Shifters Forever Worlds Epic Collection

by Elle Thorne

  “They can’t. Things are different. You are different.”

  “What happened to my teeth, earlier? What about my skin?”

  “I had to save you from the vampire’s death. I only had one option.”

  “You made me a vampire?”

  “No. Not that.” She turned away from him, her arms crossed, but more like hugging herself than crossed. “I couldn’t stand by and watch you die. You would have died.”

  “Then tell me.” Irritation sparked with her lack of response.

  “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Tell me.” Anger rose, speeding the adrenaline rush that hadn’t quite subsided though Jasper was gone.

  “I can’t tell you. I’d have to show you to get you to believe.”

  “Then show me, damn it all to hell. Show me what it is you can’t tell me.” His voice was a gravelly growl, so much so, Étienne didn’t even recognize it himself. Anger fueled him, making him clench his fists. His teeth ached, his head felt as if it were going to expand and explode, so acute was the pain in his skull.

  “Now.” His word was lost in a roar.

  Latrice whirled around, a log in her hand, she swung around and at the same time swung the heavy branch, wielding it like a mace, it crashed into his upper arm.

  Étienne’s roar turned to one of pain as the anger took control.

  A creaking sound within his skull made him grab his head, but he couldn’t hold onto it. His nails were piercing the flesh.

  Nails?

  What nails?

  He dropped to his knees, his head down as he studied the hands that had claws.

  Fur began to sprout, piercing his flesh, he felt every agonizing strand poking through while his flesh yielded to the fur, white with black stripes. Or black with white stripes. He couldn’t tell which.

  His legs ached, his body pushed against his skin, his chest broadening, neck thickening, head widening.

  He raised his gaze to look at the witch.

  What is this, he tried to say, but the sound that came out was a snarl.

  Chapter Ten

  Latrice looked on as confusion crossed Étienne’s face while his bones shifted and he morphed. The excruciating sound of bones popping and realigning, the creaking of sinew shifting and stretching filled the air.

  And the whole while, his snarls were angry and pain filled.

  “Étienne,” she whispered his name to get his attention, knowing his tiger hearing was supernatural and much more sensitive than his human hearing.

  The white tiger, magnificent, regal, massive stopped snarling and regarded her with dark blue eyes that flared with silver highlights.

  He studied her, not as if she were prey, but as if he wanted to communicate with her.

  Would it overwhelm him if she talked to him within his shifted form? Shifters had an uncanny way of communicating with one another while in their shifted forms by linking together in their minds and speaking silently.

  Witches were one of the supernatural creatures that could enter a shifter’s sync and talk to them within it.

  “Étienne,” she said into the silence, pushing for him to accept her attempts to communicate with him. “Open your mind to me.”

  The tiger tilted his head, regarding her with a measure of suspicion.

  “I had to do it. I couldn’t let you die. Don’t you understand? And this was my only option, making you a shifter. This is your other body, your other self. You’ve merged spirits with a white tiger shifter that is now within you.”

  She could feel him hesitating. She could sense that he wasn't sure what to do. “Étienne, you have to let me in.”

  His tiger face scrunched up, as if he were trying to think this through. Then she felt it, felt him opening the link between them.

  “I hear you in my head. Your lips are not moving. But I hear you.”

  “That is the way shifters communicate. There’s no time to teach you this. No time to teach you many things.”

  “You have made me into a shape changer.”

  “They are called shifters. You are called shifters. You shift shapes. You have to leave this area. Go far away from the plantation. You’ll have a long life to live. With Marguerite gone, there is nothing more to keep you here. That man will kill you if he finds you.”

  “Not if I kill him first.”

  “You know the likelihood of that happening is slim. Now go.”

  “Where do I go?”

  “Boston. I’ll send you to a distant cousin. You need to push your tiger into allowing you your own shape again. Learn that skill, practice it. You’ll keep being a shifter a secret. You’ll keep how you became one a secret.”

  “I don’t even know how you did it.”

  “Perfect.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Seven Years Later, Boston

  Étienne put on his hat, nodded to his manservant, and left his apartment. He had done well for himself. No one would recognize him for the man he used to be. No one, unless they saw his back.

  And no one was allowed to see his back.

  No one.

  If he was anything, Étienne was enterprising. He had found a way to become affluent, to make a lot of money, and to merge into Boston society without so much as making a ripple. His covered carriage was waiting for him by the curb.

  So was a surprise.

  Latrice.

  And latched on to Latrice's hand, a little girl.

  Not just any little girl. Étienne recognized the flash of silver in the depths of her eyes. Recognized a tiger.

  Shifter.

  There was also something else he recognized. He stared at the little girl. Her resemblance to Nana was uncanny. And Étienne had heard that his mother looked just like Nana.

  Étienne frowned, then looked up at Latrice. “Is this…”

  Latrice nodded.

  Étienne glanced around, concerned he would be seen. Greater was his fear of being found a shifter, than his fear of being found a former slave. He hustled them into his carriage, then called for the driver to go to the nearest park.

  Silence filled the carriage until they arrived. The whole ride, the little girl with solemn eyes and an old soul had kept watch on him. He wondered if her tigress knew who he was.

  He thought of that one time with Latrice. A time that should not have resulted in a child. A time that did. It had been more like a dream to him. He had never thought of the consequence. Who could have? Who would have? He had gone through so much. Changed so much. He had never given another thought to the witch that brought him where he was. All that he had thought of was Marguerite's grave. He often wondered if she ever got a marker to properly commemorate her.

  They got out of the carriage. Étienne gave a helping hand to Latrice first, and then the young one.

  He knew the truth the minute his fingertips touched hers.

  This child was his daughter.

  “What is your name?” he asked her.

  “Lucia.”

  “Lucia, I would like to have a word with your mother. Could you play in that sandbox?”

  “You will have to send me far, further than that, for my tigress will hear.”

  Of course, she would. He should have thought of that. “You are very mature for your age.”

  “She has had to be.” Latrice tucked back one of Lucia's curls. “She is not safe in New Orleans. I need your help.”

  Anger surged throughout Étienne. He reined his tiger in. “So if she had not been unsafe, I never would have known of her existence.” He let that statement stand, letting his eyes and his expression reflect his emotions.

  “This is not the time to dwell on what we could have or should have done. Lucia needs help. She's a shifter. She's your daughter. It's too dangerous for her there without shifter skills with all the enemies shifters have in a supernatural world.”

  “I will help. I have met some of the Arceneaux in France. They will help me, recommend a good school for her.”

  “I trus
t you to care for her, Étienne.”

  “I will. She’s my blood.”

  “Why don’t you keep her here, with you?”

  “It would be better for her to go there.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Decades later, New Orleans

  Étienne was a man on a mission.

  His mission?

  To visit Marguerite's grave. He'd made his way back to New Orleans. A long train ride. The hotel room in a city that once beheld him as a slave. It was time for his next life to begin. He lived in Boston, spent time in London, visited his daughter Lucia in Paris, though he’d hardly heard from her since.

  Once Lucia was finished with boarding school, she decided to go out into the world, and very rarely maintained contact, just an occasional postcard to let him know she was still alive.

  Étienne took in a deep breath, letting the New Orleans air, heavy with humidity, sit on his lungs.

  Home.

  The only place he really ever called home. Though he hated it for so very long. He was at the far end of the Arceneaux Plantation. Yes, he had heard it was still around, but no longer used for crops.

  Étienne had not announced to anyone that he was going to be visiting, as there was no one to announce it to. Unless you counted the ones who actually owned Arceneaux Plantation. But Étienne did not accept that ownership claim. He could not. It was built on the blood of others. It was built on his own family's blood. It was built on his own blood. As sure as he was standing there, the scars that crisscrossed his back tingled. The tingling was not unfamiliar, and it was never pleasant.

  In Étienne's head, his tiger roared with fury. Étienne soothed his tiger, though he could not soothe his own soul. He pushed emotions aside. He had one mission, and he needed to be sure he did not let emotions interfere with that.

  But for now, his purpose was to see his grandmother's grave. He was at the back of the Arceneaux property, approaching from the south. He would find the cemetery, even further would be the cabins, if they still stood, and further than that would be the main house, a place he'd never been to as a guest. A place he would probably never be in as a visitor.

  If he had his way. If his plan worked.

  Étienne stepped carefully, making sure he did not scuff his shoes, for he had the trappings of a rich man.

  Yes, Étienne, former slave, current shifter, had become a very wealthy man. Never let it be said he did not use the mind he inherited from Marguerite.

  Marguerite.

  Nana.

  It was time to pay homage to the woman who'd raised him. With each step, he threw caution to the wind, not caring if he was trespassing, indifferent to the scuff marks he was leaving on his shoes, indifferent to the dirt that lined the hem of his tailored custom pants.

  Would the cemetery still be there?

  Would her marker still be there?

  Would it be the same marker that Achille had originally said was there, or would it be the one they were going to replace it with. The permanent one.

  Now he was running. Eager to see the grave. Eager to talk to Nana.

  Eureka!

  The old cemetery was still intact. It was not the family cemetery. It never had been. This was the burial grounds for his people.

  He pushed the thought away.

  There it was!

  His shifter vision, supernatural as it was, could see his grandmother's name clearly etched into a gray stone.

  Étienne knelt by the graveside. The last time he had been here, he had seen the shell. Of course, that was gone now. In whose hands, who knew.

  “I wondered how long you’d be able to stay away.”

  He knew that voice, even years later.

  “Latrice.” He looked up at her.

  “Different times here, now,” she said, but looked no different herself.

  “I noticed.”

  “Would you like this? I saved it for you.” She held out her hand.

  The shell.

  Étienne rose, put out his hand.

  “You—” Her simple act of kindness caught him off guard. “Thank you.”

  She nodded her acknowledgment.

  He searched for something to say, the silence heavy and uncomfortable. “Has Lucia been in touch? The last time she sent me a postcard, she said she was headed back to Paris.”

  Latrice hesitated, then answered. “She’s visited, a few times. I’m often overcome by guilt, feeling as though I’ve failed her. I’d have to say I’m a failure in the mothering department. First, I give Lucia up as a young child, then Rochelle becomes…” She sighed, stopped talking.

  “Rochelle?”

  “My other daughter.”

  “I didn’t know.” He’d always felt he and Latrice were in different worlds.

  “You had no reason to know anything about me, or my life.”

  “A part of me feels like I should. We share a daughter, after all.”

  “Share.” Latrice’s laugh was self-deprecating. “Lucia has been her own person since she could walk and talk, probably at two. I’m wondering if it’s the shifter part of her that influences that. I have no experience with shifters other than having raised her for those few first years.”

  “I wasn’t born into shifterhood, so I’m not the one to ask.”

  “How is it, being a shifter?”

  “It’s…” Where could he begin? His life had changed so drastically after that night. “It’s very different. I met other shifters. Learned about being one. I think the hardest part is the longevity. How can I love someone when I know they’ll die before me? So I’ve avoided emotions. I guess, judging from how you look, witches live a long time too?”

  “Not as long as shifters. The shifters you knew didn’t tell you about the couplebond?”

  He scoured her face for an explanation. “What is that?”

  “The act that bonds a shifter and his mate.”

  Étienne thought about that day, when they’d coupled, and created Lucia. “Is that how one becomes a shifter? Is that what you did to me?”

  “No. What I did was completely different. And forbidden. Witches who do that face penalties, if caught.”

  “Were you caught?”

  “I am no longer head witch.”

  “You paid a steep price.” He turned the shell over and over between his fingertips, occasionally rubbing it with his thumb, noting the smooth texture inside the shell, then he tucked it in a pocket for safekeeping.

  “It was a price well worth it.”

  He didn’t ask her to expand on her mysterious words, allowing the silence to settle around them and lay heavy. “Thank you for the shell.”

  “I—you’re welcome. I’m sorry about your grandmother. I’m sorry if you aren’t happy as a shifter, but I really had no choice, not if I was going to save your life.”

  With a nod, halfway to a thank you, he did appreciate her saving his life, now. Early on, it had been difficult, being a shifter, being in a strange new world, and sharing his body, mind, and heart with another being.

  Luckily, he got along with his tiger, and they’d formed a close bond. He glanced at Nana’s grave, wondering what she’d think of all this.

  “I’ll leave you be. Welcome back, Étienne.”

  He didn’t look up from the grave, but his astute shifter hearing picked up the sound of her departing footsteps.

  Was he back? Would he stay? More than eight decades later, was he ready to let the past stay in the past? He inhaled deeply.

  The smell of the land was the same. The bayou hadn’t changed. The scenery in town had changed, but here on Arceneaux Plantation, things had not changed, had they?

  “You’re trespassing.”

  How the hell had anyone snuck up on him? He must have been too engrossed in his thoughts.

  Rising quickly, Étienne whirled around.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Celine Arceneaux had watched the man from the shade of a large live oak.

  Broad shoulders, a proud carriage to
his head, a dignified mournful look on a face that was strikingly handsome. A full bottom lip yielded sensuality to an upper lip. Eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing scanned the wooded area around him.

  He paused, staring in her direction. For a brief second, Celine thought he’d seen her. She held her breath, ready for the man to come forward, and halfway wishing he would.

  But no, he looked down, concentrating on whatever task he had at hand, which didn’t seem to be more nefarious than paying tribute to the grave before him.

  He was trespassing, of course, he was. But he was kneeling in front of a grave, and his lips had been moving, as if he were talking to whoever was buried there.

  Still, he’s trespassing.

  Then it occurred to her…

  Maybe he’s a grave robber.

  No, he looked nothing like a grave robber. She knew expensive clothing. That suit was tailor-made. And the shoes were clearly not cheap.

  Boldly, but on stealthy feet, she approached the stranger.

  “You’re trespassing.” After the words had come out of her mouth, it occurred to her that approaching a trespasser by herself was foolhardy.

  Headstrong, even.

  Dangerous, perhaps.

  She knew her father would have agreed with those assessments, though he’d have been smiling when he did.

  The man rose and whirled around with such speed her heart missed a beat.

  His eyes narrowed, studying her.

  Then her heart missed several beats, and that had absolutely nothing to do with the speed with which he’d moved.

  She swallowed, finding her usual sassy self without words, without saliva, without thoughts. Except for the thoughts that lingered on the man before her.

  Eyes still slits, so she couldn’t discern the hue, he spoke. “On whose land?”

  His voice. God, his voice. It called to her, striking deep within her soul with the effectiveness of an arrow that sailed true, straight to its target.

  She dry swallowed, willing the words to come out. Willing the words not to be a jumble of cacophony that gave away what his very presence did to her. “Arceneaux land. Phillip Arceneaux’s land.”