Treagar's Redemption

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Treagar’s Redemption.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 2015 © Isobelle Cate

  Published by Isobelle Cate

  isobellecate@gmail.com

  Manchester, United Kingdom

  Cover by Jennifer Munswami

  J.M. Rising Horse Creations

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address above.

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  Printed in the United Kingdom

  First Edition

  Treagar’s Redemption

  Marcus Theodoric Treagar is a sabretooth with a curse that has him traveling through time, leaving a trail of dead bodies. Not only that, but as soon as he falls in love, he is wrenched away from that period and returned to 16th century Venice. To save the last remaining piece of his heart, he refuses to become involved again.

  Until Paisley Halleran.

  As the daughter of the shifter chronicler, Paisley Halleran knows that magick and the paranormal abound in Woodland Creek. With her adopted brother, Virgil Rowtag, they fight for every shifter’s rights in the area. When Paisley comes face to face with Marcus, who has been arrested for a murder he does not remember committing, she believes he is innocent. Marcus, on the other hand, knows he has finally found the woman truly meant for him.

  However, not everything is cut and dried. Paisley unearths tragic secrets and lies that link her to Marcus. Not only will it show her whether Marcus is truly innocent or guilty of the murders in Woodland Creek, it will also spell the difference between staying with Marcus because she wants to, or letting him go because she has no choice.

  Acknowledgements

  Treagar’s Redemption would not have been possible had it not been for Jennifer Stevens inviting me to write for the Woodland Creek paranormal anthology, and Scarlett Dawn, the brains behind this project. I am forever grateful to you both.

  To my editor, Emily A. Lawrence. You push the bar of excellence higher all the time. Thank you for making Paisley and Marcus’ story the best that it can be.

  To Cate’s Renegades, thank you for your support and understanding and for sharing the word about my stories.

  To my beta readers, and bloggers who took a chance on reading my books, your opinions on how to make the stories better have been valuable.

  To my readers and those who are new to my novels, thank you for supporting my incredible journey.

  To my family. Thank you for keeping up with me, for your understanding, and your unwavering support. I love you both.

  Isobelle Cate

  September 2015

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Woodland Creek

  Author’s Bio

  For more maps and information, please visit the

  Woodland Creek Website

  http://woodlandcreekseries.com/

  ..

  Venezia, 1580

  The sounds of the lute and harp melodiously synchronized filtered into the huge ballroom of Marcus Treagar’s palatial home. The stringed quartet sat on the mezzanine that overlooked the dance floor, where men in their stockinged feet and women with their sky high headdresses danced in tandem with the music. Jewels dripped from the women throats, ears, and wrists. Pearls adorned the linings of the men’s coats. All of them reminded Marcus of the numerous galleries he had been fortunate to have seen. Did fortune really shine on him? The side of his mouth lifted sardonically to one side. Admittedly, his curse had its advantages.

  “Marcus,” his uncle called him from across the room. Marcus raised his crystal goblet and it glinted in the candlelight, enough to rival the jewels displayed on the bodies of the revellers. Swarovski’s craftsmanship was impeccable. The next time he got pulled in time, he would bring more of the company’s goods and sell them in a time before the crystal had ever been created.

  He was a Venetian merchant, after all.

  His uncle meandered through the crowd.

  “Scusi, scusi,” Euric Treagar said. He was in a jovial mood, greeting his acquaintances in a booming voice as he made his way through the throng. The crowd had to part when he passed, otherwise he would not be able to get his rotund belly sideways. His neck disappeared beneath the frilly lace around his throat, and his maroon, brocaded silk coat had traces of crumbs that fell from the food he consumed since early that evening. “Ahh…Caro nipote. A success as always.”

  “No doubt, due to your influence and social contacts, zio,” Marcus replied before taking a sip of the red wine.

  “Pah,” Euric said with a dismissive wave of his hand that held his goblet. The decadent liquid sloshed over the rim to spill on the floor. “Everyone wants to be my friend because of you.” The flicker of resentment in Euric’s eyes was not lost on Marcus.

  Sighing, Marcus placed an arm around his uncle’s fleshy shoulder. “Why do you persist on being envious of a good fortune that has blessed us both? During the times I have been pulled backward and forward by Kronos, you have kept everything afloat.” He shook his uncle in affection. “I am not the brains of the enterprise, signore. You are. I am only the procurer of goods.”

  His uncle’s shoulders slumped, the resentment leaving him like a coat slithering down to the ground. “Ahh, Marcus, forgive the mood swings of an old—”

  “Sabretooth?” Marcus whispered kindly. “We are hardly old. You and I? We are ancient.”

  His uncle chortled, good spirits returning. “That we are.” He took a huge gulp from his silver goblet encrusted with tiny sapphires. “I came over to introduce you to someone. She is….bellissima.” With his other hand, he placed his fingers to his pursed mouth and kissed them before blowing it to the air.

  “Matchmaking, again?” Marcus asked on a breath. He rubbed his chest where a dull pain began to throb. “I’d rather not have a woman in my bed and risk falling for her. My heart has been broken more times than I care to count. I do not want to risk the only piece I have left.”

  “But—”

  “No, signore.” Marcus’ amber eyes hardened. “Per favore, we shall not speak of this again.”

  “I wasn’t going to persuade you to do otherwise, nipote.” Euric assured, rushing into his speech. “You know I have never been a passionate man when it comes to women. Food…that is another matter.” His eyes turned glassy as though transported to a place he would rather be. “I only want to know, would it matter if you neve
r loved again? If that piece of your heart left becomes a cold place?”

  Marcus perused his guests without seeing them. They had no inkling of his turmoil as they partook of his food and drink.

  “Simple, zio. I lose my humanity. I would likely remain a sabretooth and succumb to my beast’s primitive urges than remain human and be a shell of the man I used to be.”

  * * *

  Woodland Creek, 2015

  “Dad!” Paisley entered the house, her body thrumming with agitation. “Dad, where are you?”

  “Kitchen,” he called back.

  Paisley heard the snap of a soda can and rolled her eyes while she walked the long hallway leading to a chef’s paradise. Her ankle boots made dull thuds on the centuries old floors. She pushed the kitchen door open and saw her father lean his hip against the island counter, taking mouthfuls of ice cold Coke.

  “That was good.” He sighed, closing his eyes in pleasure before cracking one eye open. “How’s my shifters’ rights activist and environmentally conscious daughter?”

  Paisley dumped her shoulder bag on the counter and crossed her arms. “While I can’t stop you from drinking that, I wish you’d stop getting them in cans.”

  “Bottles are expensive.”

  “Says the man who doesn’t bat an eyelash at the outrageous costs of his designer clothes.”

  Her father grinned before taking another swig. James Halleran was Paisley’s opposite. He was tall and lean, with long black hair shot with silver that was tied at his nape. Paisley took after her mother, curvy in the right places yet firm from doing all that mountain trekking and spelunking on the climbing wall her father had constructed at the back of the house. Her black hair came from her Anishinaabe heritage, her midnight blue eyes from some recessive genetic mark from her mother’s Irish ancestry.

  “I’m still figuring myself out,” James quipped.

  “Well, don’t wait too long,” Paisley warned in mock brevity. “You don’t live forever, you know.”

  James bowed his head, shielding his expression. “Longer than some.”

  “True.” Paisley opened the fridge, her father watching while she rummaged through the contents. “Only because of the ley line. Aha!” She took out a bottle of premade tuna spread and placed it on the counter.

  “We are close to immortal, Nuttah,” her father said, calling her by her Algonquin name.

  She shrugged. “But still we are not. We are born, we live, we die.”

  The phone rang.

  “I’ll take it in my office.” James pushed away from the counter. “I’m expecting a call from the town hall.”

  “Okay.” Paisley didn’t bother to look at him, too busy getting the tuna between two slices of bread. “Sure you don’t want me to make you something to eat?”

  “I’m fine. Enjoy,” her father said from across the hall, his voice echoing in the huge house.

  Paisley’s mouth thinned in exasperation. Her father was always engrossed with work and sometimes the food she prepared and brought into his study would remain uneaten upon returning the next day. He’d humor her, taking bites and eating under her careful glare, but Paisley knew the real reason why he hardly ate or even took care of himself. He still mourned the loss of his wife. Paisley never knew how her mother died and neither was her father forthcoming with telling her what happened. All she knew was that on her mother’s death anniversary, he’d go to the Ridge, stay there until dawn pushed and blushed its way out of the horizon.

  The Ridge wasn’t exactly a ridge in the strictest sense of the word. Woodland Creek was sprawled over acres of hills and forests that dipped at lazy intervals. There was however a clearing slightly higher above the rest of the land, just on the outskirts of town where her father went to perform his rituals or commune with the spirit of his beloved late wife.

  There he would chant around a fire, calling to their ancestors and chant a host of other things Paisley couldn’t understand. She knew her father was a shaman and she was descended from a long line of shamans from James’ side, but she had never been blessed with the gift of being a conduit for the spirit world. What she did have was the gift of reading auras. She wasn’t interested in that either. She was too busy fighting for animals’ and shifters’ rights in the real world for her to even embark on learning of the spirit realm and her spirit animal. It was something her father broached on occasion but didn’t actively pursue.

  She was halfway through her sandwich when her father returned.

  “Thanks,” he said to the person he spoke to on the portable phone before ending the call. “That was Sheriff Trent. There’s been a murder.”

  “What?” Paisley placed her uneaten bread on the place, her eyes widening in shock. “Where?”

  “Here in Woodland Creek.”

  She stared at her father in disbelief. “How can that happen? There’s never been a murder here before, at least in my living memory. Do they have any suspects? I don’t think anyone in Woodland Creek would do this.” She continued to delicately chew what was in her mouth. “We have laws we all abide by.”

  “Hmm.” James’ brows knitted in thought. “No, they wouldn’t. The Council would know if anyone crossed the line, but I’m not so sure now.”

  It was Paisley’s turn to crease her brows. “I don’t understand.”

  Her father’s gray eyes fell on her. “The wounds on the victim don’t appear to come from a human. The crime was done by an animal.”

  “Maybe the human was hunting it down.”

  “And that makes it just?” James cocked a brow. “Not everyone knows that Woodland Creek is a place for shifters, Paise.”

  “True, but there are signs that say hunting isn’t allowed.” Paisley stood suddenly, losing her appetite. The bread inside her mouth developed the consistency of sawdust. “I don’t like arguing, Dad. Mind if I go with you? If this was a hunter, I rest my case. If not, then…”

  James gave his daughter a long look.

  Paisley exhaled. “Then we have a murderer in our midst.”

  ..

  Virgil Rowtag bounded up the Town Hall’s steps just as James and Paisley were going down. He was Paisley’s childhood friend, her partner in mayhem. He was also an animal rights activist. Virgil knew that Woodland Creek was a haven for shifters, having spent most of his life with Paisley after his parents gave him up for adoption. Since he was of Anishinaabe descent, James took it upon himself to care for the unwanted child. He and Paisley became inseparable, the only one Paisley trusted with her secrets.

  “Hey, Paise, what you got? Hey, Mr. Halleran.” His warm brown eyes lit up with excitement. “I tried your cell, but you didn’t pick up.” He brushed the errant sandy brown curl away from his forehead.

  “We’ve just been to the morgue.” Paisley’s face was grim.

  The light in Virgil’s eyes faded and rounded. “Oh…wow! Who died?”

  “A backpacker. Body almost torn literally in half.”

  “Ugh.” Virgil grimaced. “Who would have done that? Human or shifter?”

  Paisley worried her lower lip.

  “My guess is a mountain lion,” James spoke.

  “Dad, we’ve got hills, not mountains.” Paisley huffed.

  “True, but we’ve got shifters too.”

  “Halleran!”

  They all turned to see Woodland Creek’s sheriff approach them. A hulk of a man, Sheriff Cooper Trent was a bear shifter. He could have employed his keen sense of smell, as sharp as a bloodhound’s, to look for clues, but used it to find food instead. By the time he reached them, he was wheezing. Paisley looked at Virgil, and they both shared a secret smile before looking away.

  “What’s up, Coop?” James extended his arm, putting it around the sheriff. “Whoa, catch your breath first before we get down to business.”

  “Thanks,” the Sheriff said on exhaling. He bent down with his hands on his thighs. “I swear, sometimes I wish I remained a grizzly.”

  “Then we wouldn’t have a sheriff,”
James said, gently chiding. “What did you want to tell me?”

  One more wheeze and Cooper straightened with a sigh. “Suspect.” He swallowed. “We have a suspect.”

  * * *

  Marcus blinked several times and with each crack of his eyelids to see where he was, the world’s spinning increased. Bile rose from his stomach, threatening to unman him, and it was only through sheer will and centering upon that place where there was no direction did his dizziness abate. The familiar cold came. He shivered. He didn’t need to see that he was naked as the day he was born, the day his father shouted from the topmost floor of the palazzo that his beautiful wife had blessed him with a son.

  He curled further into his fetal position. His back was to the wall, his hand covering the nakedness between his thighs. He licked his dry lips, then tasted something alien yet so familiar.

  Blood.

  No, no, no, not again!

  His heart pounded hard. His gut roiled at the scent that suddenly permeated his consciousness. The copper scent enveloped him where the taste didn’t coat his mouth. It was always this way. As he shifted through time, he had no recollection of ever eating those he was accused of killing. Not once had he been caught because the moment the authorities found him, he would shimmer out of that time to return to Venezia. To his own home for a respite before being thrown away by Kronos to another era like a ball with an elastic string, hurled forward and backward.

  A timeless fugitive.

  The last thing he remembered was the party and talking to his uncle about a shipment of silk that had been sold before the buyers even saw it.

  Then a void.

  A door opened. The locks and bolts echoed like bells in the jail’s confines. The slight wind stirred, swirling in with the people who entered. Marcus shook as the invisible touch singed his heated skin, the tendrils of humiliation creeping.