Mysteria Nights

by P. C. Cast

  The beat of her shoes against the blacktop road was a seductive lure. The sound beckoned to him. He’d heard it while he was still deep in the woods. It had called him away from the young thing he was still licking. She snarled after him, disgruntled and unsatisfied at his premature departure. He called a hasty apology and promised to meet her and her twin sister later. Right now he had to follow the beat of her running feet, even though it was unlike him to leave such a delicious tidbit. He prided himself on his ability to satisfy. Like a modern Don Juan, his lovers could count on him for romancing as well as consistent orgasming, but the steady slapping sound seemed to somehow have gotten into his body. It pulled him away from his lover with an incredibly powerful singularity in thought.

  You (beat) need (beat) her (beat). You (beat) can’t (beat) stay (beat) away (beat).

  The rhythmic lure thrummed with his pulse . . . his heartbeat . . . it pounded through his loins, making them feel hot and heavy. He scented the warm evening breeze. Woman . . . hot, sweaty, and ripe. And not far ahead of him. He wanted her with a single-minded intensity that he hadn’t felt for anything or anyone in years. Growling deep in his throat, he hurried to catch her.

  Jeesh, gross. Candice kept glancing nervously from side to side as she sprinted through the graveyard, totally annoyed that she’d promised Godiva she’d look for her broom. Not slowing down, she gritted her teeth and peered into the creepy shadows that flitted past the edge of her vision. Nope. No broom. Also no walking corpses, trolls, goblins, or fairies (whom she disliked with an intensity she knew was unreasonable—they hadn’t asked to be made the school mascot and she shouldn’t hold it against them, but she did). Nothing untoward at all. Just lots of spooky graves and silence. Thank God. Sometimes it was damn disconcerting to be normal in a town filled with abnormals. She shivered and increased her pace, wanting to leave the graveyard and (hopefully) anything that wasn’t 100 percent human behind her.

  Lengthening her stride, Candice thought that the burn in her muscles actually felt good. Godiva had been right about one thing—she did have a killer body. Sure, she’d like to lose a few pounds. Who wouldn’t? But thanks to her lifelong love of jogging, her legs were long and strong. She also still had excellent boobs. No, they weren’t as perky as they had been a few years ago, but they were full and womanly, without boulder-hard, anatomically impossible enhancements. And—best of all—she had seriously big blonde hair that was light enough to hide the encroaching gray without requiring too many touch-ups.

  With a burst of speed, she shot out of the graveyard and pounded down the empty blacktop road that would eventually circle around and lead back to her house, which had been built, log-cabin style, at the edge of town. Maybe she could keep up this pace the rest of the way home. Hell, she might even run an extra mile or so!

  Which was a lovely thought until the cramp hit her right calf.

  “Shit!” She pulled up. Hobbling like Quasimodo she looked around for anything that might resemble sanctuary. Breathing a sigh of relief, she realized that the little rise in the road was the bridge that covered Wolf Creek. She could sit on the bank and rub her calf back into working order. So much for sprinting home.

  She had just pulled off her shoe and thick athletic sock when she heard the growl. Low and deep it drifted to her on the breeze, tickling up her spine. It sounded too big to be a dog. It was probably a werewolf. Sometimes the damn things were thick as rabbits in the mountains around Mysteria. Candice rubbed harder at the cramp. She wasn’t actually afraid. Werewolves were rarely more than annoying. They tended to come and go in packs—unerringly drawn to the town’s preternatural nature, but except for a couple of gainfully employed families (surprisingly, werewolves tended to be excellent restaurateurs—must have something to do with the whole pack mentality and their love of meat or whatever) they usually didn’t stick around long, and didn’t interact with Mysteria residents, especially while they were in their wolf forms. They certainly didn’t pose a danger, unless one was made nervous by big dogs. Candice didn’t mind big dogs (as evidenced by her choice in ex-husbands one and two).

  “Did you hurt yourself?”

  His voice was deep, with a rough, husky sound that was very much man, not wolf. She swiveled around in time to see him step from the edge of the pine trees. And her mouth flopped unattractively open. He was easily six-foot-four and probably 230 pounds. At least. Broad shoulders seemed to stretch on forever, and a wide, scrumptious chest tapered down to a well-defined waist. And those legs . . . even through the relaxed jeans she could see that they were lean and muscular. His face was in shadow, so all of her attention focused on his body and the way he stalked toward her with a strong, feral grace that made her breath catch and her mouth go dry.

  Then, as if he’d walked into an invisible tree, he stopped. He hesitated, and seemed almost confused. She could see him run his hand through his hair. He wore it long and loose and it framed his shadowy face as if he was an ancient warrior god that had only partially materialized in the modern world.

  “Ms. Cox?”

  “Yes!” she said on a burst of breath, totally surprised that the warrior god knew her name.

  “It’s me, Justin.”

  He started toward her again, and she blinked up at him as his face emerged from the shadows. And what a face it was! Strong, well-defined cheekbones and a rugged, masculine chin. His sand-colored hair was thick, with a sexy, mussed curl. His eyes . . . his eyes were an unusual shade of amber and were almost as inviting as his beautiful mouth.

  “Justin Woods. You know . . .” He hesitated, then flashed an endearingly warm smile that was just the right mixture of mischievous and nervous. “. . . I had you for sophomore English.”

  She mentally recoiled. What the hell had he just said? An ex-student! So the warrior god was really a fucking Fighting Fairy. Didn’t it just figure? Candice frowned, trying to pull her thoughts from the bedroom into the classroom.

  “Oh, that’s right. Wow. Time sure flies,” she said with forced levity, feeling suddenly old and as out of date as an eight-track tape. She looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the setting sun with her hand. Yep. She vaguely recognized the echo of the gawky teenager within the man. “What was that, five years ago?”

  “More like ten.” He crouched next to her and nodded at her bare leg. “Did you hurt yourself?” he repeated.

  “Oh, no. It’s nothing. Just a cramp.” He was so close to her that she could feel the heat of his body and smell him—young and virile and masculine. Holy shit, he was one wickedly sexy young man!

  “I can fix that,” he said. “I like to jog and I’m prone to leg cramps, especially when it’s hot out like this. I know just what to do to make it go away.”

  Without waiting for her to respond he took her foot and propped it in his lap. Then he began to massage her cramping calf. His hands were strong and his touch was warm and experienced.

  “Lie back. Relax.” His voice had dropped to the deep, throaty tone he’d used when he’d first come into the clearing. “Let me take care of you.”

  She stared at him. She should tell him to take her foot out of his crotch and take his hands off her leg. But his touch was doing the most amazing things to her body. His fingers were sending little ripples of shock from her calf up the inside of her thigh and directly to her crotch, filling her with an unexpected rush of heat and wetness.

  “Don’t fight it. There’s no reason to. It’s just me,” he said. His breath had deepened and his eyes kept traveling from her mouth to her breasts. She glanced down at herself and saw that her aroused nipples were clearly visible through her damp T-shirt and sheer white sports bra.

  What would it hurt? It had been years since a beautiful young man had rubbed anything on her body. Years . . .

  The thought of realistically just how many years it had been since a man this young had touched her had Candice sitting straight up and pulling her tingling leg from his warm hands. She flexed her foot and refused to meet his eyes a
s she pulled on her sock.

  “Thanks!” she said with considerably more perkiness than she felt. “That’s fine. Good as new.”

  “Well, at least now I know how you stay in such great shape.”

  “Yeah, that’s me. Miss Great Shape.” She cringed. Miss Great Shape? What the hell was she saying?

  “I had a huge crush on you in high school,” he murmured.

  Her eyes widened with surprise and finally lifted to meet his. He had leaned back on his elbow and he was watching her with an intent expression that was anything but boylike.

  “I thought you were the sexiest woman I’d ever seen,” he said.

  Candice was trapped by his frank, masculine appraisal, and the fact that he clearly liked what he saw. Her mouth felt dry and she couldn’t seem to find her voice.

  “You’re still the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

  She felt excitement slither low and hot through her belly. Lord, he was delicious! Her gaze slid from his beautiful eyes to his lips. He smiled, confident and handsome and just a little bit teasingly.

  Candice blinked. Reality, girl! Snap the fuck out of it!

  “You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said in her best teacher voice, forcing her gaze from his lips and pulling on her shoe.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re my ex-student!” she blurted.

  He flashed the smile again and scooted forward. Brushing her hands gently aside, he began slowly tying her shoe.

  “I’m of age. Well of age. I’m twenty-six.”

  “Twenty-six!” her voice sounded shrill. “I thought you were twenty-seven.” As if one year actually made a difference. He was an infant! Practically a teenager.

  “I’ll be twenty-seven if you want me to be,” he added huskily.

  “Uh, no. A year really doesn’t make that much difference.” Thank God, he was done tying her shoe. Candice started to stand, only to feel his strong hands under her elbows as he helped her to her feet.

  “I agree with you. A few years don’t make much difference.”

  He kept his hands on her arms, holding her close to him. He smelled so damned good. She could feel his thumbs rubbing slow, soft circles above her elbows. That simple caress spread electric sensation from her arms all the way down to her crotch. He was wearing a plain gray T-shirt, worn thin and soft by many washings. The outline of his chest was clearly visible beneath it. He was strong and firm and deliciously big. She wanted to lean into him and lick him through the damn shirt. And then bite him. Yeah, she’d like to nibble her way down his body.

  What the fuck am I thinking? She stumbled back out of the seductive cocoon of his arms.

  “Our age difference is more than a few years, Justin.” She tried for her teacher voice again. Unfortunately she sounded more like a breathless Marilyn Monroe.

  He shrugged broad shoulders and grinned at her. “You’re really cute about that.”

  “About what?” Her mind didn’t seem to be processing correctly, and she inanely added, “And I’m not cute.”

  “About our age difference. And you are cute about this one thing. Other than that you’re sexy and beautiful.” He brushed a strand of thick blonde hair that had escaped from her ponytail out of her face. “May I walk you home?”

  Candice batted at his hand. “No, you may not.”

  “Why not? And don’t say it’s because I’m too young. My age should work for me when it comes to walking.” He grinned and added, “Or jogging. I don’t imagine many older men can keep up with you.”

  “Actually, they can’t,” she said. Despite herself she was thoroughly enjoying their flirty banter.

  “Just as I thought! So there’s no reason why I can’t walk you home.”

  “Yes, there is. I’ve sworn off men,” she said firmly.

  He threw his head back and laughed, a sound that was as seductively masculine as it was youthfully exuberant.

  “That’s perfect, because I’m not a man.”

  “Exactly the problem,” she countered, finding that she was unable to keep herself from smiling in response. “You’re a boy, and I don’t go out walking with boys.”

  His amber eyes darkened. With a quick movement that was feral in its grace he closed the space that had grown between them. He took her hand in his and, without his eyes leaving hers, he turned it over, palm up, and kissed her at the pulse point on her wrist. His lips were so close to her skin when he spoke that they brushed her arm, making her shiver with the warmth of his breath. “I’m no boy.” Then, eyes shining, he nipped her gently. “But I am a werewolf. So you can go out walking with me—or anything else you might like to do—and still be sworn off men.”

  Three

  What harm could letting him walk her home cause? It wasn’t like he was a stranger, and he was right. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. Really. He was twenty-six. And a half.

  Plus, she was having fun. Justin was making her laugh with stories about botched meat deliveries at his family’s restaurant, Red Riding Hood’s Steak and Ale House, which bragged it was “the best darn steak place this side of Denver.” She hadn’t remembered him as being this charming or witty in high school. Little wonder—the only thing more self-absorbed and boorish than teenage boys were teenage girls.

  Laughing, she made squeamish noises as he finished the story about the fist-sized hunk of fur that had been found in a package of ground buffalo meat, and how his dad hadn’t figured out that it was really buffalo fur and not wolf fur until after he’d sheared the pelts off of each of his brothers.

  “Thankfully, I was out of town on one of my many buying trips for the restaurant.” He rubbed a hand through his thick hair. “I know it grows back, but still . . .”

  “So, that’s what you do? You work at your family’s restaurant?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I guess.”

  She studied his handsome face, wondering at the sudden change in his attitude. And then an old memory surfaced. “Wait! Aren’t you an artist? Don’t I remember you winning the PTA Reflections Contest at the state level your sophomore year?”

  He moved his shoulder and looked uncomfortable. “That was a long time ago. I don’t do much art anymore.”

  “Why not? I remember that you were very talented.”

  “Just lost interest. It started to feel like just another chore—like washing dishes at the restaurant. Whatever.” Then he seemed to mentally shake himself and his expression brightened. “Enough about that. I want to hear about you. So you’re still teaching?”

  “Not for much longer, I hope,” she said.

  He laughed. “How are you going to escape from the Fighting Fairies?”

  “Ironically, through education. I’m working on my MFA. As soon as I finish it, I’m off to Denver to snag a job as an editor.”

  “Well, it’ll be the Fairies’ loss.”

  “Right now it doesn’t feel like the Fairies need to worry. I’m in the middle of a poetry class that’s trying to kill me; sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever get through it.”

  “Really?” He rubbed his chin, amber eyes shining. “Let’s see if I remember. . . .” He cleared his throat and gave a quick, nervous laugh.

  She raised her brows questioningly. What was he up to? Then he began a recitation. At first he spoke the lines hesitantly, but as he continued his confidence grew.

  If it be sin to love, and hold one heart,

  Far ’mongst the stars above, supreme, apart,

  If it be sin to deeply cherish one,

  And hold her rich and rare as beams the sun

  Across the morning skies,

  Then have I sinned, but sinning gained

  A glimpse of Paradise.

  His voice was rich and deep and his eyes lingered on hers, causing the poet’s words to seem his own. And he effectively rendered her speechless for what seemed like the zillionth time in just the short while they’d been together.

  “Did I get it
right?”

  “Yes!” The word burst out of her stunned mouth. Get a grip on yourself and say something intelligent before he starts thinking he’s talking to a prematurely aged teenager. “Yes, you did,” she said in a more grown-up voice. “That’s ‘If It Be Sin’ by DeMass, isn’t it? Are you a poetry fan?”

  Laughing, he took her hand and planted a quick, playful kiss on it.

  “What I am is a man with a pretty good memory who had one hell of a hard sophomore English teacher who terrified him and pounded poetry into his head so thoroughly that more than a decade later it’s still stuck there.”

  “Oh, God. I did that to you?”

  “Yes, Ms. Cox, you certainly did.”

  Unexpectedly, Candice blushed. “What grade did I give you?”

  “A ‘C,’ and I was grateful for it. And I do believe you might have also given me an ulcer as well as several painful hard-ons that semester, too.” He laughed. Then, before she could sputter a reply about the C, the ulcer or (embarrassingly) the hard-ons, he glanced around them. “Isn’t this your place?”

  Surprised, Candice realized that they were standing in her driveway. “Yes, it is.” She smiled at him and had to press her palms against her legs to stop her hands from fidgeting. “Thanks for walking me home.”

  “Entirely my pleasure.” He studied her for a moment, and his charming smile faltered as his expression grew more serious. “I’d—I’d like to see you again,” he said quickly, then held up his hand to cut her off when she automatically opened her mouth to tell him no. “Wait. Before you shoot me down I’d like you to answer one question for me. Did you enjoy talking to me?”

  “Yes.” The answer came easily.

  “Because I’m an ex-student or because you think I’m a man who is interesting and maybe slightly charming?”

  “That’s two questions,” she said.