“Sure, yuck it up,” he grumbled. “It’s all fun and games until you’re lying on the ground with flannel drawers wrapped around your ankles.”
Drawers? How old was he anyway?
She laughed outright. “You sound like you learned from experience.”
“I was two.”
“It could have been worse.”
“I don’t see how.”
“You could’ve been wearing a diaper.”
“You’re right. That would have been worse.” He chuckled and pulled into a parking space behind the complex. “I’m sure it was even less enjoyable in the winter months when my ancestors emerged buck naked in the middle of a field after changing from fur to skin.”
Abby slammed the mental door on a nude Samuel.
Nope, not going there.
“So, your magic adapted? Clothes appeared with your human form and not your wolf’s?”
“It takes a little more concentration but most of us learn the trick by three or four years old.”
She stepped out of the cart and walked backward toward the building. “Then you can’t whip up an Armani suit out of the blue?”
“Why the hell would I want to do that?” Samuel sounded truly perplexed.
“Just wondering.”
He’d look gorgeous in black tie attire. Of course, he looked gorgeous in the plain tee he was wearing. He tracked her slow withdrawal, reminding her of a hunter stalking game. She shivered, and not from a sudden chill.
“Thanks again for the tour…and my phone.”
“You’re welcome. And Abby…”
She stopped at the authoritative tone. Nothing but obeying the powerful Alpha ever entered her mind. “Yes?”
“Call your brother.”
Chapter 9
“There is never an excuse for bad manners.”
Bridget MacCarthy
Abby opened the paper bag from Samuel and found six glazed doughnuts inside. “These look delicious, um…thank you. I’m sure we’ll all enjoy them.”
“None for me,” Lady Rose piped up from the couch in her apartment.
Samuel stood in the suite’s doorway and glared at the notably silent witch sitting beside the queen.
Zee gave an indelicate snort. “Me neither, I guess.”
The commander grunted and offered Abby a large hot chocolate. She accepted that too, prior encounters teaching her it didn’t do any good to argue with the obstinate male.
Since their island tour, Samuel had interrupted his presumably busy schedule to check on her frequently, and her traitorous heart was beginning to look forward to the random visits.
“Eat.” Samuel planted his hands on his hips and waited.
“Yes, well…I’m not hungry. I’ll have one later?” She hadn’t meant to make it a question.
Abby never ate first thing in the morning, or evening since she was on Dádhe time now. It took her stomach a few hours to wake up, preferring the jolt of caffeine from a can of Diet Coke instead of a meal to get energized.
If Samuel’s implacable stare were anything to go by, he wasn’t a fan of her routine.
Stifling an exasperated sigh, she thrust the oversized cup at him, reached into the sack, and chose a chocolate glaze. He didn’t leave until she’d eaten half and promised to finish the rest.
“Lady Rose?” she asked, setting the bag on the kitchen counter along with her partially eaten doughnut. “Why is Samu…Commander Walker always bringing us something to eat?”
“Us?” Zee asked with a dubious huff. The queen regarded the tablet in her lap and offered a noncommittal shrug.
Abby frowned, but let the matter drop. She was in the middle of a complete overhaul of Lady Rose’s wardrobe and should return to it. It was probably a wolf thing anyway. Ferwyns did love their food.
She took a sip of her warm drink and walked into the bedroom.
Unlike Abby’s temporary apartment down the hall, the queen’s suite had separate sleeping quarters. The lavish space was decorated in muted pastels and dove grays, the four-poster strewn with pillows and topped by a wispy white canopy.
It’d been two weeks since the attack at La Bella and Ambassador Faraday had contacted Abby more often in that short span than Samuel tried to feed her—which was a lot.
The ambassador was pressuring her to meet him somewhere downtown, or more specifically, off-island. She declined his invitations politely. It be a wasted endeavor for the man to fly to Memphis to talk to her in person. Abby was fully recovered, living in the complex and working for the Dádhe monarch by choice. At least, that was her story, and she was sticking to it.
Faraday meant well, but even if Abby were permitted to leave the island—which she wasn’t—there was nothing she could say to change her situation. Certainly not the truth. Like it or not, the laws of the United States no longer applied to her. Exploiting the ambassador’s assumption that she was human to escape the ESC’s jurisdiction would only backfire. The prince wouldn’t hesitate to declare her Fae Touched status, and then the slim chance of persuading the queen to let her go would be lost.
Abby knew that a lifetime spent pretending wasn’t the answer long term. But the nightmare of using her magic and failing again was too awful to contemplate. She had to find a way out of this mess before it was too late.
Entering the huge walk-in, she stepped over the neatly sorted piles of clothing and plopped onto the cluttered floor with a long, blown-out breath.
On top of her immediate problems, Conlan couldn’t discover she was living on the island. She hated lying to him, but imagining a confrontation between her hotheaded sibling and the prince turned her blood cold.
Conlan had always been overly protective, his big brother tendencies going into hyperdrive after the death of their parents and forced relocation to the facility. It was why Abby hadn’t let him in on her plans to run until she was long gone. It was also why downplaying the true depths of her misery over the years under the director had been necessary. There was nothing he could have done to alter her circumstances, and the knowledge she was suffering would have pushed him to try something foolish. She’d kept Conlan in the dark for his sake then, and she would keep him in the dark now.
Samuel had coincidently—or not—returned her phone within the twelve-hour deadline her brother imposed after his numerous messages went unanswered. It seemed no one wanted Conlan turning up unannounced.
Three days after their grandmother Gigi’s funeral, Abby contacted a frantic Conlan from a cheap hotel in Boston. After he chewed her out thoroughly, they developed a system of keeping in touch. Every two weeks, one or the other would call within a prearranged forty-eight-hour span. Or text if her brother’s assignment wasn’t conducive to conversation. They used burner phones that they switched out every other month. Or whenever Abby changed cities.
Missing the predetermined timeframe that started the day of the attack by over sixteen hours had him threatening to catch the next flight to Memphis. The excuse for the delay was flimsy, but she managed to convince her seriously pissed-off brother that the phone had dropped in the bathtub, and it had taken days to dry out.
Good thing Conlan couldn’t see her expression spewing that pack of lies. He’d have read the deception easily.
He told Abby to quit Tennessee. Her next fake name, passport, and driver’s license would be sent FedEx overnight. Conlan expected a text with her new burner number within twenty-four hours of receiving the package. Agreeing to leave barely felt like a lie. Technically, the island wasn’t part of the city. Or the US.
Samuel readily supplied the new phone, an expensive rose-colored iPhone that she couldn’t possibly toss like the disposable ones bought previously. She never saw the illegal documents Conlan sent.
After twenty minutes of groveling, she called her friend Penny next.
Abby had been reluctant to pursue any close relationships, never knowing when she’d have to flee for the next town, or worse, be recaptured by the facility. But she couldn’t he
lp liking the boisterous redhead. Abby had been so lonely, and a genuine friendship developed despite her reservations. It was Penny’s shift she was covering the night of the attack.
Her friend left as many frantic texts as her brother…along with some curse-laden voicemails. Their delayed conversation hadn’t been particularly pleasant.
Penny held a mean grudge.
Accepting she wouldn’t be leaving Mud Island anytime soon, Abby contacted her temporary landlord. She had found a rare monthly lease on a one bedroom, one bath on South Main. The river wasn’t visible from her building, but the Mississippi and La Bella were only a short walk away.
She shouldn’t have bothered. Someone from the Harbor Complex had informed the rental company she wouldn’t be returning and sent a final payment.
Lastly, she phoned Cindy. Her former employer wasn’t surprised she wouldn’t be returning to work at the clothing store. She too had been informed.
Abby set the to-go cup on an empty closet shelf with a snap, feeling disgruntled by the high-handedness. Her admittedly messy life was being taken over. Piece by piece. Bit by bit.
Arrogant vamps.
Stubborn Ferwyn.
At least she was confident in her position as Lady Rose’s stylist. And honestly, the queen could use some help in that department. The PA label made a convenient cover, the secondary role infinitely more suitable than being the last line of magical defense for one of the Nine.
The job provided her with a legitimate excuse to be at the monarch’s side during public appearances. It didn’t hurt that Jenkins authorized the unlimited use of a black American Express card for the royal wardrobe either.
“Abigail?” Lady Rose interrupted her later. Zee had left ages ago.
Abby peeked out of the bedroom. “Yes, milady?”
“Do you have your appointment book with you?” the queen asked from one of two comfortable chairs stationed in front of the unlit fireplace.
“Of course.” She grabbed her large tote from the coffee table and retrieved her leather journal. It held the events Lady Rose would be attending and the suggested attire for each occasion. Zee had given her an iPad for the same purpose, but Abby liked to add and erase ideas along with drawing design sketches. In her short time on the job, the comments made on social media about the queen’s attire had all been positive.
Seating herself across from the queen, she waited expectantly.
“I want you to schedule Chess for this Friday night. I have not been to the club in weeks and should make an appearance.”
Abby jotted a note next to the early June date and entering the event in the calendar on her tablet.
The famous nightclub was ostensibly a spot where human and Fae Touched mingled freely, promoting racial acceptance and understanding through social integration. But that was the party line. Everyone knew it was really a cattle call for the Dádhe and a pickup joint for witches and shifters. The Untouched who frequented places like Chess were there for one reason: to take a walk on the wild side.
“I always go in white, and I suggest you do the same,” she added.
“What?” Abby gripped the pencil tightly. “Why?”
“Well, it is always best to be clear in your intentions, and it is safest to go with white. Unless you would rather wear black?” She grinned mischievously, oblivious to her PA’s distress. “Or if you are not that brave, perhaps a mixture of the two? I am sure you would get plenty of offers.”
No one was admitted into Chess without wearing one of the two opposing colors. If attending in white, it declared you weren’t interested in being a Dádhe Feeder or anyone’s bedmate. Or were already in a relationship. A combination of the shades announced you were open to negotiation or seduction. Arrive in all black—and you were actively seeking an assignation. Although the strictly enforced rules were clear and everything between individuals consensual, Abby wanted nothing to do with any of it.
“No.” She blew out a soft breath. “I meant, why am I going with you at all? Chess is located on ESC property and secure. It’s hard enough keeping my distance from the other Fae Touched in the complex. Why would I want to be in a crowd of them?” She was surprised how calm she sounded considering her heart was pounding. She wasn’t sure if witches could sense anything peculiar or not, but why risk it?
“Myles and Samuel insist on you accompanying me whenever I leave the building,” she chided gently. “But you have nothing to worry about. The sheer number of scents in the club will muddle any differences between the species. A shifter might break through the layers of your perfume if he sticks his nose in your neck and sniffs, but a vampire will not be able to tell unless they steal a taste.” Her full lips twitched. “I am assuming you have no plans to donate your blood?”
“Um, no. No feeding.”
“Nuzzling?”
“No nuzzling either.”
“Are you sure?” The queen leaned forward as if imparting a carefully guarded secret. “The Fae Touched make the best lovers with their enhanced…abilities. And there is no danger of contracting a sexually transmitted disease with any of the magical races. The Anwyll have standard runes to cover the possibility along with unwanted pregnancies, and the Ferwyn race is only fertile with their Ca’anam.”
“I’ve heard about shifter Marks.” She avoided the queen’s probing gaze by furiously scribbling in her notepad. “It takes three bites for a truemating, right?”
“Yes.”
“And?” She prompted when offered no further information.
“The first Mark is placed on the female’s shoulder. The bite leaves a semi-permanent impression on her skin and a distinctive smell warning away any potential rivals.”
“Warning them away?”
“The males literally mark their territory, declaring in the most primitive manner the female belongs to him.”
“For how long?”
“Until the next full moon.”
“He might as well pee a circle around her.”
“Exactly, but it works both ways. The Ferwyn is exclusively his Marked female’s for the same time frame. And remember, Abigail…shifters were wolves first. They do not think like humans, and you should not expect them to. Not saying a Dádhe male is any better. Or an Anwyll for that matter.” Lady Rose laughed lightly. “Maybe it has something to do with the Fae magic in our blood? All our males are extraordinarily possessive but the Ferwyn are the worst of the lot. Or the best.” Her green eyes twinkled with humor. “Depending on how you look at it.”
“And if things work out and they move onto the next Mark?” Abby tried to sound only mildly curious, failing spectacularly if the queen’s single quirked eyebrow was any indication.
“The second is made on the inner thigh and can either strengthen the connection or swiftly end it. If a future Ca’anam mating is possible, the protectiveness of the male ratchets up as does his sexual appetite. But, I hear both become insatiable.” Lady Rose sunk into the chair’s plush cushions, crossing her slender legs. “Though in the rare case a separation occurs between a confirmed potential pairing for whatever reason, the breakup is extremely difficult. The severing of an incomplete binding is physically and emotionally devastating for both parties.”
“If possible?” Abby asked. “They can’t mate anyone they want?”
“Yes and no. A Ferwyn’s primal nature will only allow the third Mating Mark with the right female. Their wolves are quite picky, and there may be as few as two or three potential mates born during their lifetime.”
“But what if an unsuited couple is already in love when the second bite fails?”
“Most shifters will not wait that long to discover the truth, but in those rare cases…almost all want the deeper spiritual tie of a truemate and break off the relationship. Although uncommon without the binding, especially if attached to a short-lived human, a few couples do remain together. Even marry.”
“But they can never have children?”
“No child can come from a union w
ithout the last Mating Mark, and only the males can create the bond.”
“What about female shifters?”
“Ferwyn males outnumber them four to one. The Clans permit unmated females who have reached their majority to travel throughout the nine territories, increasing their chances of finding a truemate.” She smiled. “I have never heard of a female who wanted to be a Ca’anam and did not become one. Ferwyn magic seems to guide both sexes toward a compatible mate.”
“And the last bite?”
“The third is near the heart, and it magically joins their lives and souls forever,” she said, her tone held a touch of wistfulness. “As truemates, they have a link closer than any Alpha with his pack. If one dies, the other rarely recovers.”
“And they can have kids?”
“Yes, though they call them pups.” Her gaze clouded and went distant. “And if you find a vampire you are interested in, fully transitioned Dádhe cannot conceive at all. Infertility is one reason we never mate with Ferwyns, but there are more.”
“Milady—”
“On the bright side.” She cut off any sympathy Abby was about to extend. “We are practically indestructible. I guess you cannot have everything, can you?” Lady Rose seemed to shake off her sorrow, a wicked gleam entering her eyes. “Maybe you should consider wearing something with a little black in it to Chess. Leave your options open?”
“I think I’ll pass.” She felt the warmth of a blush hit her cheeks.
“So, no black then?” The queen stuck out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “How disappointing.”
“No, milady. I’ll definitely be choosing an all-white outfit.” Abby closed the appointment book, blindly shoving it and the tablet into the large carryall. She fumbled with her phone. The pencil missed the tote’s opening altogether. “Um…Lady Rose? Do you happen to know what color Commander Walker usually wears?”
Chapter 10
Samuel caught his prey and slammed him face first into the nearest building. Bone cracked, and the immobilized man shouted a string of profanities.
Fae Touched (Fae Touched Book 1): Paranormal Romance Page 8