Wouldn't be the last either.

Decades ago, he'd been in the area hunting dark mages who had aligned themselves with blood-drinkers and moon-crazed shifters. The entire group had been rotten to the core, sacrificing innocents to build their power base before unleashing a demon.

The area was home to one of his biggest regrets. Had he only been quicker in getting to the location long ago, he might have been able to save the young family that had fallen prey to the dark ones. As it had been, Duncan had arrived too late, finding the young couple dead.

He'd only been able to save their child. A little girl who was maybe eight or nine at the time, if that. Most kids looked alike to him, and he often thought teenagers who were driving seemed to be about ten years old, so he wasn't a great judge of age anymore.

When Duncan had found himself with a small child, whose parents had died at the hands of the demon the dark mages had released, he'd been at a loss as to what to do with her. He barely took care of himself most days. Seeing to another's needs had been foreign to him. Plus, he wasn't good with children, scaring the majority of the ones he'd ever been around without meaning to, so he'd called in help straightaway.

The help had been his grandmother.

The woman more than knew her way around a child. She'd had enough boys of her own in her long life. And they, in turn, had so many boys of their own that the O'Caha clan was fairly large.

Their grandfather had once been in charge of everything, at least that's what their grandmother had let him believe. When he'd passed, she'd taken over. Duncan strongly suspected the woman had always been the one holding the reins, that she'd simply permitted their grandfather and every other male in the family to think otherwise.

She didn't look anywhere near her age (a number he wasn't even sure of). None of the O'Cahas did.

His grandmother had helped Duncan with the little girl he'd saved from the demon. She'd seen to it the young child was placed in a good home. He'd asked about the child more than once over the years, but his grandmother was tight-lipped on the matter, informing him that all was as it should be and the child had been relocated to another town within Ohio.

Since the dive bar he was currently sitting in was also in Ohio, the child had, of course, been on his mind once more. Not to mention this weekend marked the nineteen-year anniversary of the attack. He'd never been able to fully shake the memory of it all from his head.

He'd never forgiven himself for arriving too late to save the kid's parents. There had been very little left of the father to even identify. The mother hadn't fared much better. The demon that had attacked them had been savage. To this day, Duncan still couldn't wrap his mind around how the little girl had walked away without a scratch.

It was as if the goddess herself had wrapped her arms around the wee one, protecting her from harm. Whatever it had been, Duncan was thankful for it.

The demon that had killed the young couple— and who would have done the same to the little girl if afforded the opportunity—had managed to escape.

He'd hunted for the demon for years, to no avail.

Now he was back in the area.

Just like before, dreams had been what prompted his arrival. Though this time he wasn't ignoring the pull of the dreams. The minute he'd realized the location, and that he'd been there before, Duncan had dropped everything and come. He didn't want the blood of another family on his hands.

They were red enough.

Just like nearly twenty years ago, Alban Eiler was upon them. It was known to draw out the power hungry, the wayward, and the dregs of the supernatural community.

Duncan strongly suspected this Spring Equinox would bring about one hell of an opponent.