The Longing of Lone Wolves

by Lana Pecherczyk

  Her gaze landed on a table near the window. There was a tall, gangly Mage studying a large open book. He looked like a good place to start. Not too old. Not too new.

  She shuffled along the carpeted floor and sat down next to him with a smile.

  Completely taken with his book, he failed to look up. Now that she was closer, she took in more details of his body. The fae had a rather round head and golden skin with brown striations like a piece of french polished wood. A cow-lick of golden hair stuck up at the crown of his skull. He licked his long finger and turned the page, eyebrows lifting with avid fascination at whatever he was reading.

  Clarke snuck a look at the text.

  Cultivating new growth from frigid landscapes using a combination of...

  Her eyes blurred with boredom. Yep. Not her thing.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He craned his neck and blinked at her. Then his eyes went to her ears with a squeak. Little green leaves sprouted at his nose. His brown eyes went cross-eyed at the leaves and an incredible red blush hit his cheeks. When his gaze met hers, she caught genuine fear.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  “You’re human.” His voice broke like a teenager. “I... um.”

  “Yeah, I guess I get that a lot.” She used her fist to make a circle over her chest. It was the sign for sorry. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s okay. It’s just.” He brushed his nose leaves away. They fluttered to the table. “I don’t see many humans. Us Oak Men don’t really get along... yeah. Humans kind of cut us down for wood. So we don’t... yeah.”

  He shrunk away from Clarke.

  Oak Men. Wow. And those leaves coming out of his nose. He was the first fae she had met who was blended from both human and plant. All others had some sort of animal or insect origin.

  She offered another smile. “I can promise you I’m not here to cut you down.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Scout’s honor.” She crossed her chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  The Oak Man frowned. “Don’t do that.”

  The senior Mage at the reception desk shushed Clarke.

  She made the sorry sign again and lowered her voice to the Oak Man. “I’m Clarke.”

  He tapped his chest and whispered, “Frello.”

  Okay. They were getting somewhere.

  “I’m hoping you could tell me if there are books on curses here,” she asked.

  He eyed her warily. “Why do you want those?”

  “It’s to help a friend.”

  His eyes widened. “Oh. The Wolf Guardian. Yes, I’ve heard about him.” This knowledge seemed to relax him. He pointed down to the east end of the library. “They’re next to the culinary section.”

  Elation lifted her clean off the seat.

  And then she was forced back down when a hand clamped on her shoulder. She cranked her head to find Barrow’s bushy wizard eyebrows scowling down at her.

  Guess she would start her research tonight.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Three weeks later, on one of her nightly visits to the library, novitiates and scholars still filled the study area, and lined desks. Every so often, she heard the distinct sound of a page turning, and it drilled her insecurities in deeper.

  She sat in the back, between two stacks of floor-to-ceiling shelves, surrounded by a collection of littered books. Some of them were ancient, glued together scraps of fabric, bark, or leather. Others were newer paper and wood. All were about curses, but none indicated how to perform one, or how to break one.

  The Oak Man had pointed her in the right direction, but the books that existed here were more like a warning to those stupid enough to dabble in the forbidden art. None of them used the glyphs present on Rush’s body. She was fast coming under the impression that the Prime had orchestrated the fact that nothing of actual use was available to the public, or there was a hidden section somewhere. A place where tomes on the inky side of the Well were kept. A place as dark as the depths of said Well.

  She cleared her mind, crossed her legs and concentrated on her intuition. The idea was to nudge that gut feeling to look for something that didn’t want to be found. The secret library must be here somewhere.

  But thoughts of her failings kept coming to the forefront of her mind. She couldn’t find this connection to the cosmic Well. She couldn’t spark a flame. She couldn’t create a breeze with her gift. It was hard to stay positive when they’d all said she was this powerful person. Ooh, I’m the chosen one.

  Whatever.

  There came a point where her teachers had stopped looking at her with a mix of trepidation and awe and looked at her as though she was a fraud.

  Rush had also been busy and hard to nail down. With what? She couldn’t say. Only that he crawled into bed with her each night and when morning came, she’d find him sitting on the settee, either awake or half-asleep, staring out the window with Starcleaver in his hands, expecting trouble.

  It felt like he avoided her.

  Something had happened that first night they’d arrived, and he refused to talk about it. Perhaps it was the fact that Thorne continued to keep his distance, even after their brief talk, or that the Prime was still absent and the Council was beginning to worry.

  The ticking time bomb that was Rush’s curse made her feel sick. She’d even asked Preceptress Dawn how to See into her own future, or to his, so she could help him. Dawn had only replied with, “Well-blessed mates can sense the other’s emotions down the bond.”

  Clarke had snapped something back at Dawn which hadn’t been polite. She was tired of hearing about this grand other union Rush could potentially have and how it could save him, while Clarke couldn’t. Her. This great, strong, chosen one. But not strong enough. Not good enough.

  Clarke had wrung one good piece of advice from Dawn. She’d said, “When looking for your own future, don’t look to the stone falling into the pond, look to the ripples it creates.”

  All these thoughts and more crowded her mind and stopped her from being able to meditate properly.

  “Okay, Clarke. You can do this,” she murmured, and thought about the books surrounding her, and the books she wanted to find. “They’re like that... but they’d feel... darker. More chaotic. More...”

  The hairs on the back of her neck lifted as someone sat behind her. For anyone else, that sensation would trigger a warning, but now... it melted her. She smiled.

  “I knew I’d find you here.” Rush swept hair from her shoulders and brushed his lips across her neck.

  He shifted so his legs sprawled on either side of her body. Two warm hands circled her stomach. Clarke melted a little more.

  “But where have you been?” She tensed, waiting for an answer.

  “Around.”

  She released a breath. Not even reactions to her prying these days held the spark of defiance from him. It was almost like he’d... her throat closed up, refusing to acknowledge the thought. Instead, she leaned forward and picked up a book. It was a cook book, but she’d noted similarities in recipes to some information Preceptor Barrow had relinquished about how rare ingredients were needed to make a curse. She picked up a second book. It listed ingredients from the oil-slick tattoos she’d seen on several Guardians. These, she’d confirmed, enhanced abilities. Cloud was covered in them.

  Rush’s knuckles grazed down her arms. His big fingers closed over hers on each book, and then he pried them away.

  “It’s late. Come to bed.”

  Normally, she’d jump at the chance, but since the moment she’d woken that morning, a knot of tension had been ever present in her gut. It had distracted her to no end.

  She huffed. “I can’t.”

  Time was running out.

  “Baby,” he breathed and nibbled her ear lobe. It sent delicious shivers down her spine and heated her pleasantly. Hearing him use her own endearment was, well, endearing. He wanted to connect with her
, to be closer. Because he’d been pulling away.

  Unshed tears burned her eyes. She wasn’t ready to let go of him.

  She cleared her throat. “I have work to do.”

  “Forget about the curse,” he said, voice all honey and spice. “You won’t solve it by looking in the library.”

  “Where, then?”

  She felt, more than heard, the sigh come out of him. “In dark places it’s not safe to visit.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “How do we get there?”

  “We can’t.”

  She craned her neck to look him in the eyes. Sadness pooled in the depths of his golden gaze.

  “There’s always a way.”

  “Not this time. You heard the Prime. Well-blessed mate only.”

  “Fuck your magical curse-breaking mate. I’m the one.” She poked him in the chest. “I’m your one.”

  She knew it in the deepest parts of her soul.

  His lips curved and he held her chin there as he sank into a kiss full of promises, need, and those wicked things she’d seen flashing in his eyes. A rumble of satisfaction rolled through him as she returned his heat, feeling every bit as beholden to his desires as her own.

  “Let’s go to bed,” he insisted again, lips against hers.

  “Rush...” She pulled away. “I can’t even light a candle with my mana.”

  The truth hurt to say aloud. She knew all the theory to go with it, but still couldn’t distinguish between the instinct that gave her vibes, and the sensation that supposedly connected her to the Well. It was all instinct to her, but it was something all fae inherently grew up with. She had a lifetime of bad habits to unpack.

  “I’ve meditated so deep and long that I feel like I know every part of my body, but I still can’t find the part that draws on the Well.”

  “It’s not something you can find, Clarke. It finds you.”

  “Yeah, well how is that supposed to help me?”

  She must have spoken louder than she realized because a hissed “Shhh” came from somewhere else in the library. She wanted to throw a book at them.

  This was why she never went to college. It was filled with a bunch of pompous, stuffy do-gooders. Where were the party frat boys or sorority girls? Not here, that’s for sure.

  He sat back on his hands and considered her brooding face. She tried very hard not to think about the hard muscles slabbed beneath that deep burgundy sweater with the tantalizing V-neck he favored so much. The tailor or seamstress who made it didn’t account for his broad shoulders and tapered waist. It was tight everywhere, except where it gathered with excess fabric around his abdomen. She tried to still her beating heart when he licked his lower lip. His beard had been trimmed short, making the angle of his jaw sharper than before. His silver hair had been brushed over as though he’d run fingers through it and shoved it to one side in agitation… or stifled passion. He still wore his weapons, even though it had become clear weeks ago that no other fae did within this compound unless specifically training. The Slaugh were overrated. She’d not seen a peep out of them. To everyone else, this was supposed to be a safe place.

  Not for Rush.

  He caught her frown and misconstrued it. “I can help you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Another shush filtered through the stacks and she shot the end of the aisle a disgruntled glare.

  Rush’s leather pants creaked as he stood and then strode down the aisle, disappearing around the corner. He came back with a lit half-melted candle stuck on a single pottery holder. He used a boot to irreverently shift her books aside and placed the candle down before her. Then he returned to sit behind her and spread his legs on either side. Two warm hands gripped her shoulders.

  “Face the front. I will teach you how to blow it out with your power, and then how to light it.”

  She slid him a sideways stare. “I didn’t know you could manipulate elements.”

  “All Guardians can. For shifters, we prefer to use our mana for the shift, but sometimes we resort to the elements for help. Some elements are stronger than others.”

  “So... those who can’t shift, like Leaf, he’s—”

  “Basically just a Mage who fights.”

  She huffed a laugh. “Don’t tell him you said that.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. We made it our business to tell the elves about their shortcomings every day.”

  The humor in his voice brought a welcome surge of joy to her heart. This part of him she wanted to see more. It was the part that still acted like he was a member of the family here, not the part that existed on the outskirts. It was the part that still held hope.

  She focused on the flickering candle. “Okay,” she said. “So... just access my mana and blow it out. No biggie. It’s not like I’ve been trying to do this for weeks.”

  “Relax.” Rush’s thumbs pushed into sore spots on her shoulders and massaged in circles.

  Her eyes rolled with pleasure, and her posture softened. A groan slipped out.

  His lips touched her ear, breath hot on her neck. “The act of accessing the mana within your internal Well is something so intrinsic, it’s like moving your legs. You’ve been trying to run before you can walk. Relax and let nature take over.”

  “I can access the mana that makes me psychic, but not the other elements they tested me for. Easier said than done.”

  “I’ve done it.”

  “Shut up,” she mumbled.

  She felt his husky laugh down her spine. Every nerve in her body sang in his presence. She tried to think un-sexy thoughts, because if she didn’t, fantasies about his clever fingers invaded her mind. Before her eyes rolled completely out of her head, she forced her lids to stay open and focused on the flickering candle flame.

  “Air is breath.” He blew gently on her ear.

  She laughed. “You’re so corny.”

  “Corny.” He tested the word. “That’s a new one.” He massaged more, dug low on her back, knuckled down her spine, and just when she was about to fall back into him, he added, “Take a deep breath, hold it, feel it work in your lungs, and then let it go.”

  She shut her eyes, let the last of the tension out of her body and focused deeply.

  “Breathe in,” he murmured. “Breathe out.”

  For long moments, that was all she did. He stopped massaging, but she kept breathing. Air came into her lungs cold, filled her up, gave her life, and then left her lips in a warm rush.

  “Good,” Rush intoned. “Now open your eyes and push all that awareness to the candle.”

  Slowly her lashes lifted and on a smooth exhale, she urged it onward with a sliver of her energy. She urged the flame to feel the wind enter cold, and then to fill it up. The flame flickered, guttered, and then died.

  Silence. Dead silence. And then Clarke stifled a squeal. She twisted and climbed on Rush to plant a kiss on his face. He laughed, a deep chesty laugh, and then forced her off him.

  “Don’t get cocky,” he warned. “You still have to light it up.”

  She waved. “No problem.”

  Then turned back to the candle, set herself up the same way and pushed that part of her conscience back to the wick, and urged it to light.

  Nothing.

  She cleared her throat and did it again.

  Still nothing. Nothing but the echo of her stupid words coming back to haunt her. A frustrated growl tore out. She wanted to scream. Every day of her damned infernal training came back to tease her. For hours at a time Colt had forced her to do the same thing. No amount of meditating or lessons could give her the understanding. Her brain just couldn’t click.

  “I’m too human.”

  “Shh,” Rush whispered. “You’ll get it.”

  She mashed her lips together and took a deep breath. “It’s not working. I’m doing the same thing as I did with the air.”

  “But is fire the same as air?” His hands moved down to her hips and tugged her ba
ckward until she was flush against his chest. Warmth soaked into her back.

  Clarke eyed the dead candle. “I guess not.”

  “So think about fire.”

  “Great. Sure. Said no one ever.”

  “Think about heat.” His voice lowered with intention. The pad of his rough fingers traced along the join where her blouse met her waistband. He repeated the motion, teasing her.

  Okay. She squirmed. This was different. He stroked over her clothes, sparking sensation. Her nipples contracted. A flood of heat gathered between her legs. She sucked in a breath.

  “Wrong element,” he chided, and tugged her blouse from the confines of her pants. “Heat. Think heat.”

  “Rush...” She darted a glance to the end of the aisle and heard someone sniffle, then a murmur.

  “No one can see us now.” He found skin. Lazy fingers circled her stomach, massaging gently until he sighed pleasantly and flattened his palm, tugging her closer. Tingles zipped everywhere, and a deep husky moan wrenched from her throat. He murmured, “Still wrong element.”

  How could she not focus on her quickening breath when his splayed hand flexed under her breasts, thumb touching the under-pillow, little finger dipping into her pants. Hot lips landed on her neck, on the mark he always gravitated toward. She glanced again down the aisle.

  He clicked his tongue. “Don’t think about being caught. Think about...”

  The hand at her stomach lifted to band around her chest. His thumb grazed a bare nipple. She arched into him. Whimpered. His other hand ventured where his little finger had been, but kept going, over the fabric of her pants to rub along the seam. Her blood ignited and she ground into him with an almighty moan of submission.

  He bit down on her shoulder when he found her damp through her clothes. She became a coalescence of sensation. The fingers down there. The ones up higher. The hardness at her back, pushing into her. The circles, the rubs, the heat. He owned her. Consumed her. Her heart thudded in her ears with each urgent stroke he made. Knowing she was safe against his chest, she threw her head back and pulled his hair in a desperate grip, sinking into the sensation of his tongue at her earlobe and his fingers on her body.