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grandmother knew much it should be impossible for her to know. For instance, she had always maintained it was only a small segment of the Faol that hunted the Éan in these modern clansmen times. The rest of the Éan had believed it was all wolves. She had been proven right.
    Fidaich harrumphed. “Maybe I should stay with the Éan here.”
    Eirik’s dragon rumbled and it came out of his chest in a growl that would rival any wolf. “You do not trust me, either?”
    He did not bother reminding his young cousin that both Fidaich’s parents were set on the move to the Sinclair holding. Nor did Eirik mention that Fidaich’s best friend andconspirator in the trouble the boys managed to find so easily was also coming. None of that mattered.
    They were cousins, but Eirik was prince. Either his Éan brethren had faith in his decisions…or they did not.
    Including his family.
    Fidaich flinched. “Of course I trust you.”
    â€œThen, you will come with me to the Sinclairs.”
    â€œAt least you would not have us live among the clan that tried to kill me.”
    Ah, the dramatic bent of a boy on the cusp of manhood. “’Twas not the entire clan.” Just two wolves with sadistic hearts and no Chrechte honor.
    Chrechte did not kill children. Enemy or not.
    That day in the forest was the first time Eirik’s dragon had killed. The two boys had gone missing and he’d joined the search party, finding them with his keener dragon senses fastest.
    And just in time as well. His dragon hearing had picked up the warrior’s threat to Fidaich and Canaul, and the sincerity behind it. Without doubt, the older wolf had meant to kill the children. Eirik had reacted with revulsion and fury. Without thought or hesitation, his dragon had incinerated two other Chrechte until naught was left but ash.
    Their screams haunted him as no ghost could ever hope to. He had protected the boys and the secret of the Éan’s prince and dragon, but the cost was not one Eirik would ever forget.
    He had not killed in battle; he had annihilated his foe with a power they could not hope to match or defend against.
    H er legs dangling over the stone edge, Ciara waited atop the lower bailey tower. One of two in the lower half of the wall surrounding the Sinclair fortress, it was the perfect vantage point for her first glimpse of the newcomers that would join her adopted clan. She was not supposed to be here, but it was a favored spot for her to find both privacy and peace.
    Most of the clan had gathered in the lower bailey both yesterday and today for the same purpose, but Ciara did not like the crush of so many around her.
    There was no crowd now. The humans and other Chrechte had gone home, disappointed once again when night fell with no sign of the newcomers. But Ciara waited as the moon rose, unable to return to the keep—her need to see these new clanspeople too strong to deny.
    As a member of the Faol, she had been told those coming were Chrechte; she strongly suspected they were Éan.
    Her dreams were not all nightmares and she had seen the birds in the sky shifting back to human form and donning the plaid of the Sinclair.
    Were these Chrechte refugees like her, looking for a new life among the Sinclair?
    Ciara hadn’t actually been looking toward anything when she came to live with Laird Talorc and his lady, Abigail. Numb with grief after her mother’s death so close on top of her dear brother Galen’s grisly demise, Ciara had simply done as she was told.
    Laird Barr had informed her she needed a new life without so many memories around her and Ciara had accepted his instruction in action, if not in her heart. She’d come to live among his former clan, the Sinclairs, without a single argument.
    What had there been to argue? Ciara had no family any longer, no loved ones to hold her among the Donegal.
    She had spent the past seven years doing her best to serve her new clan,