Jordan flailed a little more, blinking sleepily. Then he came fully awake, growled again, and launched himself at Spike. He shifted as he did so, grabbing Spike around the neck and holding on.
Spike closed his eyes and held his son, the relief on his face beautiful.
Myka stoked Jordan’s unruly hair. “How you doing, kid?”
“I was scared!” Jordan looked at her with huge brown eyes. “But I’m okay now. My dad came for me.” Jordan gave Myka a loud, wet kiss on her cheek, gave the same to Spike, and then held on to Spike again. He turned his head on Spike’s broad shoulder and gave Myka a grin, a mirror of his father’s. “My dad’s awesome.”
* * *
Jordan’s naming ceremony happened the next night, and Spike decided to announce at the same time that Myka had accepted his mate-claim.
Spike, his heart swelling with pride, carried Jordan to the center of the double-circle of Shifters—clan and close friends forming the inside circle, the rest of Shiftertown on the outside. Myka was right next to him, where he could reach out and touch her whenever he wanted.
Spike lifted Jordan, in his wildcat form, to the light of the half moon, which was shining mightily through the trees.
“Mother Goddess, I give you Jordan Reyes, son of Eron and Jillian.”
The Shifters whooped and yelled. “Jordan Reyes!” Myka winced, the full power of Shifter voices overwhelming.
“Shift back,” Spike whispered to Jordan.
Jordan gave Spike a little growl—he loved being in wildcat form—and changed slowly to a four-year-old boy with brown, black, and golden hair.
Spike lifted him again. “Mother Goddess, I give you Jordan Reyes. Watch over this child. My son.”
The Shifters screamed again, and this time, Myka didn’t flinch. She was learning.
“Can I be a wildcat again?” Jordan asked.
Spike kissed the top of his head. “Yep.”
Jordan wriggled and shifted. Instead of struggling to get down and run, as he’d been doing all afternoon and evening, he climbed onto his father’s shoulders. His claws dug through Spike’s shirt into his still-healing wounds, but Spike wouldn’t pull him off for the world.
“Shifters!” Spike said, taking Myka’s hand and raising it high. “I give you Myka Thompson, mate of my heart.”
The Morrisseys and friends yelled in response, and the rest of Shiftertown took up the cheer. Ronan punched the air, and Olaf the polar bear cub, sitting on his shoulders, imitated him. The only family missing were Sean and Andrea, staying inside their house with their brand new little one—a male they’d decided to call Kenneth Terry Dylan Morrissey. There would be another naming ceremony in Shiftertown soon.
Liam came forward and took Myka’s and Spike’s hands, still twined. “We welcome Myka. We’ll get the mating ceremonies done as soon as there’s a full moon, and some sunshine.”
The Shifters erupted into more shouting, howling, cheering. Anything for a good party, and mating ceremonies led to fine sex—to celebrate fertility, of course.
Spike was all for celebrating fertility. Last night he’d been too sore and exhausted for any joyous activity, and he’d dropped off as soon as he’d stretched out on his bed. Waking up with Myka next to him had been wonderful, but then Jordan had bounced in almost immediately, and they’d had to get up and take care of the rest of life.
But there was another ritual Spike wanted to perform tonight before he went to bed with Myka, one more private.
Jillian’s mother Sharon had come for the naming ceremony. Now Myka, Spike, and Jordan, with Ella and Sharon following, walked back to Spike’s house.
In the backyard, Spike built a little fire in an old-fashioned round grill. Myka and Sharon had brought pictures of Jillian, and Myka had also brought a blue ribbon, one of many Jillian had won for cutting and barrel racing.
Spike closed his eyes, held his hands over the small fire, and asked the Father God and Mother Goddess to be with them. He took a photo of Jillian from Myka and fed it into the flames.
“The Goddess go with you, Jillian” he said softly.
Myka laid her photos and the ribbon on the fire. “Good-bye, my friend,” she whispered.
Sharon fed in her photos, tears running down her face, too choked to say anything. Myka put her arm around Sharon and let her cry.
Jordan raised his arms for Spike to lift him. He kissed the last photo of Jillian and dropped it into the flames. “Good night, Mama.”
The five of them stood gazing into the fire, safely delivering to the Summerland the young woman who’d been daughter, friend, mother. Jillian, whom Spike had barely known, had given him the most precious gift he’d ever received—his son.
“The Goddess go with you,” he repeated in a whisper.
The flames started to fade. Ella put one hand on Spike’s shoulder and one hand on Myka’s. “You two, inside. Sharon, how about we take Jordan and go back to the party? You look like you could use a cold one.”
Sharon pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes. “Thought you’d never ask.” She opened her big purse again, took out an envelope, and thrust it into Myka’s hands. “I meant to give this to you at the funeral, but maybe this is a better time. Jillian wrote it to you.” She glanced from her to Spike. “Read it tomorrow. For tonight, you just be happy.”
Myka brushed her fingertips over the envelope. She could almost feel Jillian on the other side—she’d held this, written Myka’s name on the front.
Sharon kissed Myka on the cheek and took Jordan’s hand, then the two women walked away, Jordan between them. Jordan’s loud voice floated back. “Connor told me Dad and Aunt Myka are going to shag tonight. Great-grandma, what’s shag mean?”
Ella’s answer was lost in another roar from the distant Shifter party.
Spike slid his arm around Myka’s waist. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” Myka brushed her always-untamed hair out of her face. “Can we go inside?”
Spike led her into the house, his arm around her. They went upstairs and to his bedroom without speaking, and Spike shut the door. “You want to read that now?”
Myka looked at the letter again, written on the thick blue stationery Jillian had liked. She’d found email and texting too informal, and sent her friends and family cards and letters for special occasions.
“No.” Myka slid the letter into her purse. “Sharon’s right. Tonight . . . I need you.”
“I need you, Myka.” The low throb in Spike’s voice undid her. Myka opened her arms, and Spike came to her, enclosing her in his strength.
* * *
Myka gave herself to the wildness that was Spike. He pinned her on the bed with strong arms, showing her how much better he felt by driving inside her until her shouts and his mingled in the cool air.
Spike also showed her how gentle he could be, kissing her fingertips, her lips, her skin, the touches tender and light. He licked her after that, tasting her breasts, her belly, and the heat between her legs. Myka arched under his mouth, letting herself come again in a crazy storm of pleasure.
Spike was back inside her right after that, his face softening as he felt her, eyes staying dark, beautiful brown, mouth finding hers as he spilled his seed.
After that, silence. The quiet ticking of a clock, the final creak of the mattress, the warmth of Spike along her back. Myka tumbled into a hard, spirit-soothing, sleep.
When she opened her eyes again, the room was still dark.
Spike slept, relaxed, on his stomach, his face turned to her on the pillow. He’d slid one arm across Myka in his sleep, cradling her close. Moonlight trickled through the window, sharpening the lines of Spike’s tattoos at the same time it softened his face.
The moonlight also fell on Myka’s purse, and the blue of the envelope sticking out of it. Myka carefully slid out from under Spike’s arm, took the two steps across the room, fetched the letter, opened it, moved to the moonlight, and started to read.
Jillian’s voice came to her
across the divide.
I hope that while you’re reading this, Myka, you’re with Spike.
Don’t jump in surprise—you have to know that I sent you off to find him because I wanted you to meet him. I could have called Spike myself, or sent my mom to pick him up, or hired a cab to bring him to me. But I wanted you to know him.
Why? Because when I first met Spike, he reminded me a lot of you—lonely and pretending not to be. When I realized I’d be leaving this life, I knew I had to let Spike find you, and you him.
Shifters are incredible beings, Myka. They have more humanity in them than humans, I think. I learned that when I hung out at Shifter bars, talking to them, getting to know them. Everyone called me a Shifter groupie, but I didn’t care. Shifters worry about the same things we do—how to raise their kids, how to put food on the table, how to keep the family together.
Stay with Spike. Please. I knew him only such a brief time, but I could see something in him that was remarkable.
Besides, what better people to raise my son than my best friend and the Shifter who helped convince me that Shifters were the most amazing creatures I’ve ever met?
If you’re wondering why I didn’t tell him about Jordan right away, it was because I was scared. I didn’t want to lose Jordan, and I didn’t want to become a Shifter mate. Or anyone’s mate, or wife. That wasn’t me.
A free spirit, Mom always called me. Selfish, maybe, but you knew me. Somehow I always sensed I didn’t have much time to live, and I wanted to grab as much of life as I could. Jordan was part of that life, the best part.
Now Jordan will be with his dad, which is where he belongs. And you should be with him and Spike too.
I love you, Myka. Kiss Jordan good night for me, and tell Spike thank you.
God bless.
Spike’s callused fingers took the letter from Myka’s hands. He read it, while Myka watched him, tears blurring her eyes.
Spike’s throat moved in a swallow as he finished. He set the letter aside and enfolded Myka into his arms. “I wish I’d known her better,” he said in his low voice. “The mother of my son.”
Myka rested her head on his chest, loving the thump of his heart. “I can tell you all about her.”
“I’d like that.”
Myka tried to smile. “She was a crafty woman. Matchmaking to the last.”
“I’m glad she was.” Spike put his thumbs under Myka’s chin. “I’m glad she brought you to me. Mate of my heart.”
Myka kissed his chest, right over the place where his heart lay. “Mate of my heart,” she echoed.
“I love you, Myka.” Spike kissed her mouth, his lips warm with afterglow.
“I love you, Eron.”
Spike’s arms tightened around her at the sound of his real name, his naked body hot against hers. The jaguar tattoos moved with his embrace, as he scooped her up to him to kiss her again, this kiss tinged with wildness.
The moonlight touched them with kind light, and under that light, Spike carried Myka to the bed one more time, coming into her and surrounding her with bliss.
End
Books in the Shifters Unbound Series
Shifters Unbound
Pride Mates
Primal Bonds
Bodyguard
Wild Cat
Hard Mated
Mate Claimed
“Perfect Mate” (novella)
Lone Wolf
Tiger Magic
Feral Heat
Wild Wolf
Bear Attraction
Mate Bond
Lion Eyes
Bad Wolf
Wild Things
White Tiger
Guardian’s Mate
Red Wolf
Shifter Made ("Prequel" short story)
Hard Mated
Shifters Unbound, Book 3.5
Copyright © 2012 by Jennifer Ashley
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Nightwalker
Stormwalker Series
By Jennifer Ashley
writing as
Allyson James
Chapter One
The tinkle of a wind chime was my only warning.
I popped my eyes open, staring at the dark ceiling of my bedroom, my heart drumming in thick, slow beats. The night was silence; no wind, no noise in the vast desert beyond my window. And yet . . .
My wards hadn’t broken. No one magical had entered the little hotel I owned who shouldn’t be there. My fiancé Mick wasn’t there either, having driven off to New Mexico this morning on an errand he’d been vague about. After what had happened between us a few months ago, this worried me, but what had awakened me had nothing to do with Mick.
I lay in the middle of the bed on top of the sheets. July air from the open window touched my bare skin, but the night remained quiet.
Sleep started to overtake me. The hotel was peaceful within, the weight of the night soothing rather than frightening. Tension left my body, and my eyes drifted closed.
A grunt sounded softly in the darkness outside, followed by a twanging sound and a thump.
I was up and into my jeans and tank top before I made any conscious decision to move. I jammed on boots then forced my shaking fingers to make no noise unlocking the door outside my private rooms that led out back. I stepped in silence to the dirt and gravel outside.
The July night was heavy and humid—torpid, that was the word. No wind, no relieving rain, only heavy summer heat that hadn’t quite dispersed for the night, patches of clouds dampening the stars overhead.
In that humidity I sensed two auras. One was human. The other was black and sticky and smelled of hot blood.
Nightwalker.
The human crouched under the juniper at the edge of the dirt parking lot. The noise had come from his direction, and as I tried to focus on him, I heard it again—a snap and a deadened twang that came from a high-pressure string and a trigger. Crossbow. Son of a bitch.
Someone was trying to slay my vampire.
The bolt missed. Ansel, the Nightwalker who slept his day sleep in my basement, ducked aside with inhuman reflexes, and the little missile brushed the wind chimes hanging outside the kitchen door. The chimes glistened with tiny sound, the noise that had awakened me.
I faded against the wall of the hotel and slipped around the corner of the building, keeping to the shadows. Once out of the shooter’s line of sight, I scooted to the shelter of the squat cedars and juniper around my parking lot and used their cover to circle behind the attacker.
The night was too dark for me to make out the man’s features, but his aura came to me clearly, red streaked with white. Violence boiled beneath his surface, but in a cold, contained sort of way.
Then there was Ansel. The slayer had him pinned down for the moment, but the moment the man’s attention wavered from him, Ansel would be on him.
Ansel rarely did anything more dangerous than collect stamps and watch old movies, but I’d seen him let loose the Nightwalker inside him. That Ansel would rip off the slayer’s head, drain the man dry, and walk away, off to go on a blood-lusting, Nightwalker rampage. Then I’d have to kill Ansel, and I really didn’t want to. I liked Ansel. Sometimes it’s hell being the good guy.
I went slowly, not letting a crunch of gravel or crack of twig betray me. I, the Diné Stormwalker, born and bred of this land, descended from generations of earth magic shamans, moved like smoke toward the tree that hid the attacker, stepped silently under its branches . . .
. . . and found myself staring down a crossbow pointed at my nose.
The man had two crossbows, one trained on me, the other s
till on Ansel. For one heartbeat I stared at the slayer—a wiry, tight-muscled man who’d seen fighting. The scars snaking across his face, arms, and shaved head told me that, as did the hard eyes that glittered at me for the second before he turned back to Ansel.
In the next heartbeat, I brought up a spark of my mother’s brand of magic and made the bolt pointed at me implode. The man jumped, dropping the crossbow, and in that instant, Ansel struck.
Nothing moves faster than a Nightwalker. Ansel was across the lot before I could take another breath, smacking the slayer’s second crossbow aside. In the next heartbeat, he lifted the man by the throat and slammed him against the tree.
The slayer fought back and fought dirty. A silver knife flashed and cut Ansel deeply. Silver doesn’t kill Nightwalkers, but it does sting.
I tried to grab the slayer’s knife hand, but he smacked me in the face with his fist. My head rocked back, and blood streamed from my nose.
I came up again, ready to crush him with another blurt of magic, but Ansel peeled back his lips to reveal his narrow-jawed, animal-toothed, Nightwalker mouth.
“No!” I shouted. “Ansel. Stop!”
He completely ignored me. But once Nightwalkers latch on to their victims, they don’t let go. Even if you cut off the Nightwalker’s head, his dead mouth has to be peeled away from the victim’s flesh. Sometimes only the jaws remain when the Nightwalker disintegrates, but even then, those teeth hold on and have to be cut out. Ask me how I know this.
The slayer had come prepared with a wooden stake, which I batted aside while I tried to pull Ansel away from him.
I might as well have tried to move a loaded semi with my bare hands. What I needed was Mick, my six-foot-six biker boyfriend with the blue eyes and dragon tattoos, who could shoot fire from his hands. So, of course, he wasn’t here.
I could kill the slayer. I could gather a ball of Beneath magic and grind the man to atoms. If he’d been a demon or a skinwalker, I’d have done it already, end of problem.
From Jennifer Ashley, With Love Page 14