The parade of people began roaring as he drew near, their faces wreathed in smiles. How was a man expected to walk into such an exuberant crowd with hatred in his heart?
And why were they so damned happy to see him?
He stopped his sprint a dozen feet from the front line. Unable to hold still, he resorted to jogging in place, breathing harshly, not from the run but from the dreaded encounter to come.
The two men who looked so similar broke away from the crowd. One of them raised a hand to the entourage and the crowd fell silent, maintaining a respectful distance as they rode forward. Grimm sneaked a glance over his shoulder to make certain Jillian hadn’t followed him. With relief he saw she had obeyed his command, although if she leaned any farther over Occam’s head toward the crowd he’d have to peel her from the road.
“Gavrael.”
The deep voice so like his own whipped his head around. He stared up at the two men, uncertain which one had spoken.
“Grimm,” he corrected instantly.
The man on the right erupted into an immediate bluster. “What the bletherin’ hell kind of name is Grim? Why not be namin’ yourself Depressed, or Melancholy? Nay, I have it—Woebegone.” He cast a disgusted glance at Grimm and snorted.
“It’s better than McIllioch,” Grimm said stiffly. “And it’s not Grim with one m. It’s Grimm with two.”
“Well, why would you be changin’ your name at all, lad?” The man on the left did little to disguise his wounded expression.
Grimm searched their faces, trying desperately to decide which one was his father. He didn’t have the faintest clue what he might do when he figured it out, but he’d really like to know which one to treat to the venom he’d been storing for years uncounted. No, not uncounted, he corrected himself—fifteen years of angry words he wanted to fling at the man, words that had festered for half his lifetime.
“Who are you?” he demanded of the man who’d most recently spoken.
The man turned to his companion with a mournful look. “Who am I, he’s asking me, Balder. Can you be believin’ that? Who am I?”
“At least he dinna spit,” Balder said mildly.
“You’re Ronin,” Grimm accused. If the one was named Balder, the other had to be his da, Ronin McIllioch.
“I’m not Ronin to you,” the man exclaimed indignantly. “I’m your da.”
“You’re no father to me,” Grimm remarked in a voice so chill it vied with the bitterest Highland wind.
Ronin gazed accusingly at Balder. “I told you so.”
Balder shook his head, arching a bushy brow. “He still dinna spit.”
“What the hell does spitting have to do with anything?”
“Well, lad,” Balder drawled, “that’s the excuse I’m lookin’ for to tie your spiteful arse up and drag you back to the castle, where I can be poundin’ some good common sense and respect for your elders into you.”
“You think you could?” Grimm challenged coolly. His dangerous mix of emotions clamored lustily for a fight.
Balder laughed, the sound a joyous shout rumbling from his thick chest. “I love a good fight, lad, but a man like me could eat a pup like you in one snap of his jaws.”
Grimm leveled a dark look at Ronin. “Does he know what I am?” Arrogance underscored the question.
“Do you know what I am?” Balder countered softly.
Grimm’s eyes swept back to his face. “What do you mean?” he asked so quickly it came out sounding like one word. He studied Balder intently. Mocking ice-blue eyes met his levelly. Impossible! In all his years, he’d never encountered another Berserker!
Balder shook his head and sighed. He exchanged glances with Ronin. “The lad is dense, Ronin. I’m tellin’ you, he’s thick through and through.”
Ronin puffed himself up indignantly. “He is not. He’s my son.”
“The lad doesn’t know the first thing about himself, even after all these—”
“Well, how could he, bein’ that—”
“And any dolt should have figured—”
“That doesn’t mean he’s dense—”
“Haud yer wheesht!” Grimm roared.
“There’s no need to be roarin’ my head off, boy,” Balder rebuked. “It’s not as if you’re the only one with a Berserker’s temper here.”
“I am not a boy. I am not a lad. I am not a dolt,” Grimm said evenly, determined to take control of the erratic conversation. There would be time later to discover how Balder had become a Berserker. “And when the woman who is behind me approaches, you will kindly make it clear to the servants, the villagers, and the entire clan that I am not a Berserker, do you understand me?”