Seen here in better times, Mr. Dillingham had yet to lose a client on his supposedly safe hunts for exotic creatures, including what is now understood to be a fruitless search for the mythical Pantheress of the Sands. One must ask if his reputation, now as soiled as the ground beneath one of his kills, can ever be reclaimed. Other guides have been quick to brand him a charlatan and jongleur whose only concern has been money, rather than the honorable discourse of the hunt. We here consider his tours to be risky, ill-advised, and damaging to the good name of any gentleman who should barter their life on the skills of a man who cannot stop his clients from being executed in a manner most foul, by the very creatures he purports to have mastery over. This reporter urges reasonable people to shun Pembrose Dillingham and his criminal pursuit of fables.
“Oh, stars above. No wonder he went into a murderous rage. She must have made him a fraud and a pauper with this article.” My mouth hung slack as I read and re-read the byline of the ruinous journal.
Reina Isobella Vicario.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Shave and a Haircut
I was numb with shock and growing cold as I walked home, mulling the long, twisting road that Pembrose Dillingham had taken to get revenge on Reina and her children. It was vicious. It was petty.
It was suicidal.
Never mind that he was now squarely in the sights of two witches with a personal interest in his demise; he’d opened an entirely different can of worms when he began a century-long partnership with a warlock. The thing about blood magic is that you can’t see yourself from the outside. The sickness and greed that infects practitioners of dark arts leave them unrecognizable to their loved ones, colleagues, and coworkers.
But what if you have none of those things? What if a mistake cost you all of that, and left you bereft of anyone to put a caring hand on your shoulder and tell you to step back from the void because in time the darkness will consume you and leave only a twisted, rotting husk?
Pembrose had nothing to stop him from entering any number of deals with warlocks, and his behavior had steadily spiraled downward until he could justify skinning another human being for his own twisted revenge. A sob escaped my lips as I stepped into the blissful warmth of my own home, and I found myself flying upstairs to reach Wulfric.
The bed was empty. I listened, panic beginning to rise in my throat for no reason other than his absence. Even Gus was gone. I fought to maintain control as a loud cry burst forth from the bathroom.
“Wulfric!” I boiled through the door like a Valkyrie intent on murder, gasping at the steam that clouded the air.
His voice drifted through the shower curtain, sheepish and muted. “I am here.”
“Honey, you yelled, why—” I reached for the plastic to draw it back, but his hand clamped on the edge, holding it in place.
“Do not look. I am—ashamed.” His voice was low, barely audible over the shower.
I pulled my hand back and ran it through my hair before sitting on the closed toilet lid. “What’s wrong?” I wondered if he was having a breakdown. It seemed logical, since he was more or less an entirely new person, and certainly a new species.
“I have injured myself, and—”
That was enough. I ripped the shower curtain back hard enough that two of the rings popped off, revealing six and half feet of naked Viking holding a pink razor in one hand and grimacing like he’d been shot with an arrow. Blood ran down his chin in a watery stream to be rinsed away at a lower elevation.
I burst out laughing, choking on the steam in great gales of uncontrolled hooting. It didn’t end until I’d issued not one but two snorts, earning me the first true stinkeye from Wulfric. With his pale blue eyes, it was impressive, but I wasn’t scared. He was naked and holding a plastic razor. I had the advantage.
“If you are quite finished, I am wounded.” He sniffed with dignity and began pressing a giant thumb into the cut. It continued to weep in a rusty trickle.
I looked at him in stark admiration. He was beautiful, and he loved me. That was more than I’d ever hoped for in this life or any other, and a surge of dizzying love rode me down like a fleeing criminal. I reveled in the feeling, closing my eyes to save the image of him standing there, and then I carefully turned off the shower and held out my hand.
“Come with me. I know what to do.”
And I did, but not until much later. We held each other like fine China, taking pleasure in the simple closeness of something you would do anything to protect. After a languid hour of my invitation and his acceptance, I sat up, looking down at him as he viewed me through eyes that were little more than slits.
“Come back into the bathroom. I’m going to help you.”
I sat him down on the edge of my tub, then switched him to a chair dragged in from the hall, seeking a perfect balance of height and accessibility.
“What are we doing, Carlie?” His voice was thick with relaxation.
“I’ll show you. I need to find a couple more things. Bide a moment, dear.” I bustled about, filling a ceramic wash basin with steaming water, then getting a bar of oatmeal soap that felt of grit and smelled like a sun-warmed field. I pulled out an unopened package and began to tear the plastic from it; it was a sample razor addressed to Carl McEwan that I’d wisely saved for just this kind of occasion.
Okay, maybe not, but it was going to come in handy. The razor itself was a sleek, futuristic looking contraption with about a hundred blades and a handle that the Three Musketeers would have found acceptable for a sword. It was blue and orange and covered with meaningless features that I’d never considered until now, but it looked like something that could shave Wulfric’s thick blonde stubble, so I dunked it in the basin while I began to rub shaving cream onto his face. My hands drifted over the angles and planes of his cheeks, down the long, aquiline nose, and along his jawline. I leaned down to kiss him and became lost in the moment, smearing shaving cream on myself and not caring in the slightest.
“Stay still.”
He smiled and went slack. I began on his neck, pulling up and away over the contours of his corded muscles. I was methodical and painfully aware of how intensely trustworthy he found me that his throat should be bared without a care. For a reformed vampire, there was no equivalent in this life, and I cherished the gesture. I cleaned the razor, shaking it vigorously under the milky water of the basin. “Why did you want to shave? I thought Vikings had beards.”
“I itch. Abominably. This new body is rather rebellious, in manners both large and small.” He grinned, but I poked his cheek with my finger to stop the insurrection of his expression.
“Now that I have you in a compromising position—again—let me tell you what I Brendan found at the library.” I launched into a detailed explanation about Reina, and Jonny, and the warlock, answering Wulfric’s occasional questions while steadily wiping away his beard in quick, economical strokes. He opened his eyes to track me as I finished, and it was as if a tiger was watching me from tall grass.
I toweled him clean, finishing with a lingering kiss. “Better?” I handed him a mirror, the cut on his chin long forgotten.
“Quite. You are a rare woman, Carlie.” He lifted me up and onto his lap without hesitation. I cradled his face, wondering if we could always be like this. The blush was still on the rose, or something, but I couldn’t see a time when this man would not fascinate me, body and soul.
“If I am, it’s only because you make me that way. I was just a girl, then a witch, and then I was Carlie. I feel like something more now that you’re here.”
“More than just my savior?” he teased.
I batted his nose lightly with a finger, then realized the gesture was an imitation of Gus. I sighed with resignation, knowing that this kind of thing meant I spend too much time with my cat. “Yes. I have responsibilities, and I take it seriously. All of it. My life, and my family—even my job. But I take you as something different, love, and that makes me bloom into what I was always meant to be. I could be Carlie with
out you, but I don’t want to.” I kissed him again, and he pulled me into the nape of his neck, holding me to him like we were candles melting together in a tilted dish. After a long, quiet time filled only with the beat of his heart, I drew back. “I have to kill them, you know. Pembrose, and Jonny. I don’t want to, but I will, because they made a decision that takes them outside the realm of saving, and justice must be served. There is no absolution for working with evil, no matter what the reason.”
He toyed with a lock of my silver hair, twirling it between the ends of his fingers. When he spoke, his eyes were dark with worry. “Let us hope that you feel the same way about yourself.”
I started to reply, but thought of the knife breaking my skin. The brilliant sear of pain, my cry of pain, swirling magic, and then the glimpse into Wulfric’s eyes as he decided whether I was to be killed immediately or at his pleasure while I dabbled in power so dangerous that it could consume a soul without warning. It all flashed past in an instant, and I felt my insides turn to water because I knew, in my soul, that he was right. I would have to tread carefully, lest I give darkness a foothold in my heart. If that happened, I wouldn’t be myself. I’d be a vessel filled with a purpose that was the exact opposite of everything I stood for.
“Will you help me stay here, with you?”
He understood the question. I was asking if he would marshal his love for me as an anchor to my better nature. I needed him now, not only for his love, but for his newly-rediscovered goodness.
He wiped at his chin where a single, jeweled bead of blood quivered. “I will.” He kissed me solemnly, his eyes never leaving mine. “To the last drop.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Trigger Warning
I had to go to work in the morning, which led to a pre-dawn scene of domesticity that taught me valuable lessons about the caloric intake of Vikings versus women who are five feet tall.
Wulfric sat at the kitchen table, watching me move about in my own space, frying eggs in bacon grease and taking intermittent sips of coffee as he engaged in the sport of competitive eating. “More?” I asked, spatula poised over the skillet. He’d eaten eight eggs and didn’t appear to be slowing down. At all. He’d also consumed half a loaf of bread, as toast, of course, all of the strawberry jam, and a single lonely package of sharp cheddar cheese. He’d eaten the cheese like a snack while watching me fry his first four eggs. It seemed that non-stick spray was magic no matter where—or when—you were from. As someone who spent hours scrubbing pans, I tended to agree.
“Yes, please. They are quite good. I’ve never truly tasted an egg, or at least not that I can remember. And we must get more of these!” he enthused, waving the empty jelly jar around, wrapped in his long fingers.
“Actually, that’s intended for several people, maybe even a whole family, and it’s meant to last for a week.” I’d watched as he ate the entire jar on bread and, when the toast wasn’t ready fast enough, on a spoon. A large spoon. He also drank a half gallon of milk and was starting on a jar of honey, which seemed to be his preferred condiment for everything ranging from bread to a deep breath.
“Really? So small. Is it meant to cause arguments and establish control over the food within a, ah, family?” He wasn’t kidding, and I had to remind myself, as I did nearly hourly, that Wulfric was from a very different place and time. “But, yes. May I have three more eggs, and some of that wonderful red sauce?”
“A hot sauce convert, eh?” I grinned while cracking eggs into the pan. While they cooked, I leaned against the stove, watching him sip his tea. His face was clean shaven, and his hair pulled back in a single bunch. I felt my head begin to lean to one side as understanding flared in my mind. “Did you shave because you want to see Emilia?” We hadn’t uttered a word of his daughter since his return, but the look of shock on his face told me I’d read his mind. I went to him and sat, turning so that our faces were inches apart. It could be awkward or intense. For now, it was merely serious. “It’s all right, you know. You can love her too.”
He looked away, uncertainty spending a fugitive moment in his eyes before fleeing from my gaze. “I ache to hold her and tell her I won’t leave.” He kissed me, and I felt the smile in his lips. “I could say the same to you.”
“Oh, it’s understood. You’re not getting out of my sight if I can help it. I won’t lose you to time or chance, not ever again.” I stood to flip the eggs, as Wulfric had settled on over light as his preferred cooking method. “We’ve got a lot of adult things to discuss, now that you’re awake and eating everything in the house. Like your daughter. And you.” I slid the eggs onto his plate and took a chair next to him while he ate.
“Me? What of me?” He punished the hot sauce bottle in a series of wild jerks, spattering his plate with red liquid. The vinegary bite of it made my mouth water.
“What do you want to do?” I asked, folding my arms and looking at him appraisingly.
He took a contemplative sip of tea before answering. It was a big question, and the answer carried long lasting implications. “I would like to watch Emilia grow, and love you, and perhaps work, although at what, I do not know. I cannot continue to be a steward of my lands, but there are ample fae and friendly creatures to care for it now. I would only be in the way, and I am not leaving you, even for a day.” He flexed his hands, and the knuckles popped ominously. “I don’t know what to do for my life’s work now, other than love those who mean the most.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. What would make you happy?” I think it was the first time anyone had ever asked Wulfric what he wanted.
The bewildered grin on his face confirmed my suspicion. “I do not know. Yet. You speak of your friend Brendan and his library filled with books. Perhaps I could read for a time, and see what there is to see.” He waved airily at the wider world beyond my kitchen. “I feel like there is so much to be known and learned. Along the way, I am not above any tasks. Perhaps I could work at the diner?”
I laughed, charmed by his innocence. “Honey, there’s nowhere to put you that wouldn’t be the star attraction. Are you ready to face that kind of scrutiny?”
He pulled at a lip, thinking. “True.” We sat, me on his lap, him looking shortsighted into space, until inspiration struck him. “Do you have any tools?”
I drew back slightly in surprise. “What kind?”
“Carpentry. Saws, mallets. Things of that nature.” A sly smile spread on his face. He had something in mind.
“I don’t doubt your skill, darling, but there isn’t a great demand for Viking dragonships in the Adirondacks.”
He held up a finger. “Ahh, but there are canoes, are there not?” His grin was infectious. Years dropped away from his face, and the shine of a man who had outfoxed a wily foe looked good on him.
“There are. You can build them?” It stood to reason. He’d been in a seafaring nation before spending a thousand years building anything and everything with crude tools in the middle of the forest. I was miffed I hadn’t thought of it first. I recalled the elaborate scrollwork and carvings at his cabin when I first met him; that kind of craftsmanship would be a huge hit among those who thought of canoes as an investment.
“I can, and I have. I rather enjoy it, too. It reminds me of my family, and places that have been gone for a long time. I would like to honor them by doing this.” His face clouded for a moment, brow drawn in worry. “Can one make money doing so? I would not wish to be supported by you like a village fool who lives on charity.”
“If you’re half as good at canoe making as you are cabin building, you’ll have a waiting list a mile long. You could even have Alex help you; he’s good with his hands and has a keen eye.” I felt the need to include his extended family, if only to salve my pride at admitting that Wulfric would be a man of two realities. In one, he was mine, and all mine. In the other, he was a father. I would have to overcome my own iniquities to be supportive and true. It didn’t mean I was going to have sleepovers with Anna, but I’d work on it. I hoped.
<
br /> “That would be welcome. We can invite your Gran to discuss the idea, too—”
My gasp was the kind I save for spiders that are big enough to have faces. “Oh, stars. This isn’t good.” I could feel the color drain from my face.
I hadn’t told Gran about Wulfric. Or the spell. Or stealing the warlock’s talisman and using my own blood to violate our whole ethos.
Oh boy.
“She does not know what you have done?” His brow raised as I began to twitch at the thought of explaining myself to the woman who I respected more than any other save my mom, and even that was a close call, since mom never had to kill a mummy using only a minor spell and a bicycle tire pump.
“Ah, well. No.” I sounded small and distant in my own ears.
“Then I shall correct it, but only after proper preparation.” Wulfric stood and held me to him like I was made of air.
“Umm, I kind of dig this whole being carried around thing, but do we have a goal? Unless my feet are on the ground, I can’t really get ready for work, and you can’t do anything, either.” I was the portrait of reason.
Wulfric switched me adroitly from one arm to the other, pushing my hair back behind my ear. My witchmark sang out in joy, not fear, as his breath tickled my ear with heat and longing. He began upstairs without saying a word, our eyes locked in a challenge of will that could only be broken by our arrival at my bedroom. When he lay me on the bed, it was like floating to rest after a long fall. My head swam with the scent of him and his need as he descended on me so gently that I wasn’t sure if I was awake or dreaming. Before our lips met, he spoke quietly, like a secret benediction. “Your Gran will be a formidable opponent, and I never go to battle unloved.”
I pulled him to me, our skin meeting in smooth welcome. “And you never will again.”
Halfway Hunted (Halfway Witchy Book 3) Page 16