Primal Heat

by Susan Sizemore

  She glowered at Bridger. The last thing she needed was him telling her she was crazy. Then, the fact that she was outraged tickled her sense of humor. Imagining voices in her head was a certain amount of proof that she was crazy. Or at least that she hadn’t gotten enough sleep lately.

  “We can start now,” Jo said. “Mom, Dad, come with me.”

  The three of them moved up the aisle and took seats in the front left row. Everybody else not participating in the ceremony was already seated. This left Philippa standing alone in the back of the hall, paralyzed with the sinking realization that she was supposed to be standing next to the man she was trying so hard not to go near.

  She managed to plaster a smile on her face and make her feet move forward. This was for her sister, and her nephew, and there was no way she would fail in her duty to her family. Or embarrass them in front of the whole Cage crew. She became acutely aware that everyone was looking at her.

  And that many of them were thinking at her, which made no sense, but which seemed to be standard operating procedure with Marcus’s family.

  Then her gaze locked onto Bridger’s, and the expression in those cool green eyes steadied her, and gave her a boost of confidence she hadn’t realized she needed.

  She couldn’t remember having rehearsed this, but somehow she knew what to do.

  At the front of the hall was a table covered in rich black velvet. Velvet as the night, she thought. Faceted crystals were scattered across it, representing stars. There was a golden statue of a woman with uplifted arms, holding an orb of milky translucent moonstone to one side. Next to the moon goddess was a smaller statue of a delicately wrought golden tree, its branches bare, a small door incised at the base of the trunk. In the center of the table sat a shallow golden basin containing water. On one side of it was a small, ornately carved cinnabar box full of dust. On the other side was a jewel-encrusted silver goblet. For a moment, Philippa thought she caught the scent of blood and spice. Then she realized that whatever was in the goblet must be a heavily fragrant wine. Thick white candles in shiny onyx holders burned on both ends of the table. Philippa wasn’t sure about the symbolism, but she recognized an altar when she faced one.

  The baby’s paternal great-grandmother stood on the opposite side of the altar. She wore a midnight blue shawl richly embroidered with a gold tree and silver moon pattern, and held the baby in her arms. Brandon was wrapped in a bright red satin cloth, also richly embroidered.

  Philippa agreed with her mother that this was the strangest baptism she’d ever seen, but the disturbing thought was instantly soothed away. Though the trappings were strange, this was sacred, and the responsibility she was accepting was a grave one.

  This knowledge came to her while the Matri looked into her eyes, deep into her soul. Phillipa could only answer with a solemn nod of understanding and assent.

  “The mother of us all blesses you,” the old woman said, and her attention turned to Bridger.

  Phillipa wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing beside him, or when they’d clasped hands. But she became acutely aware of his presence as the Matri studied him.

  It wasn’t his strong, squarely built body in the perfectly tailored dark suit, or his rugged handsomeness, or the way he exuded danger with a sexual charge to it, that she noticed now. There was a seriousness about him, and a tender, protective look in his eyes when his gaze shifted to the baby. The brief glimpse of gentleness nearly melted Phillipa.

  Her attention was called back to the ceremony when the baby was handed across the altar to her. She carefully unwrapped Brandon from the satin blanket and turned with the naked infant to face Bridger. Matt put one hand on the baby’s chest, and supported his back with the other.

  While they held him, the old woman sprinkled Brandon’s bare skin with a bit of dirt, then a few drops of water. The baby squirmed and cried for a moment, then settled down.

  Then Matt dipped a finger in the goblet and held it to Brandon’s mouth. The baby suckled the liquid off his finger and smiled up at Bridger. The Matri chuckled, and there was scattered applause from some of the guests.

  “This child is of our Family,” the Matri declared. “How do we protect one of our own?”

  “All through the night,” Matt responded.

  “All through the day,” Phillipa said.

  “I will teach him the secrets of the night,” Matt said.

  “He will learn how to dwell in the day,” Phillipa said.

  “You swear to be his guardians?” the Matri asked.

  “I swear by the mistress of the moon,” Matt answered.

  “I swear by the lord of light,” Phillipa promised.

  “In the midnight hour and the noonday heat?”

  “At all times and places,” they replied together.

  “You will protect him from the hands of his enemies?”

  “His enemies are mine.”

  “Even when his enemy is himself?”

  “To teach him, to guide him, to admonish him, to love and nurture him, is my duty.”

  “So you swear, Matthias, son of House Lorelei of the Family Caeg-Bruca?”

  “I swear.”

  “So you swear, Phillipa, daughter of House Constance and Matthew of Family Elliot?”

  “I swear.”

  The Matri looked from them to the people gathered behind them. “It is sworn. Do you witness?”

  “So we witness,” a chorus of voices solemnly replied.

  She took the baby from them and held him up for all to see. “So is guardianship sworn for Brandon Cage-Elliot, of House Josephine and Marcus, of Family Caeg. I proclaim it!”

  Then everyone was on their feet, applauding and congratulating Jo and Marc, who came and took the baby from his great-grandmother.

  Chapter Nine

  S urrounded by people, Phillipa felt all the energy drain from her, and suddenly absolutely nothing about the ceremony made any sense. A shiver of fear went through her, and her head began to spin.

  Strong hands came around her, and she found herself leaning back into a protective embrace. “Give it a moment,” Bridger soothed. “Just close your eyes.”

  She did, which made her more aware of him. And that was fine. After the moment passed, she didn’t care that everything else was weird. She felt fine.

  “Nice,” she said, and sighed as every bit of tension melted away.

  “You’re heavy,” he answered.

  “You’re a wimp.”

  There was something so nice about the way they fit together. “Do you want me to stand on my own?”

  “No.”

  “Then stop complaining.”

  “I could bicker with you for hours.”

  Oddly enough, this reminded her of the comfortably quarrelsome way her parents occasionally talked to each other, and that was just…wrong. It wasn’t like she and Bridger had that kind of long-term relationship, or any sort of relationship at all.

  When she tried to move away, he continued to hold her close.

  Matt was totally enamored of the scent of Phillipa’s skin, the touch of her hair against his cheek, and the way she fitted into his embrace. Dangerous, he knew. Stupid. But for this one last time, the closeness felt so good. When she tried to move away from him, he almost compulsively held her tighter.

  He recognized that his possessiveness made her nervous—but only because she liked it, when a modern, independent woman wasn’t supposed to like that sort of thing.

  Her attitude both amused and bemused him, but when all her muscles tensed, he made himself let her go. What either of them liked or wanted could not matter.

  “You know I’m doing this for your own good, right?” he asked.

  Phillipa whirled to face him. “What?”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind. Talking to myself, really, love.”

  “Don’t you ‘love’ me!”

  She seemed as surprised by her vehemence as he was. Whatever was going on between them was even harder and more co
nfusing for her than it was for him.

  Instead of trying to explain, he replied, “I’m working on that.”

  “Good.” She turned to walk away, and suddenly there was Sandor-Jason Cage standing in front of her. Smiling. With a Prime’s avid glint in his eyes.

  “We haven’t had a chance to meet before now, and I’m very sorry for the lost time,” he said, smoothly taking Phillipa’s hand. “I had to work last night, so I couldn’t make it to the party. I’m one of the few Cages that actually live in town. Perhaps—”

  “She doesn’t want to spend time with you,” Matt declared, stepping up to stand beside Phillipa.

  Phillipa gave him an annoyed glance.

  Jason acted like he wasn’t there. “You performed the ceremony very well,” he flattered her. “Especially since you must find our traditions old-fashioned.”

  “Some of us respect our traditions,” Matt reminded the other Prime.

  “Some of us are complete fools, too,” Jason answered.

  Whatever was going on between the two men, Phillipa was certain the antagonism had nothing to do with her. Not from the way they were suddenly glaring daggers at each other.

  Tension radiated out from the pair to the rest of the room as well. Everyone stared. Bodies went still. Voices went quiet.

  Phillipa jerked her hand from the man’s grasp. “It’s so lovely feeling like a bone between a pair of big dogs.” She walked away in disgust without sparing either of the antagonists another look.

  “Primes,” Jo murmured, when Phillipa reached her and their mother at the back of the crowd. “Don’t pay them any mind. Marc will straighten it out.”

  “I don’t care if it gets straightened out or not,” Phillipa said. “Except that bloodshed at Brandon’s christening would be extremely rude.”

  “You’d be surprised, with this bunch,” Jo said.

  Philippa risked a quick glance back at Bridger, and, yep, her heart jolted at the sight of him facing the other man, his expression cold but his eyes full of fire and fury.

  What was it with her and dangerous men? She forced herself to look away.

  Mom was holding Brandon easily on her hip. Phillipa kissed him on the forehead and walked toward the hall entrance. The Cages made her crazy, Matt Bridger most of all. She had to get out of this macho, charged atmosphere right now.

  Only to discover Pete Martin coming in the door as she reached it.

  I have too many men in my life, she thought.

  But it’s all about the life in your men.

  Where had that thought come from? And why had the voice in her mind sounded like Octavia’s?

  “Hey, looks like I made it after all,” Pete said with a grin.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, worried that perhaps she’d done something stupid and called him after vowing not to during the panic attack she’d had earlier in the day.

  “Your sister called and invited me,” he answered.

  Phillipa shot a surprised look at Jo. She wasn’t used to her younger sister interfering in her life, but she couldn’t help sighing with relief. “How thoughtful of her,” she said, turning back to Pete.

  “Yeah. Am I in time?”

  She put her arm through his and turned him back toward the door. “The ceremony’s just over. Let’s go get a cup of coffee.”

  “But—don’t you want me to meet your family?”

  She gave as airy a laugh as she could manage. “Not at the moment.” She leaned close to his ear and whispered. “Madness runs in Marc’s family, and right now I think it’s entered a marathon.”

  “You know, boys,” Marc said, getting between Matt and Jason, “this might not be the best time.”

  “Oh, Marcus, let them have their fun,” the Matri said.

  “Don’t encourage them, Mother,” Marc’s mother complained.

  Matt heard everyone talking, but his focus was on getting his temper under control. Having the eye contact with the other Prime broken helped. He glared at Marc’s back and told himself the hostility raging through him was because he disliked Jason Cage, and not the bonding urge trying to take over his life.

  “Don’t be such a spoilsport,” the Matri told her daughter. “Don’t you remember what it feels like when a pair of Primes draw blood over your affections?”

  “I don’t see that it matters,” Octavia spoke up. “Since the object of affection has left the building.”

  Matt snarled in frustration and pushed Marc out of his way, but he could feel Phillipa’s absence before seeing that she was nowhere in sight.

  “With another man,” Octavia added. “A mortal, I believe.”

  He started to go after Phillipa, but Josephine stepped in front of him before he reached the door. He was so frantic, he might have pushed her aside if she hadn’t been holding the baby.

  “Stop right now,” she said, totally undaunted by the fierce look he gave her. “Come to your senses. I will not have you screwing over my sister any more than you already have.”

  “I haven’t done anything—”

  “She told me all about last night.”

  “That is none of your—”

  “Oh, yes it is.” Josephine jabbed a finger against his chest. “Marc’s told me all about your reputation with mortal women. You are not a nice man, Matthias Bridger. Tomcatting around is fine for vampires, but my sister is a mortal. She left with a nice mortal man. Get over her. Leave her alone.” She gestured at the crowd. “Why don’t you take Octavia home?”

  Though something in his blood and bones fought against her words, the sane part of him knew she was right.

  He nodded acquiescence to this woman who was now head of House Josephine of Family Caeg. “All right.” He turned around, looking at the female vampires standing around them. “Maybe I will take Octavia home.”

  Jason laughed. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Oh, goody, bloodshed,” Octavia murmured. “For moi.”

  Goody, indeed, Matt thought with a toothy smile. Because he was really spoiling for a fight, now.

  Chapter Ten

  M ike Bleythin liked Las Vegas normally, but the number of vampires in the area at the moment was stuffing up his senses something awful. And taking an antihistamine wasn’t going to be any help, as the sense affected most by their proximity wasn’t really his sensitive nose.

  Nice enough people, vampires, when they were on your side. But their concentrated presence was damned hard on other psychically sensitive species. Especially when they were being rowdy.

  The mental static had gotten so intense in the middle of the afternoon that Mike had literally had to get out of town. Now here he was out in the desert, seated on a rock and watching the neon beauty of the city coming out to strut as the sun faded away. He would be relieved when the guest vamps cleared out of town, so he could filter the remaining locals out of his consciousness.

  He liked Vegas. He liked vampires. He hated his job and wished he was home. That was the pack creature in him coming out. He glanced up at the darkening sky.

  “If the moon was full, I’d probably want to howl at it,” he muttered. Even then, a howl was best done with the rest of the pack.

  But he hadn’t come out into the countryside just to get away from the headache and the white noise. Or to feel sorry for himself. Mike stood, stretched, and took a long, deep breath.

  He scented death in the air, but most of what he detected was simply the residue of the normal order of things. He was searching for death that didn’t belong out here in the desert past the fringes of the city. Of course, he wasn’t going to find what he was looking for while in this form. Even though his senses were far keener than a normal human’s, mortal olfactory equipment simply wasn’t designed for the fine-tuned work he needed to do.

  He’d been reluctant to change while it was still light, but now that it was dark, he still hesitated. Simply because being in wolf form called to him with the same kind of dangerous power as alcohol. Mike Bleythin ha
ted being tempted by anything. Sex, drugs, rock and roll. Chasing rabbits. Some deeply regretted youthful indiscretions had taught him that everything tempted him to lose control. If it wasn’t for the anchor of family, friends, and the duty he’d sworn to, he’d probably take off to one of the remote reserves and join the small pack of werewolves who lived in morphed form permanently. It was—tempting.

  Mike sneered, then stripped off his clothes and concealed them at the base of the boulder. The Bleythins were a black wolf pack, and that was what he changed into; two hundred pounds of black-furred alpha menace.

  It felt really good.

  So good, in fact, that he allowed himself to howl—something werewolves outside the private reserves rarely did. Because, frankly, the sound was too eerie and scary for humans to mistake it for what it really was: death on four legs, controlled by the intelligence of a man. That sound used to call up mobs of armed villagers in the old days. Of course, no one believed in werewolves anymore.

  The villagers were all in the casinos, where they couldn’t tell day from night. And that left the wide, moonlight-bathed desert landscape beyond the last of the sprawling suburbs free for him to roam.

  At least for a little while.

  All this sentimental and romantic rubbish about the good old days ran quickly through Mike’s head, then sensibly settled back into the dark recesses, where it wouldn’t get in the way of self-preservation. Or the fact that he was out here to do his job.

  He tuned all his senses for evidence of a werewolf kill of the best and most dangerous prey of all.

  Though it happened rarely these days, there were many reasons why werefolk attacked humans.

  Frequently it was done in a fit of full-moon mania by someone who didn’t know how to control the change. If you were born a were, this wasn’t a problem. It was the few humans who survived a werefolk bite that were affected by the moon change. They had no control when they morphed, and were the ones most likely to attack others.

  Changing humans used to be done under controlled conditions, for the sake of the werefolk gene pools. Now it was forbidden, even considered a perversion. But since when did forbidding a thing stop it? When a forced change happened, Mike’s job was to capture the changed creature for rehabilitation, if possible, and kill the natural shape-shifter responsible for the infection.