He cupped the back of her neck and rolled her onto the beach, not caring about the ocean lapping just inches away or the sand encroaching on his clothes.
He’d wanted Alaya his whole life.
And now, he had her.
Forever.
EPILOGUE ONE
“UM, WE’RE JUST gonna take this sword and go,” said Aphrodite to the couple who were getting naked by ripping each other’s clothes off.
“I don’t think they’re listening to you,” said Daphne. She turned her head sideways. “Damn. She can bend like a pretzel.”
“Oh! That was nice move,” said Aphrodite.
Two growls echoed over the sand—warnings from mating wolves.
“Okay. We’re out.” Aphrodite bent down and touched the sword, willing it to her office on Mount Olympus. She’d already given the Graces instructions on where to keep it safe.
She and Daphne held hands and zapped themselves to downtown. They now stood on the sidewalk in front of the Manzana Café.
“We need to find the apple,” she said. “Before its curse overcomes the entire town.”
“Well, we could always line ’em up for the sword trick.”
“Humans can’t survive the touch of the sword,” said Aphrodite. “We’ll have to fix broken hearts the old-fashioned way until we locate the apple and nullify its effects.”
“Okay,” said Daphne. “I’ll start looking for office space.”
“We’ll need the whole crew. Eros, Psyche, the Graces.”
Aphrodite looked around. “Welcome to Broken Arrow, Oregon,” she said. “Our new home.”
EPILOGUE TWO
TWO MATED VAMPIRES, a god and his wife, and big slobbery dog named Scooby sat on the sectional sofa, eating popcorn.
On the widescreen TV a few feet away, four sets of immortal eyes were practically glued to the movie, The Princess Bride.
On the screen, the hero named Wesley said to his love, Buttercup: “There’s a shortage of perfect breasts in the world. It would be a pity to damage yours.”
“How did ever not watch this movie?” whispered Psyche to her husband, Eros.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But we’re buying the special Blu-ray edition.”
“Excellent.” She kissed his cheek. “Pass the popcorn.”
“Whatever you desire, my tru wuv.”
THE BLOOD MOON BATTLE
Seventy years ago…
“BLOOD ON THE moon,” intoned the High Priestess. In the temple’s smallest chapel, candle light flickered against the gray stone walls. She stared at the crystal held by the life-sized statue of the Moon Goddess. Most lycanthropes could see the swirling colors, but only she could interpret their meanings. “It does not bode well.”
“Alaya, I’ve known you since we were pups,” said Damian with a grin. “You worry too much.”
“You might show some respect,” she said, one regal brow rising. “I am the High Priestess.”
“And I am the crown prince.” Damian tweaked her nose. Her lips twitched to keep from laughing. “Prince does not trump High Priestess.”
“Tonight, it does,” he said jovially. “Tonight, I will dance with my wife under the full moon.”
“Don’t jostle her too much,” said Alaya, only half-kidding. “Those babies are precious.”
“I know it too well,” said Damian. “But a celebration requires dancing. We have much to be grateful for.”
He gave Alaya a hug. His joy was so thick that she could almost breathe it in. He had married a Roma noblewoman and she carried in her womb the hope of both their peoples. Though she knew it had not been a love match, Damian and Anna had a deep respect for each other, and for their common goal of uniting the lycanthropes.
Alaya looked down at her scrying bowl. The dark red rim around the moon meant death. She wished she was wrong. Yet, her gift had never betrayed her.
She could only hope that Damian would be able triumph when Death arrived to claim his souls.
“DAMIAN!”
Damian hurried into the bedroom already drawing his gun. His gaze swept the area as he assessed the danger to his wife.
She laughed. “We are not under attack. The babies are kicking.”
Grinning, Damian holstered the weapon and crossed the room, splaying his hand over her abdomen. Her stomach bulged under his palm.
“Restless,” he said. He leaned down and kissed her bared stomach. “You will come out soon, but for now, rest.”
“Why are you so jumpy?” she asked.
He cupped her face and stroked the frown away from her mouth. “I am not jumpy. I just want to dance with my wife.”
“Then let me get dressed.”
Damian kissed Anna. She wound her arms around his neck, but her belly made it difficult to get close. She was much shorter than he, and the babies protested the crowding. They kicked and squirmed, and Damian pulled back, laughing.
“The Goddess has truly blessed us,” he said, “and tonight, we will celebrate those blessings.”
“The full-bloods and the Roma are at peace,” said Anna. “We are truly becoming one people.”
“Yes,” he said. “What we’ve created here is a good thing.”
“It’s too bad the humans continue to war,” she said. “Do you think they will discover us?”
“Nein,” said Damian. “Protections are in place. We are not part of their world.”
“I have heard terrible things,” she said softly. “I wish the whole business was done.”
“I was raised in America,” said Damian. “They are strong people. They will win.”
Anna looked uncertain, and Damian’s felt some inadequate. He always felt that way with her. She was fragile, always had been. She was soft-spoken, and kind-hearted. She could fight, just like all the lycans could, but she preferred discussion over fighting.
“Go on,” she said. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”
“That means an hour.”
“Shoo!”
He left the room, smiling. He couldn’t stop smiling, not since Anna confirmed her pregnancy. Still, the High Priestess’s warning made foreboding claw at his guts. He would call Reiner and discuss their security plans. Maybe they could tighten patrols. He had no worries that the war being fought by the humans would spill into their village. They were protected, by spells, by warriors, by the Goddess herself.
No. Nothing would happen to them. An era of peace between the packs had unfolded, one he intended to keep.
The Roma and the full-bloods were one people, and would remain so. Damian stepped outside and looked at the bright, full moon. It was tinged red, just as Alaya predicted. He refused to believe that anything bad would happen on this night.
“Protect us, Goddess,” prayed Damian. “Protect her.”
THE CELEBRATION WAS in full swing. Even High Priestess Alaya was dancing, her color high as she swung around the pavilion in the muscular arms of Darrius.
“You are lovely,” he said. His eyes suggested he wanted to kiss her, but the public place, and her public position, forbade such an intimacy.
“You shouldn’t look at a high priestess that way,” she said, laughing. “I believe you are violating the fourth sin listed in the Goddess Accords.
“Ah, yes. ‘And look not upon the maiden with lust, lest the essence of Tark take control. Let always the heart of your goddess whisper your choices.’”
“Very good,” said Alaya. “I’ve never known you to read, Darrius, much less study the religious scriptures.”
“Maybe I had a reason.”
“To impress the high priestess?”
Darrius twirled her, and she easily handled the moment, spinning back to land more securely in his arms.
“To impress the woman I want for my wife.”
Alaya blinked, her smile falling into an “O” of shock.
“Darrius. You know the duty to my goddess comes even before the bond of a husband. And you are not … blessed with patience. Nor do you share we
ll with others.”
“Is that a no, Alaya?”
She stared at him, and still he danced. She followed his movements effortlessly. She’d known him her whole life, him and his brothers. She knew Darrius nearly as well as her own calling. She was destined to be a priestess. Her gift had been bestowed by the Goddess to help the lycanthropes—no matter what form they took—find peace with each other.
“Your happiness is my happiness,” said Darrius. “If serving the Goddess is what your heart wants, how can I want any less for you?”
“But the throne…”
“Will never be mine. I was third born. If I were to follow the destiny of the youngest brother, I would end up serving the goddess as well. I much prefer marrying a beautiful priestess than entering into the priesthood. Those guys never have any fun.”
“Your brothers would no more turn you out than … than … the moon is made of cheese,” she said, laughing. Then she met his gaze and said, “Yes. Yes, I will marry you.”
Darrius shouted, gripping her waist and swinging her around and around. “This woman will be my wife!” he yelled. And then he laid a kiss on her, claimed her, and melted her to her very toes.
“ARE YOU READY, Nefertiti?”
The caramel-skinned beauty shoved a silver blade into the sheath on her hip. “Yes, my lord.”
Koschei smiled. World War II had offered him an unexpected boon. The ruler of Germany’s fascination with werewolves and his obsession with power had created an opportunity. With the lycanthropes creating a singular pack, even to include the Roma, they were powerful. Already allies to the Ancients and to Ruadan’s tired refrain of peace and education to benefit all—it would be a blow to vampires as well. The most scattered and less focused everyone became, the easier it would be for Koschei to take their power.
He’d been disappointed when his daughter refused to participate. She was the only light in his life, the only reminder left of the man he’d once been. He had sensed the distance growing between them, and knew there would come a time he could no longer ignore her disobedience to his wishes.
“Koschei?”
He shook off his thoughts and turned to the woman who’d been so useful to him. He knew Nerfertiti was attracted to his power, and she even hoped to mate with him.
He tried not to laugh in her face. She was a valuable component of his plan, hell with her weapons, and often used her considerable feminine wiles to get the job done.
“We will wait just a little longer,” he said, stroking his supplicant’s pretty face.
“Let me drink their beer and dance to their goddess, and get so very, very relaxed. You know who you must get to first?”
“Anna,” she said. “The Roma wife to the Crown Prince.” She smiled. “And we will be paid for our services?”
“Oh, yes. Lots of money. You will get many baubles, I promise.”
Her eyes flared with greed, an emotion Koschei knew well. But patience had always ruled him. And it would serve him now. They only needed to wait a little while longer…
“KOSHEI,” SAID DAMIAN. “You honor us.”
The Ancient vampire nodded; his smile too thin to be friendly. Damian didn’t take offense. That had always been the Russian’s way.
“I couldn’t resist visiting your new village,” said Koschei. “Ruadan is very impressed with your efforts to create a pack with the Roma.”
“We are all the children of the Moon Goddess,” said Damian. He picked up the mug of beer from the table crammed with every type of lager available. The music played—happy tunes that encouraged dancing and laughter. He knew better than to offer the vampire anything to drink.
Though there had long been a pact between the Ancients and the lycans that forbid vampires to imbibe on werewolf blood, he didn’t want to issue an invitation Koschei might misconstrue.
“Is it the Moon Goddess Festival tonight?” asked Koschei looking around with interest.
Damian nodded, recalling Alaya’s warning about blood on the moon. Was it a coincidence that Koschei had picked tonight to visit? Damian looked up at the bright, full moon. Was it just his imagination or was that a red edge around its white glow?
“How is your wife?” asked Koschei. “The babies are well?”
“She’s wonderful, and so are the babes.” Not even the vampire’s dour manner could erase Damian’s grin. “In fact, I should get back to my wife. We will talk later, old friend.”
Koschei nodded. “Of course.”
Damian drained the beer and put the empty mug onto the table. Foreboding pitted his belly. He didn’t know if it was Alaya’s warning, or Koschei’s cold presence, but he’d be a fool to ignore his instincts. Why hadn’t he listened to Alaya? At least he could’ve seen his wife to safety, and warned his men to be prepared.
Damian stopped at the circle of dancers, looking for his wife, who’d been swept off by Reiner. He worried about how tired she’d be, and if her feet were hurting. She was strong, but still … the next generation of their kind lived in her womb.
He couldn’t fail her. Or his pack.
He stepped through a gap in the twirling people, his gaze bouncing from man to man, trying to find the blonde head of his friend. Reiner was tall, much taller than Anna, and easier to find. Damian felt his chest get tighter and tighter, and had unsnapped his pistol before he could determine the source of his worry.
Then the world exploded.
THE SMOKE ROLLED over the dancers, who were now fighting with a group of men dressed in gray uniforms. Soldiers? Smoke rolled over the melee. Darrius saw Koschei driving off attackers with his powerful mental abilities. He didn’t even need to throw a punch.
More smoke filled the air, and flames flickered in the distance. Houses were on fire! Fear skittered up his spine. Darrius knew the flames would soon reach the tree line. He turned to Alaya. “Go. Get to safety. I’ll follow as soon as I find my brothers.”
“No.” Alaya unsheathed the slightly curved blades that she’d been training with since she was young. She strode into the thick of the fighting.
“Alaya!
Damian started to follow, but a soldier blocked his path. He didn’t even have time to fire the pistol. Damian’s fist plowed into his face. Once. Crunch. Twice. Crunch.
The man’s skull shattered. He fell to the ground, dead.
Damian was a lycan—much faster and stronger than these humans. Why would they attack the village?
The fighting in the square had dissipated as lycans dispensed with their unknown enemies.
Alaya was nowhere to be found.
“Reiner! Have you seen Alaya?”
The blonde lycan was streaked with blood and dirt. He dropped the limp soldier clutched in his hand. “No. But Damian went to his house to get Anna.”
Darrius turned and strode toward his brother’s house, looking for a glimpse of Alaya. Had she gotten out of the village? Was she safe?
Please let her be okay.
Drake reached the front door of the king’s house at the same time Darrius did.
They discovered Damian kneeling next to the mutilated corpse of his wife.
Drake cursed in German. Darrius felt sick. The dreams of the lycanthropes to be one people, to have healthy children, to be as one people—destroyed.
“The village is burning, mien bruder. We must go.”
Darrius helped Damian to rise.
“The village,” murmured Damian. “Our people.” He offered his brother a glazed look. “Gone.”
Drake grabbed Damian’s other arms, and together, they guided the newly widowed king out of the house.
“Where’s Alaya?” asked Damian.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure she’s fine.” He sounded confident, but in truth, he was worried. Alaya was strong and well trained, but she was also stubborn. Stubborn enough to get herself into trouble.
“No doubt she’ll join us in the woods,” said Drake.
But she didn’t.
In fact, Darrius wouldn’t s
ee Alaya for another seventy years.
BOOK EXTRAS: CUT SCENES WITH AUTHOR COMMENTARY
In the first version of Some Lycan Hot, I made a character, Mayor Sandra Ruthridge, into a villain. She called forth Nemesis with a special coin she’d found in Alaya’s shop. Using Sandra to bring in Nemesis was a complicated and ineffective way to create an urgent conflict for Darrius and Alaya. I knew something about the story was wonky—that the main hero and heroine were too passive, in fact, almost irrelevant to the story as written. My fellow writer and best friend, Renee George, came to my rescue. She read the draft and helped hash out the problems and the solutions. She picked up on the biggest issue right away: “You don’t like Alaya,” she said. “And by the way, Alaya isn’t funny.”
I ended up cutting out all the scenes with Mayor Sandra Ruthridge. Nemesis was a great villain all on her own and she didn’t need human back-up. With some brainstorming help from Renee, I figured out a better reason for Alaya and Darrius to be apart: Alaya makes a bargain with Nemesis to save Darrius’s life. But the goddess of wrath extracts a cruel price: If her true love sees her face again, he will die. (Nemesis really is a bitch.) To fix the issues, I added a prologue, rewrote several scenes, re-formed Alaya into a more likeable, more “Broken Heart” character, and gave the poor girl a sense of humor. Alaya 2.0 was a much better character, and certainly one I found easier to write.
CUT SCENE 1: SANDRA’S ANGUISH
“THERE’S NOTHING I CAN do, Sandra,” said the young woman. As usual Alaya Bennington had half her face covered with a head scarf, this one black and gold, to hide the ugliness of her scars.
Mayor Sandra Ruthridge resisted the urge to rip off the covering and slap the otherwise pretty face. Instead, she pressed her manicured hands against the cool marble countertop, and leaned in.
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