Celtic Moon by Jan DeLima

didn’t bode well. Unfortunately, he had a lesser incident to deal with before confronting Sophie’s accusations against Siân.
    Dylan parked next to the main house; he found Enid in the kitchen, surrounded by her daughters, Lydia and Sulwen. The room reeked of fear and hostility; fear from the daughters, hostility from Enid.
    “Enid,” he ordered, not inclined to defuse their apprehension, “follow me to my office.”
    She took her time wiping the remaining dish before falling in behind him, a final defiance from an old stubborn pagan. Lydia and Sulwen tried to follow but Dylan halted them with a glare. They frowned, anxious but obedient to his silent command.
    Sophie wouldn’t have obeyed so easily, he mused inwardly. She would have either confronted the situation, if deduced worthy of her time and convictions, or, if not, simply moved on. A lack of argument didn’t necessarily mean compliance.
    It was an intriguing insight into his wife’s character, one he’d overlooked in the past, to his great regret.
    His office was located on the main floor, secured by Porter for sensitive meetings and disciplinary actions. His desk had been a gift from Koko, carved from maple, with three wolves in howling position, supporting a crescent top in the shape of a Celtic moon.
    Koko had been an incredible artist, an unknown master of her craft who chose anonymity for love. There were reminders of her throughout the house; it was no wonder his brother still mourned.
    Her spirit lingered.
    Dylan settled behind the desk and waved his hand, motioning for Enid to take a seat across from him. Enid had been with him from the beginning. He owed his brother’s life to her.
    So it was with offended bewilderment that he asked, “Why, Enid?” Her mouth opened to refute but he held up his hand. “No, don’t embarrass yourself with further lies. I sat up too many nights worrying about my wife emptying her stomach after every meal you served.”
    “That woman is weak,” she sneered. “
A temptress.
I did not believe her child was yours.”
    “And now that you’ve seen him?” he said quietly. “How did it feel to have my son laughing at your attempts to humiliate his mother?”
    Enid remained silent, her head lowered.
    “You shamed me with your abuse to my mate.”
    She shook her head, beginning to realize, as her daughters had earlier, her precarious position. “I did it for you. That woman is not worthy of you.”
    “She is my mate,” he growled. “The Goddess has found her worthy.”
    Enid looked away with a sneer, at war with her beliefs. She feared the Gods and their judgments.
    And with good reason.
    She whispered under her breath, “She is not strong enough to lead by your side.
She is not strong enough to protect us.
”
    Ah, as he had suspected, therein rested the true motive. Sophie’s kindness, in effect, had been a form of submission.
    Wolves only respected strength.
    “My wife returned for a purpose.” He had not intended to share this information until confirmed with his own eyes, but the night’s events made it necessary. “Our son has called the elements . . . I witnessed it myself today. Tomorrow night he’ll try to complete the transformation.”
    Enid snapped to face him. “That cannot be.” Her voice was thick with disbelief—
or denial
. “Do not get your hopes up on this, Dylan,” she warned. “Neither Lydia nor Sulwen was blessed with enough power to call the wolf. The disappointment is . . .
difficult
to handle. I would not wish that upon you.”
    “We’ll see,” was all Dylan said, unwilling to belittle Enid further on this issue. But on another matter . . . “My wife made several negative references to her stay in my home. I didn’t believe her until tonight.”
    He had trusted his people over Sophie, because he’d known them for centuries and her only months. The fact that at least two members of his household had mistreated his wife was an abhorrent discovery.
    He shook his