Legends of Havenwood Falls 2

by Belinda Boring

  “Oh, Daniel. It’s beautiful,” Colleen replied and leaned back against him, placing her hands on top of his and giving them a squeeze. “I see you used my idea of utilizing the natural springs for irrigation.”

  “I sure did, and it saved at least ten thousand dollars off the estimate from the landscape architect. Thanks to my brilliant mate.” He kissed the top of her head. “Come on, are you ready to see the house?”

  He stepped away and held out his hand. She entwined her fingers through his, and they walked hand in hand across the giant flagstone patio to the wide French doors that led to the club.

  Inside it was all dark wood and rich tapestries in shades of green, brown, and gold. Vaulted ceilings with exposed beams loomed overhead. They crossed a dance floor, the parquet floors so brand new, they weren’t marked by a single scratch. Then they walked through the dining room, which consisted of twenty tables, all with high-backed upholstered chairs. An enormous gold chandelier was suspended from the ceiling. A large stone fireplace took up one wall. A brown leather sofa and two green velvet lounge chairs were positioned in front. Along the other wall the bar was set up—a stone base with a long top made out of a red oak tree that had been uprooted during a blizzard the year before. Shelves built into the wall behind the bar were stocked with only top-shelf liquor. At the front of the club, there was the membership office, a banquet room, and the pro shop. When they stepped out front, twelve brand new golf carts were parked in a row along the curb of the curved driveway.

  Their house was less than a block away, and soon they were walking up the driveway to their new split-level home. A large mottled-gray stone chimney jutted up from the center, and the bottom level of the house was built out of the same stone, where the second level had wood siding. Wide windows spanned the front of the house. Daniel and Colleen both wanted the view of the mountains to be unrestricted. Upon entering, a wide flight of stairs led them up to the second level and another set of stairs led to the first floor. They went upstairs, where several of the mountain lion shifters were moving furniture in the living room. A fireplace took up the center of this floor and would provide heat for the entire level. DJ, Daniel’s beta, grinned when they entered the kitchen. All of the appliances were top-of-the-line General Electric and a butterscotch brown that blended in with the stained pine cabinets.

  “Is it ready?” Daniel asked, and DJ nodded.

  “What’s ready?” Colleen peered up at him.

  “You’ll see.” He leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose.

  Leading Colleen down the carpeted hallway where the bedrooms were located, he pulled her into the smallest one at the end, and it was like stepping into a bowl of sunshine.

  “Oh, Danny!” she gasped and twirled around in the center of the room, taking everything in. The walls were painted a daffodil yellow, and the trim was white. A natural wood crib sat against the wall underneath a bay of windows. A matching wood dresser was against the wall to the right, in between the door and closet. A rocking chair was placed next to the crib with a blanket knitted by Colleen’s mom draped over the back. Pink, blue, yellow, and green yarn had been used to make it, since they wouldn’t know the sex of their first child until he or she was born. A mobile extended over the crib, each item an animal: lion, tiger, bear, monkey, horse, pig, cow, and a special-order item Daniel requested—a mountain lion. Several pillows and stuffed animals were propped up along the sides of the crib. A mural of Winnie the Pooh sitting with his paw in a jar of honey had been painted on the wall to the left.

  “It’s perfect!” she announced and walked into his arms.

  She slid her hands into the back pockets of his Levi’s and hummed with contentment. The new fullness of her breasts pressed against his chest, and his hands slid down her sides, coming to a stop on her fuller hips. He loved her new curves and that she carried their child. He nuzzled her neck again, moving her hair aside with his nose so he could gain access to bare skin. Lilac and sunshine filled his nose, and he inhaled deeply before placing soft kisses along her neck. Sucking gently on her mark made her moan and shift closer, squeezing his ass through the thick denim. It never got old, how quickly they responded to each other.

  Since the first night they truly bonded and he claimed her completely, they had been in sync. One of his favorite things to do was to listen to their heartbeats. They beat as one.

  “Honey, we’re in a house full of people and in our child’s nursery. We’ll get frisky later, when we’re alone,” Colleen murmured against his chest.

  “You’re right. We’re definitely finishing this later,” he whispered in her ear and felt her body quiver against his, her scent becoming muskier with desire.

  “You’re bad,” she scolded breathlessly and swatted his chest when she backed away. “Let’s go look at the rest of the house.”

  They finished exploring, and as they walked back to the country club, where their truck was parked, they started their debate on baby names. Since Colleen first found out she was pregnant, she had been obsessing over names. With four months left until their baby was due, she was feeling the pressure to pick out a name.

  “How about Petunia if we have a girl?” Daniel suggested, and Colleen scowled.

  “That’s an awful name.”

  “Okay, what about boys’ names? I’ve always been partial to Michael.”

  Colleen stopped in the middle of the newly paved street and tilted her head to the side, something he had learned early on in their relationship meant she was thinking the idea over, weighing the pros and the cons.

  “Michael McCabe. I like it.” She rubbed her belly, which was just beginning to test the confines of her shirt.

  Looping her arm through his, they continued walking. The streets of Creekwood Estates were quiet now, but all of the homes of Phase One had already sold out, and planning for Phase Two was in the beginning stages. Daniel looked around at the life he was building for himself, for others, and for his growing family. His children would grow up playing on these streets, safe and unafraid of being singled out for being different. Looking down at his beautiful bride, glowing with pregnancy, Daniel was so glad he chose to accept her, that he chose love over hate.

  We hope you enjoyed this story in the Legends of Havenwood Falls series featuring a variety of supernatural creatures. Books in the historical Legends of Havenwood Falls series:

  Lost in Time by Tish Thawer

  Dawn of the Witch Hunters by Morgan Wylie

  Redemption’s End by Eric R. Asher

  Trapped Within a Wish by Brynn Myers

  Blood and Damnation by Belinda Boring

  Fated Beginnings by E.J. Fechenda

  Emeline by Katie M. John

  Released From a Curse by Brynn Myers

  A Pack of Lies by Kallie Ross

  Kiss the Ashes by Desiree Lafawn

  Hidden Truths by Colleen Nye (April 2019)

  Also try the signature series, Havenwood Falls, and the YA series, Havenwood Falls High

  Stay up to date at www.HavenwoodFalls.com

  Subscribe to our reader group and receive free stories and more!

  About the Author

  E.J. Fechenda has lived in Philadelphia and Phoenix, and now calls Portland, Maine, home. She is the Amazon bestselling author of the New Mafia Trilogy and in addition to working on the Ghost Stories Trilogy, she’s a contributing author for the Havenwood Falls series. She has a degree in Journalism from Temple University, and her short stories have been published in Suspense Magazine and several anthologies. E.J. is a member of the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance.

  You can find her on the internet here:

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EJFechendaAuthor

  Twitter @ebusjaneus (https://twitter.com/ebusjaneus)

  Tumblr: http://ejfechenda.tumblr.com/

  Acknowledgments

  A year has passed since my journey with Havenwood Falls began, and what an epic adventure it has been. I’ve met so many incredible authors and rea
ders. We support each other, are silly together, and have built an amazing world together. My heart is full of love for you all. Kristie, I don’t know how you keep everything straight and keep us authors on task. You are truly brilliant with a little bit of evil mastermind thrown into the mix. Thank you for taking a chance on me.

  Every time I work on a new project, I lose myself a bit and withdraw to the “writing cave.” My social life is impacted as most weekend nights are spent writing. To my family, especially the hubs, and friends who tolerate this and understand, I appreciate you more than you know and we will make up for lost time—promise!

  An Excerpt

  Emeline (A Legends of Havenwood Falls Novella) by Katie M. John

  Emeline Fairchild couldn’t imagine a more perfect match for herself than Dragan Bishop. Her real-life Prince Charming, a powerful mage, freed her from a curse, awakening her to a new world in a new century. She finds herself in 1913, in a beautiful town in the Colorado mountains, with Dragan by her side. With such an enchanted beginning, their union would be nothing short of magical. Their love is full of fire and passion—some might say obsession. But as the much anticipated wedding approaches, Emeline soon finds the magic turning dark.

  When tragedy comes to their burgeoning little town, Emeline is forced to ask what lengths Dragan went to in order to break her curse. Emotions and trust unravel, but Emeline’s new art master shows her that light is a far greater power than the dark. Is her light enough to defeat the darkness of a jealous and insane mind? Or is it too late to save the true love of her life?

  Emeline

  By Katie M. John

  Spring 1913

  It’s spring, and I’m sitting in the garden with the man I’m going to marry. He’s perhaps not the first man you’d think I’d be marrying. We’re almost entirely different in every way. He’s tall and straight, with dark brooding blue eyes that can read your soul for all its desires, and I’m petite, with snow-blond hair and green eyes that dream of meadows and woodlands and home.

  He is witch, and I am fae, and our magic is real, but not entirely compatible. I am the early summer day, and he the storm that follows it. He has the power to destroy me, and I have the power to redeem him. Our love is a battle between the two, and it is fierce and full of passion in a time when passion is a secret activity, executed in brief moments, of crushed velvets and satins against library cases, in smoldering looks in the candlelight, in the touch of leather gloves against my skin. Stolen pleasures. Divine moments.

  We are to be married in two months, on the night of a full moon, by the great falls. The ritual will be conducted by a member of the Court of the Sun and the Moon. Then we will be left in the woods as children of Nature, and when we return, we will be man and wife under the eyes of all the gods and goddesses; of Father Sun and Mother Moon, of Holy Creator, and all other universal energies.

  We will be married in the humans’ church on the following Sunday, for the sake of appearance; me dressed in pure cottons and carrying summer flowers. The town of Havenwood Falls will be there to witness the joining of our two powerful bloodlines. Founding families. The folks from the big houses. Mr. and Mrs. Bishop.

  “Tell me our story again,” I say, resting my head on Dragan’s burgundy-velvet-covered shoulder.

  He stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankle, luxuriating in the weak spring sunshine. His smile could melt the sun. His dark blue eyes dance with secrets and promises. They are eyes that threaten to take me to dark places I’ve only just begun to imagine.

  “You really want to hear it again?” he asks, cocking his brow.

  I thread my arm through his and push myself closer to him. He smells of rich spices and faraway lands. It is through his stories I have come to love him. Stories of his home, of his magic, of the ravages of war and the terrors of the Ottoman invasions; of his Serbian mother, Anika, who was burned at the stake for being a witch, and his father’s return to his native England, where he established a coven in Glastonbury, who worshipped at Stonehenge. And then, the family’s flight across the big ocean to the New World on the promise of gold, mountains, and freedom—only the dream fast became a nightmare when the New World started burning their witches like the Old World had.

  “I want to hear it all—right from the minute you stepped off the boat,” I say, knowing Dragan will not spare the details like my parents do when I ask them about those times.

  He’s still looking at me with eyes so intense I can almost read him, but not quite. Dragan is dark waters.

  “Okay, all of it, but in chapters, and not all today as I have to be somewhere in an hour,” he says, taking a deep breath and checking his pocket watch. “Also, maybe a few little omissions.” He smirks, making a gesture with his thumb and finger, and in a flash, I see the boy he once was and all the potential for delightful wickedness he holds.

  “Yes, perhaps you should leave out the saloon fights and the brothels,” I say, trying to shock him with my worldliness. He doesn’t rise to the bait. His eyes have already filmed over and he’s traveled into the past; a place that I both inhabited and didn’t. A time I was both alive and dead, but more on that later.

  “We had arrived in New England and made our way a little south, not yet sure where we would settle, for the land was far less hospitable than we had thought it would be. Everything seemed set to push us back out of the country, and we were seriously thinking about returning home to continue our father’s coven in England.

  “But just as we were about to give up, Rodavan had a vision while scrying that sent us south. We’d find a group of travelers who would lead us to home. I thought the idea was absurd, to go traipsing halfway across the nation on the basis of a vision, but Rodavan was adamant it was our destiny, and when Rodavan gets an idea in his head, there’s no shaking it. To be honest, I was more than happy to leave.

  “We had made a reasonable amount of money peddling potions and lotions and cure-alls, which in a land of new diseases and poisonous animals, made for rich pickings. We continued to make our way south, me riding our wagon with all of our worldly possessions and Rodavan following with our trade wagon. It made for slow progress, and the sound of rattling bottles soon became maddening.

  “By the late 1840s, we had made it as far as Mississippi and were heading toward St. Louis, having heard rumor of other powerful witches and medicine men practicing a form of magic not too dissimilar to our own. It had been a hard journey, but we were used to a life of hardship despite our wealth and privilege. The war back home in Serbia during our childhood had not discriminated, and no amount of money could protect us entirely from the bloodshed.

  “Nevertheless, Mississippi was unlike anything we had seen, and it certainly wasn’t what we had hoped for when we had traveled to the New World with the hope of making a life in a new land without prejudice.

  “When we traveled the banks of the Mississippi, we saw many a rich white man, ‘civilized’ and finely dressed, whipping his slaves, or placing them in shackles as if they were no more than animals. We were haunted by the songs of African slaves, their magic speaking to our own; their persecution and subjugation a song all too familiar to us—so that although we were different, we were the same.

  “The horrors we witnessed in the cotton plantations flanking the river bank were enough to blanch even our hardened souls. Rodavan and I quickly came to the understanding we had swapped one ethnic cleansing horror for another. We were again wondering if we should return to England and see if we could find sanctuary there, when a caravan of wagons approached us.

  “There was nothing novel about this. We had seen a great many caravans on our travels. The whole nation was in a flux of settlement and motion, but what was unique about this caravan of wagons was the powerful magic surrounding it. Whoever was coming, they weren’t human—and they weren’t just witches either.”

  Dragan pauses with the flair of a practiced storyteller.

  “The Old Families?” I ask, knowing this part of the st
ory well. “My mother and father?”

  He nods.

  “They told us how they had originally come south, with some hopeless hope of freeing some slaves, but the scale of the situation was beyond even their wildest nightmares. The overwhelm, even with their combined magical powers, had been too much. They had done everything they could along the way, petitioning and campaigning anyone who would even half listen, but in doing so, they had made many powerful enemies, who were only too keen to spread vicious rumors that they were a band of Satan-worshipping criminals and outlaws. They had been forced to flee and were now traveling, looking for a place they could finally call their home.

  “The hardship of our circumstances meant friendships were made fast and firm with the group. My brother and I were keen to travel to a place where we could settle and make a world of our own, one based on freedom and possibility, one where we could practice our magic and our beliefs without fear. It was a notion that bonded us all deeply.”

  Dragan stops his narrative, and I look up to see Harriet, our maid, walking toward us with a tray of lemonade and plate of scones in one hand and a collapsible tray table in the other. Dragan removes my hand from his arm, and we straighten up into respectability.