Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set

by Flynn, Connie

  Quickly squelching her instinctive thought of the vial of holy water before he could read it, Lily casually dried her face and hands, then gave Sebastian a mocking once-over.

  Bending low to avoid the high ceiling, he supported his massive bulk on a gilded walking stick. Although at first glance he might appear to be an unusually tall and muscular human in his bright yellow topcoat with its matching bowler hat, a second glance would notice his elongated muzzle and the thick white fur that covered every exposed part of his body.

  He was indeed a werewolf — a man-wolf — and though he could shift from human to canine to man-wolf shape with ease, Lily knew he preferred the man-wolf form above all. And was flashy about it too.

  Few werewolves could retain their clothing as they alchemized from wolf to man to werewolf, but Sebastian possessed this skill. As a royal member of the Lupine race, Lily had also mastered that ability, but she'd preferred a more subdued elegance and had frequently teased Sebastian about his garish tastes.

  "You've outdone yourself," she gibed. "If work slaughtering humans gets scarce you might consider doubling as a fire hydrant."

  He tipped his yellow bowler hat. "Always the pepper-tongued one, an attribute undimmed by your mortal state."

  "You're the best judge of that, my king," she retorted with a disdainful bow.

  "Careful, Lily," he warned. "I have my limits."

  "Of course you do." Arching her neck, she ran her fingers tauntingly down the center of her throat. "And I'm ready to die, Lord."

  With a sharp rap of his walking stick, Sebastian shot forward and grabbed a handful of Lily's hair. Pulling her face within inches of his, he simultaneously pinned her left arm against his massive chest. "Do you pups never learn? Werewolves do not kill one another."

  "This . . . is as much . . . your fault as . . . mine," Lily hissed though pain-clenched teeth. Sebastian's hold on her hair was merciless. Despite that, she pulled away, reaching back with her free hand for the vial. To block her intent from Sebastian's notice, and though it hurt even to talk, she forced out new accusations. "You just . . . just want to avoid . . . your own part in . . . Jorje's death. A-admit it . . . oh . . . oh, High King . . ."

  Sebastian gave several vicious pulls to her hair. "Do not address me with such insolence, pup!"

  Agonized tears stung Lily's eyes as she groped for the vial, but finally she felt its smooth plastic surface. Palming the bottle and struggling to withstand Sebastian's excruciating tugs, she fumbled to free the stopper. It didn't budge and she decided her only recourse was to make Sebastian angry enough to release her. Deliberately sagging forward, which relieved some of the pressure on her scalp, she fixed him with an accusing glare. "You know it's true! You chose Morgan as my mate. I never, never wanted him. Then you put me under orders to protect him. The wolfling was about to slay him. I regret–"

  "Regret! Bah!" Sebastian slipped into the werewolf language. "Regret is for mortals."

  He curled his lip, baring his gleaming canines. His breath hit her face — hot, reeking of fresh human blood — turning her stomach with stunning violence. But what surprised her most of all was that she'd understood him.

  "But I forget," he added in a cooler tone, still speaking in the Lupine tongue. His apparent belief that she didn't comprehend a word he said reassured her that she'd successfully blocked his mind-reading abilities. "You are one of them now, are you not? A puny, sniveling mortal. Perhaps this is why you blame me for the law you violated, why you expected me to violate it also. No, dear one, I have other plans for you once you return to the pack."

  "I'll never return!" she shot back, barely aware she'd instinctively replied in Lupinese.

  Sebastian blinked in surprise. "You understand . . . Perhaps all is not lost . . ."

  She started to speak again, but he raised his free hand. "Do not protest. You cannot avoid it. The next aspect of the moon and Pluto in the heavens is but days away. By then I will have persuaded you to endure the Song of Hades. Within a week you will be a Lupine again. But not as a queen." He chuckled darkly. "I have devised an exquisite sentence, and I am sure you above all can appreciate its subtlety. Imagine, if you will, your misery at spending the next century as the lowest of the low — an omega, destined to give your kills to alphas and" — another chuckle — "even the lesser betas. A fitting punishment for a murderess, and surely a warning to those who might deign to do likewise."

  A chill crept up Lily's spine. Dear God, what hell he'd planned for her. Even life as an ordinary mortal living in a hovel was better than that. She faked a derisive laugh. "By Lupine Law, you cannot force me, Sebastian. And I'll never submit to the ceremony. Never!"

  "You who breeched the Law so grievously dare quote it now?" With a frustrated groan, he released Lily's hair. The moment she'd been waiting for.

  But before she could move to uncork the bottle, he put a finger on her cheek, grazing the skin lightly with his clawed finger. She hesitated, momentarily transfixed.

  "How could you have done this, Lily? You were my upholder of the Law."

  For an instant his eyes filled with sorrow. His hand moved to cup her chin. "Now my pack squabbles among themselves like common beasts. Only by your example can I restore my people's pride. You cannot escape."

  His eyes flickered, narrowed hypnotically. Lily tried to wrench her head free, but he tightened his grip. "Come to me, Lily," he crooned, beginning the werewolf spell.

  Her arm now unfettered, Lily slipped it behind her, expecting her willpower to wane even before she attempted to open the vial. Although Sebastian's gaze bore deeply into her eyes, her desire to escape remained as strong as ever. His expression turned puzzled just as she yanked the stopper free.

  With his realization dawning and no time left, she overcame her fear of wasting a single drop and wildly flung the water into his face.

  "You foolish bitch," he roared. His hand fell from her cheek. Staggering on weakened legs, he reached out blindly, groping for balance. As he slumped to the floor, his claw snagged one of Lily's wrists.

  Lily barely felt the skin tear. She hadn't injured him badly enough to give herself time for escape, and her only thought was to get another bottle of water from her jacket before Sebastian's superhuman healing powers restored his strength. Leaping over his writhing body, she dashed into the bedroom, trying to remember where she'd left the jacket.

  There! There! Carelessly tossed over the back of a chair in the carpeted sitting area at the far end of the room. Blood seeped from her wrist, but it didn't matter. Only the jacket, the bottles, mattered. The jacket. The bottles. She dashed across the wooden floor, bare feet slipping on the smooth surface, her head growing strangely light.

  Sebastian's moans filled her ears. "Noooo . . ." he cried and she heard him lumbering up, knew he'd read the purpose in her mind. But she was mere feet away now. The bottles were close, close . . .

  A furred hand closed around her ankle and she plummeted to the white carpet.

  "Do not fight me," she heard him rasp. "You cannot win."

  Rolling, flailing, scooting on her belly and unwilling to waste energy on words, she inched toward the jacket, reaching out, less than a hand's span from the precious fluid. Blood trickled down her arm, leaving rivulets on her skin. Still she reached. Reached, reached, reaching . . . But unable . . .

  Sebastian enclosed her legs and with a quick, jerky movement flipped her on her back. Suddenly pain more intense than Lily had ever experienced coursed through her body. As if in slow motion, she felt the skin on one thigh split, felt muscle coming apart, ripping, shredding. An agonized scream burst from her throat and her eyes shot wide open, searching for the source of her agony.

  She saw Sebastian glaring up at her from the floor, his handsome wolf face ravaged almost beyond recognition, but the punishing throb in her leg dulled the shock of such a sight. Praying he'd injured her only slightly, she let her eyes drift to her leg . . .

  Blood had once been her life — she should have been prepared
— but the sight of the crimson geyser spurting from her thigh tore another scream from her throat.

  Then Sebastian was above her, growling threats, swearing he'd make her an outcast for all her hundreds of remaining years. Her head swam, but still she struggled to reach the jacket. Her limbs were so heavy, though. She could barely lift her arm.

  The jacket . . . it was almost within her grasp. Almost.

  A screech filled the room. Initially thinking she'd cried out again, Lily strained to lift her head and saw the hawk soar through the open balcony doors, speeding toward Sebastian. Diving at the werewolf, the bird attacked with deadly beak and talons. Sebastian swatted back in rage.

  The holy water had clearly taken its toll. Patches of blistered skin showed beneath his tattered, natty clothes, his melting fur. His blows became clumsy, often missing altogether. But one titanic lunge met its mark. He clamped a hand over the hawk's wing and hurled the bird toward the bed. Reeling, struggling for purchase on the flimsy canopy, ripping the fabric with its sagging weight, the bird finally managed to right itself. This gave Sebastian the time he needed. Before the bird regrouped to attack anew, he bellied toward the exit and slid out onto the balcony.

  "Remember, Lily, you cannot escape," he threatened weakly. Seconds later, a soft thud resounded from the sidewalk below.

  With one final angry cry, the hawk settled on top of the canopy. Then all was silent. How odd, Lily thought, that the creature who'd plagued her so horribly should now come to her rescue. Then the creature faded from her vision. She wondered where it was, and found she didn't care. Darkness had settled over her eyes and she didn't quite understand why.

  She was safe, she supposed. Although for some reason safety no longer seemed important. Nothing could harm her. She was floating, wasn't she? An unusual feeling. Almost like being in a hot air balloon, rising, rising . . .

  To where, she didn't know.

  Suddenly a figure stood above her. A hard, angular, suntanned man with a sculptured face and unforgiving golden eyes.

  The shaman, she realized hazily. The one who'd so sadly lost his wife. She stared up and found herself untroubled by his presence, although she knew he shouldn't be there. Then her head fell to one side, and she stared blankly at the plush white carpet, saw stains, seeping stains, darkly red and indelible.

  The last thought she had before closing her weighted eyelids was how horribly Doris would berate the poor maid for being unable to clean up the mess.

  The last words she heard came from the shaman's lips. "You will not die, Lily," he said with chilling harshness, "At least not now."

  Chapter Three

  He should have let her die. Unconsciously flexing and unflexing his hands, Tony White Hawk gazed down at the unconscious woman in the lower berth. Beneath his feet, the train vibrated, its muted rumbles the only sound in the compartment.

  Moaning gently, the woman stirred, arching her slender neck and giving Tony a view of her softly throbbing pulse. His hand dropped to the hunting knife sheathed at his waist and rested there.

  He stared down reflectively for a long moment, then turned away to a desklike alcove and picked up a small basin and a box of bandages. Returning to his sleeping captive, he lifted one of her hands. Although he'd done his best to wash off the blood, the creases of her knuckles still contained dark flakes, and a dried trickle from beneath her bandage streaked her skin to the elbow.

  As he stripped the old bandage from her wound, he found it hard to equate this fragile creature with the monster who had killed Tajaya. Pity speared his heart, angering him because it was so undeserved. The irony didn't escape him. For years he'd rued his hateful impulses toward the she-wolf, now he rued his lack of them.

  He ripped off the bandage unnecessarily hard, and a pained grunt escaped Lily's throat. She flinched slightly, then settled back into slumber.

  Beneath the bandage was a poultice, which Tony discarded. Running his finger along the closed gash, pleased with how well the Medicine had worked, he then dipped a eucalyptus leaf into the bowl and plastered it to the skin. Next he moved to her leg. This gash, the potentially fatal one, went deeper, but it was also healing well. She should have regained most of her strength by the time they reached Flagstaff.

  He tended to her wound, still dazed by what had happened in Lily's room. No one would blame him for failing to save her from her werewolf lord. He'd have fulfilled his duty.

  His thought-form had intervened instinctively, he told himself, roused by the sight of his charge's blood spilling on the white floor. Hawks were fighters to the core, and he could expect no less of this one, just because it was a product of his mind. But it wasn't the bird's ferocious protectiveness that shook him, it was what happened next.

  One moment he'd been roosting on the frame of the frilly canopy watching the she-wolf's blood stain the carpet. The next moment he'd been in human form, standing over her, torn between the hawk's protectiveness and his own malice.

  For years he'd struggled with shapeshifting, and though he'd had some minor successes, they'd been few since Tajaya’s death. Yet the moment this unworthy creature needed him, he'd shapeshifted instantly, effortlessly.

  Why had he been blessed with the gift to save this unholy one? He didn't understand.

  Finished with the poultices, Tony put adhesive bandages on both wounds, then returned the bowl and package to the desk. A leather satchel leaned against the wall and he opened it to collect a smaller bag. From this he removed an abalone half shell, a packet of sage, and the feathered wing of an eagle. Crumbling some of the herb into the shell, he lit the leaves with a match. As spirals of smoke wafted up, he moved back to the berth.

  Sweeping the wing across the shell and directing the healing smoke over Lily's body, he recited a prayer in the language of the Dawn People, thanking the Great Spirit for delivering Lily from death so she could face her crimes, and asking for relief from his shameful hatred.

  And while one part of him delivered the words wholeheartedly, another part meant them not at all.

  He should have let her die.

  * * *

  Lily felt a gentle sway, as if she were in a cradle or a womb. Her mind drifted through her life, moving from place to place, event to event, every scene so vivid she felt she was actually there.

  Was she dead?

  How odd she could hear a faint and rhythmic thump beneath her ear, or even be aware she had an ear. She wiggled her toes, amazed to find them working just as she remembered.

  Then her thoughts went adrift again. She found herself in the distant past . . .

  Paris, at seventeen, giggling near the entrance to the Eiffel Tower with her classmates. The sky above was slightly gray, promising another spring shower, and Lily was wearing her new Dior jacket.

  "Have you ever seen one?" Jolene, always the boldest among her friends, was revealing the details of her first sexual encounter, secrets of experience glowing in her young eyes.

  "No!" cried Christine. "And I never will. Not until I'm married."

  "Only on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel," Lily said with a half giggle. "Are they really that little?"

  Christine's head whipped in Lily's direction. "You didn't look at those parts! Not in the Sistine!"

  Laughing at her friend's shock, Lily twirled around. Just as she was about to turn back, she saw him. Dressed in a dramatic black cloak lined with crimson that flapped around the legs of his white suit, he had an aura of power about him. His hair was silver, but his face was unlined, youthful, and cruelly handsome.

  Emboldened by her voyeur's journey into sexuality, Lily returned his stare and instantly felt a powerful tug on her psyche.

  Should she approach him?

  As soon as the thought crossed her mind, the man nodded.

  Lily took a couple of steps forward.

  "Where are you going?" asked Jolene, clearly annoyed by Lily's straying attention.

  "That man . . ."

  Lily moved dreamily toward him. When she came to
stand before him, she felt his startling blue eyes caress her. With a flourish of his arm, he bowed. "Bon jour, me petite. Sebastian at your service."

  Although it normally would have felt silly, Lily curtsied without self-consciousness. "Bonjour, mon ami."

  "Ah. You are fluent in French?"

  "Not really."

  "So what is your name, dear one?" He touched both her temples. "No, don't tell me," he said, closing his eyes theatrically. Freed momentarily from his compelling gaze, Lily viewed him objectively. Everything about him was larger than life. His height, which towered better than a foot above her five-foot body. His movements, which were large and sweeping.

  "Your name is Lily." He opened his eyes, holding her in his sight again. "Lily Angelica DeLaVega. Both of your Christian names denote purity. You must possess it in abundance."

  Lily's eyes widened. "How did you know?"

  "Just by chance."

  And though his uncanny guess made her slightly nervous, she felt drawn to him anyway. During the many lonely days and nights in her parents' home, she'd dreamed of her destiny. Somehow this man made her feel he'd help her find it.

  "Come, dear one." He slipped a hand beneath her elbow. "Let me treat you to an ice."

  They drifted away from the shadow of the Eiffel Tower to search for a vendor, Lily barely hearing Jolene and Christine's loud objections. Afterward they strolled around the plaza, and Lily lapped up a raspberry ice that tasted better than any she'd ever had. Throughout their walk he treated her with an old-world courtesy that contained no hint of lasciviousness. By the end Lily felt she'd found the doting father she'd always dreamed of. Completely without shyness she turned to tell him this.

  Suddenly the raspberry flavor on her tongue turned pungent and bitter. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

  "Drink," said a harsh voice from somewhere outside her dream.

  A large hand supported her head, the touch rough and uncaring. Although she wanted to spit out the liquid, Lily swallowed, more out of surprise than obedience.