Despite this distrust, the Chrechte realized that they could die out fighting an ever-increasing and encroaching race of humanity, or they could join the Celtic clans.
They joined.
As far as the rest of the world knew, though much existed to attest to their former existence, what had been considered the Pictish people were no more.
Because it was not in their nature to be ruled by any but their own, within two generations, the Celtic clans that had assimilated the Chrechte were ruled by shape-changing clan chiefs. For the most part, the fully human among them did not know it; however, a few were trusted with the secrets of their kinsmen. Those who knew the secrets were aware that to betray the code of silence meant certain and immediate death.
That code of silence was rarely broken.
Chapter 1
reached out to wrap around the two young women listening so avidly to her every word.
Emily Hamilton tried to imagine being carried off into the wild by a werewolf, or being carried off anywhere for that matter, but couldn't. She was nineteen, well past the age when most ladies were married, or even dowered into a convent. She would spend her life as her stepmother's drudge.
She sighed. Not even a werewolf would risk Sybil's wrath to carry Emily off.
"Are there truly werewolves in the Highlands?" her younger stepsister, Abigail, asked in careful Gaelic.
Joan shook her head, nary a wisp of her gray hair peeking from the housekeeper's wimple she wore. "Nay, lass. Though if ever there were a place such monsters might thrive, it would be that harsh and hilly land."
"I thought you said the Highlands were beautiful," Emily inserted, her own Gaelic more natural than Abigail's.
But that was hardly a surprise. Her younger sister speaking at all was the result of Abigail's tenacity. When the fever had almost taken her life three years before, it had taken her hearing. It had also destroyed what existed of family harmony in Emily's home.