by Caris Roane
Phoenix had fifteen square miles in the north heartland of the metropolitan area designated for alter creatures like herself. Thick walls and a serious Border Patrol kept the inmates quarantined in the prison-like setting of Five Bridges. Each bridge separated one warring territory from another, while a central no man’s land, the infamous Graveyard, made all kinds of traffic and exchange possible.
Humans were allowed into Five Bridges every night and on the weekends, they arrived by the thousands in search of drugs and to take advantage of hundreds of sex clubs.
Alters were only, and very rarely, permitted to leave the territories with Tribunal passports. The Trib governed Five Bridges.
She hated this world into which she’d landed all because she’d eaten a tainted piece of peach pie. Someone had dosed the pie with the witch serum. She’d had the pie. Her husband, Frank, had chosen pecan.
Now she was an alter witch, eighteen-months-old, who had to make a good living to keep her rescue facility running smoothly. So, a touch of flame it was.
Her witch workshop, though more accurately called a spellroom, was down a second staircase of spiraling stone steps deep underground. Only with this space, she’d left the jagged rock walls and ceiling exposed. She wanted the connection to the earth. Sometimes, she even slept down here.
She called this place her burrow. She had a leather club chair and a small writing table at the opposite end. A door to the right of the table led to a meditation and sleeping room which housed a garden. She’d created beds by jack-hammering the rock and filling the deep holes with a lot of good soil. She grew shrubs and flowers with gro-lights, vines that crept up the walls, and even a small tree in the corner. In the center of the room, she’d scattered faux furs on a stone-laid floor. There were nights, especially when her grief over Frank’s death overwhelmed her yet again, she slept on the furs.
Only her witch mentor, Kiara, knew about her underground garden-burrow and how much peace of mind it gave her. Kiara had encouraged her to go there as often as needed. So, she had.
Thoughts of Kiara, however, forced her to grow very still in front of her work table.
Veyda had abducted Kiara three weeks ago and Maeve had been hunting for her ever since. Two days before rescuing Braden from the Graveyard, she’d finally located Veyda’s well-hidden compound. She’d even succeeded in finding Kiara’s holding cell.
While waiting for Braden to recover, she’d gone back each night. It was a tremendous struggle to work her way through Veyda’s security spells to reach Kiara’s cell.
Where she was imprisoned was a small eight-by-eight space, one of a number along the west side of Veyda’s building. Each cell had barred windows and no glass. Steel shutters came down during the day to protect the inmates from the deadly sun. Other than that, the prisoners had to endure the falling temps at night then the rising desert heat as the sun rose.
Last night, she’d had a breakthrough and had made her first telepathic connection with Kiara. The latter had wept and spoken of the kind of torture she and the other women were enduring. Worse still, the torture eventually ended in death.
Maeve wanted desperately to help her, but she didn’t have either the natural witch power or the basic physicality to do it. As young as she was in alter terms, she didn’t have a single connection in the community of good witches that could help her. Kiara had been her only link in Elegance.
She’d tried taking Alfonso with her, but the presence of an extra person had somehow tightened Veyda’s spell and she’d been unable to pierce it with the tall shifter in tow.
She wasn’t even sure what it would take to break Kiara out of the place. Kiara’s plight was a problem Maeve’s mind now worked on constantly.
For the present, however, she felt a strong drive to get Braden back on his feet. He was well out of danger, but somewhere she’d come up with an idea. Maybe, if they worked together, this powerful alpha shifter could somehow help her rescue Kiara.
Swallowing hard, she went to her small refrigerator and took out a dark green bottle with an eye-dropper for a lid.
Emerald flame.
The purified content of her flame supply had cost her a small fortune, but worth every penny. She had two different forms of the drug. One liquid, the other granules. She used the liquid for infusions and potions. The granules went into any mixture that involved the grinding of herbs and other ingredients in her mortar.
She carried the bottle back to the table carefully as though the smallest bump would cause an explosion. Emerald flame didn’t work that way. It had no power to ignite the elements in her spellroom. But if it aerosolized in a large amount, the fumes could kill her. Even if she hadn’t known the nature of the drug, her witch instincts told her just how much power she carried in her hands.
Sheba offered a warning meow.
Maeve glanced at her. “I’m well aware I need to be careful.”
Sheba’s tail swiped back and forth twice, but her gaze was fixed to Maeve’s hands.
Opening the small bottle, she squeezed the eye-dropper to bring the liquid into the attached glass tube. She carefully shifted to a nearby spoon, held level in a special cradle she’d made just for the purpose. She never added the drug straight into whatever concoction she was creating. More than the number of required drops would ruin the effect.
With painstaking effort, she slowly squeezed first one drop, then two into her spoon. She breathed a sigh of relief.
She pivoted to return the dropper to the bottle and tightened up the seal. She then took the bottle back to her fridge and tucked it carefully toward the back.
Returning to the table, she drew several deep, purposeful breaths, then held the last one. She picked up the spoon with its two tiny drops of emerald flame and lowered it into the liquid.
The moment the droplets hit the potion, they partially aerosolized then shortly afterward dissipated. She’d only made the mistake once of breathing during the process of adding the drug. She’d awakened on the floor with a high that had lasted the rest of the night. If she’d been a druggy, she would have been in heaven. Instead, she’d wept for her stupidity.
As she stirred the mixture, she finally allowed herself to breathe. The drug was now incorporated into the infusion. She drew close and opened her nostrils. The same scent returned of lavender, marigold and hyacinth only heightened.
She closed her eyes and there it was, a kind of brightness within her mind. At the same time, because the drug took on the essence of the other ingredients, she felt waves of healing flow and knew she’d succeeded.
Sheba’s tail twitched and as if to confirm the efficacy of the infusion, she meowed once.
“Yes, I agree. This will help Braden heal.” The entire four days Braden had been in her apartment, Sheba hadn’t been far from the wolf, something that surprised Maeve. Sheba was known for ignoring everyone. But not Braden. Maeve had often found her curled up on the end of the bed as though guarding him.
She transferred the infusion into a separate black crockery that used a tea-light for heating. By means of a small tray, she carried the infuser up the spiral stone steps and into her living room. Maybe emerald flame would take Officer Braden the rest of the way and bring him out of his coma.
As she entered the darkened room, she moved to the left of the bed. She carefully avoided his IV and set the tray on the nightstand. She had to push the metal lamp almost to the edge to make room.
Once she knew the tray was secure and the tealight doing its warming chore, she stepped back around the IV and drew close to the bed. She allowed herself this much, to look at the wolf.
Braden was as handsome as any movie star. He had strong, angled cheekbones and a straight nose. His jaw was firm, his overall look rugged, tough. Braden was both.
He had wavy black hair to his shoulders. As a pack alpha, he’d once had long hair well down his back, though she’d never seen it. In his grief, he’d cut it short when his wife died, though it had since grown out a bit.
&nbs
p; He was a good man. A strong leader.
And he was built.
She drew close and pulled the sheet back to look at his wounds. Her brows rose. They were much better. In fact, at least half of them were gone. This was new.
Relief rushed through her. Braden really was out of danger. He’d made his return trip to the land of the living and was self-healing. Tears touched her eyes.
Four days to bring him back.
She took hold of his hand as she had a hundred times over the past days and nights.
She’d shared her bed with him. It had been the only way to keep him calmed down. Her touch had soothed him and for reasons she couldn’t explain, it had become the most critical drive in her life to keep him alive.
Suddenly, he opened his eyes and shifted his head on the pillow. He blinked once very slowly. Though his voice was hoarse, he managed, “So how did I end up in your bed?”
But he smiled.
Chapter Two
Braden stared at Maeve. She seemed different or maybe his vision had changed. She was seated on the side of his bed.
Though he still felt death clinging to his heels, the grip had lessened. His self-healing had finally kicked in.
Maeve had never looked more beautiful. Her red hair was pulled back on the sides and not as unruly as usual. She had what was called an oval face. His wife, Laura, had explained it to him once. It meant Maeve could wear her hair any way she wanted and she’d always be pretty.
Stupid the things he could remember about his wife. He huffed a sigh.
Maeve had extraordinary light blue eyes. Unforgettable.
She was tall, too. Probably six-foot.
He’d gotten to know her over the past several months. She was a grounded female with a straight-speaking style that appealed to his wolf. In fact, she was as level-headed as any of his wolves.
His wolves. Right. He was due to head back to Savage soon to support his alpha-bond. Jeremy was doing a great job as his lead beta. He was also growing in power and strength. He’d be an alpha soon which would mean a dominance fight, something all wolves loved.
Why was he thinking about Jeremy?
His brain still sloshed. Sometimes he thought he heard Laura’s voice. He glanced around the room. Was she here now? Was she with him? Wait, had she come to him recently as a ghost? He couldn’t quite remember.
Maeve looked around as well. “We’re alone.”
A thought struck and he glanced at the pillow next to him. Why was it indented and the covers pushed back as though someone had gotten out of bed? His nostrils flared and elongated slightly. He could smell Maeve had been in the same bed. But why? He knew her. He’d even had a few solid fantasies about her, or maybe a few dozen. But he’d never once tried to initiate sex.
He slid his head to the right so he could look at her again. He was weaker than hell. “Have we been sleeping together?”
A smile touched her lips. “Not exactly, but we’ve shared my bed.” She rushed on. “It was the only way, Braden. I’m sorry. I know it’s not what you would have wanted.”
“Why the hell was it ‘the only way’?” She sounded way to dramatic for his warrior head.
“You weren’t in a simple coma. You were delirious, shouting at all hours, ripping your IV out. Your stitches.”
He put a hand on his chest. “I know there were wounds here, but stitches? Why on earth would I ever need stitches?”
“You had major surgery. Your ribs had collapsed your lungs and one of them had pierced your heart. Alfonso took care of all of it.”
“Right. He was here. Alfonso. A few minutes ago.” He’d removed his catheter, but he didn’t say that to Maeve.
“You were transfused as well.”
“With your blood?” The thought he might have witches blood running through his veins, troubled him. He was a wolf.
“Mine and a couple of shifters.”
She looked pale. Another thought hit him. “How many times did you donate?”
“Twice.”
“Wait. How long have I been here?”
“Four days.”
He shifted his gaze away from her and could feel his brow tighten. He could remember lying face down in the rocky dirt of the Graveyard, blood flowing over his face from a head injury. “I should have died out there.”
“You would have. And yes, you should have. We don’t know why you survived.”
He remembered. “It was my wife. She came to me. She said I was supposed to live another two hundred years. How could she come to me?”
“Ghosts visit dead-talker territory all the time. It’s not that unusual.”
“Right. I should be used to it by now.”
“Yes, you should. You’ve lived here ten years.”
“I have.” Maybe it was losing so much blood or having other alter blood in his body, but he couldn’t bring his thoughts together. His mind kept jumping around.
He turned to look at her again. Because she sat so close, just on the edge of the bed, he could see her clearly. Her light blue eyes always got to him. They carried an internal light that made him trust her when he knew he shouldn’t.
She was so beautiful. Her lips were full. Kissable. He recalled some of his more inventive fantasies about her and his body warmed to the thought. Over the past couple of weeks, he’d toyed with the idea of asking her on a date.
As he looked at her, a sudden lightning-like sensation began in his head and traveled the length of his body. Without warning, everything he was as an alpha male wolf came alive. He could feel a light layer of fur rise on the backs of his hands and the back of his neck and on his cheeks. Desire for her sharpened.
Something had changed with her and his alpha wolf loved it.
Much to his shock, realization struck: Maeve had alpha-female capacity. If he’d needed confirmation, her next move confirmed the truth. She parted her lips, lifted her chin and when she flared her nostrils, he knew she was scenting him, though not like a witch at all. In this moment, she looked wolf.
She seemed startled. “What am I smelling, Braden? What is that? It has a sharp edge, but it’s like a kind of vanilla I use called Madagascar. Why are you releasing a vanilla scent?”
The fogginess in his head dissipated completely. “You’re smelling my wolf, Maeve.” When had this happened? How had he not seen it, sensed it, or smelled her potential before now?
She looked as though she would say something then stopped. She glanced at the ceramic pot she’d brought into the room. It had a small, flat candle beneath to heat up the contents and gave off a floral scent.
Finally, she reverted her gaze to his. “Why am I scenting your wolf now? I don’t understand.”
It was exactly the right question, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer it. “I’m not sure I understand the timing either.”
“I’ve always been attracted to you, Braden. But this feels like something more, much more. Are you doing this to me? Is it a wolf thing?” Again, she glanced at the black pot.
He turned to look at it as well. In fact, he was feeling much better. “Wait a minute. What is it you’ve set up over there? Is this a witch thing?”
“Yes. It’s a healing infusion. You’re feeling better, aren’t you?”
“I am. But what’s in that?”
“Flowers mostly. There’s also a touch of emerald flame. Two drops to be exact of a very purified product.”
“You’ve used a flame drug to heal me?” He lifted his hand and waved it in the direction of the pot.
She lowered her shoulders and set her chin. Again, she looked more wolf than witch. “I did. I’ve found a small portion of emerald flame increases the potency of whatever I’m working on.”
He shook his head slowly. “This isn’t right, Maeve. No drugs of any kind. That’s my rule.”
She shrugged. “I used to think that way as well. But I’ve found the drug to be a powerful delivery system for my spells. I’m also extremely careful with it. You’d been in a coma so long,
I finally decided to create an infusion with the drug. And I know it’s helping, even now.”
He almost told her to take it away. But his wolf stopped him. He breathed in the aromatic substance and could feel the level of healing that came from the infuser. He’d be a fool not to make use of it. He was an alpha-wolf, a Border Patrol officer, and he was on a mission to find his wife’s killers. He needed to get back to his usual strength as soon as possible.
“I have to get out of here.”
“Sure. You’re free to go anytime.” Maeve rose from the bed and waited.
He glanced at her. He’d caught an odd intonation in her voice. “What?”
“Go ahead. You can go. No one’s stopping you.”
He moved as if to sit up, but all he could do was lean forward about five inches. Then nothing. He flopped back against the pillows.
He tried again.
Same result.
Dammit, he was so weak, he couldn’t even lift himself to a sitting position.
She chuckled softly. “You’ll need at least a few more hours to get back to full steam. The good news is, you woke up. Beyond that, are you hungry?”
The thought of food put his stomach into overdrive. He placed a hand on his abdomen. “I could go for a big steak. Ribeye, bone in. Rare. Really rare.”
“I’ll be back in a few.”
He watched her leave the room. She wore snug blue jeans which meant he had nice view of her ass. His body warmed up again, only this time he felt a growl form in his throat. He decided what-the-hell and let loose. The rumbling sound drove through the bedroom and straight for her.
The witch stopped in her tracks.
He smiled.
~ ~ ~
As she put her feet back in motion, Maeve trembled. She felt as though Braden’s growl had unhinged every joint in her body. She couldn’t even fathom why she was still standing upright.
She supposed it was a wolf thing designed to put a female on her knees. She’d heard stories about shifter males, how they liked to take their mates from behind and bite the back of their necks. A shiver tracked straight down her spine.