by Vivian Wood
Making him empty and dim.
Still, he didn’t dare stop.
The fire burned, ripped at his flesh, made him scream with agony.
And he didn’t stop. Even when he felt Kieran’s fingers burning, searing his own, he did not stop.
For Sera, he gave everything…
Even when that meant surrendering to the flames, letting himself turn to ash and float away on the wind…
Kellan let go.
17
Chapter Seventeen
Sera had never been quite so sore in her whole life. She peeled her eyes open, wrinkling her nose at the stiffness in her limbs. She felt so heavy.
Which could be explained by the two big alpha males, sprawled protectively over her body, even in their sleep. Arms criss-crossing her body, Kieran and Kellan each had their face pressed against the top of her head. She was in a human cocoon of safety and warmth.
Tears pricked her eyes. Sera drew in a deep breath, the memories of their trip to the warehouse rushing back. How they’d saved her, risked their lives for her, protected her to the bitter end.
And then, unbidden, more memories started to come back. Beyond her time with Kieran and Kellan. Beyond med school, high school, childhood.
Back to her past lives. In the blink of an eye, all her memories were there. It was like an ocean of diamonds in her mind, each facet a bittersweet memory of a life she’d lived, a person she’d known and loved, a self she’d lost when she rose and burned as the Phoenix.
Only this time… this time, somehow, her mates had stopped the transition. Kept her from leaving her body and mind behind, broken the cycle that she might have repeated for a thousand more lifetimes.
They’d saved her in more ways than they could possibly understand. More than she could even try to explain, for now at least.
Now… now she just wanted to thank them, kiss them, hold them.
“Um… guys?” Sera croaked.
They both opened their eyes, staring at her as if in disbelief.
“Fuck,” Kieran growled, dragging her up to his lips for a kiss. Hard, desperate, needy. “Fuck, Sera. It’s been a week. We thought you’d never wake.”
“Come here,” Kellan said, twining his arms around her waist.
Sera turned her face to his and got another fierce, emotional lip lock. Kieran’s lips touched her collarbone, making her shiver. Already his hands roamed her body, tugging at her nightgown, pulling her soft body against his hard, muscular form.
“I remember,” she whispered against Kellan’s lips. “I remember it all now… I’ve lived a thousand lives, lost a thousand loves… until you.”
She sighed as Kellan cupped her breasts, ran his tongue over her lower lip.
“You saved me,” she finished, trying not to tear up.
“We’d do anything for you,” Kieran whispered.
“We will give you everything, Sera. Everything.”
Kellan pressed against her, sandwiching Sera’s body between her two mates.
“Everything?” she asked.
“Everything,” Kieran affirmed.
“A family?” she asked.
Both of her mates chuckled as they kissed her sensitive skin, sending a chill of pleasure straight down her spine.
“Fuck yes. We’re going to start right now,” Kellan said with a grin.
“We’re going to have our way with you, Sera. Take turns. And we’re not leaving this bedroom until you get what you want,” Kieran promised with a matching smirk.
“What have I got myself into?” Sera asked with a laugh, which quickly turned breathless as Kieran stripped off her nightgown.
The question didn’t need an answer, though. It was all too obvious.
She’d gotten herself into bed and into love with the two most perfect men in existence.
I’m the luckiest woman in the world, she thought. Plain and simple.
Epilogue
Mere Marie stood in her bedroom at the Manor, staring out the window. Part of the magic of the Manor was that she could add floor after floor to the place, raise it higher and higher as she added new fighters to her little brood. Since her room was at the top, the view from her bedroom window only got better and better.
And since the place was glamoured to resemble a two-story mansion rather than the rambling multi-story monster it really was, Mere Marie never heard a word of complaint from the neighborhood association.
Perfection.
She sipped her chicory root tea, watching lighting strike wildly across the city skyline.
Something was happening tonight, more than just the Gray brothers rescuing their mate.
Something big.
Papa Aguiel was making himself known, not bothering to hide whatever massive piece of magic he was working somewhere across the city. The lightning was part of that, Mere Marie was certain. She wasn’t certain how to move against her new enemy, though.
If she were honest with herself, the villain who’d somehow destroyed Pere Mal frightened her. Every time she tried to plot his downfall, her fingers began trembling. Strange, because Mere Marie feared almost nothing… except the big guys, heaven and hell, archangels and archdemons.
Here on good old Earth, she was used to being the scariest thing around.
Papa Aguiel, though… contemplating him made her hair stand on end.
She heard a noise in the distance, and this time it was more than just thunder. She put her teacup down and rushed out to the stairs. Below, she could see the Guardians and their mates heading downstairs. In the foyer, someone threw open the front door.
Mere Marie fairly flew down the stairs.
I knew it. I knew something was about to happen, she thought.
“How the heck did he even get into the yard? What about the Manor’s wards?” Kira asked.
Mere Marie hit the ground floor and stalked over to the doorway, gently moving the woman out of her way.
There in the doorway was the crumpled, unconscious form of a big man. Rain soaked him through and through and his dark hair clung to his skull.
“Turn him over,” Mere Marie commanded Asher, who stood right beside his mate.
Ever the obedient soldier, Asher reached out and turned over the stranger. Mere Marie’s breath stuck in her throat, her fingers began to tremble again. The man roused for a moment, struggling against Asher’s hands.
“Sophie? Is Sophie here yet?”
“Relax, man,” Asher said.
The guy slumped back to the ground, his eyes rolling up in his head.
“Everyone move back!” Sera hollered. “We don’t just leave unconscious people laying in the rain, guys.”
She pushed her way through and checked his pulse, then touched his neck and checked him over.
“Can you guys get him into the living room, on one of the couches?” Sera asked, though her expression made it clear that she wasn’t making a request.
Normally, Mere Marie’s lips would have twitched with humor. Right now, though, they were numb.
“We can’t just let a stranger in the house,” Gabriel growled, moving to stop Kellan and Kieran from doing their mate’s bidding.
“He is no stranger,” Mere Marie said, clearing her throat.
Everyone turned to look at her.
“This is Ephraim,” she said, glancing at the new man again. “He is the final Guardian.”
Kieran and Kellan glanced at each other, shrugged, and went about getting Ephraim off the ground.
“What does this mean?” Alice asked, moving forward and patting Mere Marie’s hand.
“He brings about the final battle and will ultimately decide the fate of all the Guardians,” Mere Marie said, subconsciously rubbing her hand over her heart.
“That guy?” Echo asked, doing a double take. “He’s a big deal?”
Mere Marie gave a slow nod. It was time that they all knew just how vital the coming days would be.
“He could save us all… or damn us, and let humanity fall to its
knees.”
Silence.
After all, what more was there to say?
Bear Reign
Prologue
Ephraim stood on a rocky bluff that overlooked the valley where his village lay, his long dark hair whipping wildly around his shoulders. He straightened his spine as he stared at the far mouth of the valley, watching as a line of a dozen of his village’s warriors approached, returning from battle. Though Ephraim couldn’t see their expressions from this distance, their movements were slow and heavy, almost defeated.
Or perhaps that was just his imagining. After all, it was hard to notice anything about the warriors in contrast with the burden they carried, a shrouded body lying on a pallet of cloth and heavy branches.
Ephraim’s father, a fellow warrior fallen in a raid against a neighboring tribe.
Watching the warriors, with their tall frames and broad shoulders, always made Ephraim strain to stand up taller, to make himself seem older and stronger. At fourteen, he held himself up to the standard of his father and the other village heroes. His brothers Elias and Egrel, older than him by more than a decade, constantly tormented him about his lithe frame. It seemed nothing ever changed between them: Elias the rugged warrior, Egrel the clever sorcerer, and little Ephraim who would never grow into his clumsy feet and fierce angst.
Maybe you’ll never mature, you’ll just cling to mother’s skirts all your life, was Egrel’s newest taunt.
Ephraim realized that his fists were clenched tightly, just thinking about it. His father always told him to ignore Egrel’s sharp tongue and Elias’s quiet condescension, but it was difficult. It always seemed like his brothers bore some grudge against Ephraim, as if their brotherly teasing was something more. Something deeper, uglier.
Turning his focus back to the procession of warriors below, Ephraim knew the tension with his brothers grew out of competition. Ephraim was most beloved of his mother, and he’d inherited more than just his father’s dark good looks — he also had the ability to shift into a great, furred beast. It was the same gift that had carried his father through a lifetime of sprawling, epic battles. The ability that had raised their family’s status, given them the best of the valley’s land to farm, given them a great number of sheep and cattle.
One day, Ephraim was destined to follow in his father’s footsteps, become a respected warrior. Neither Elias nor Egrel could rely on such an ability to earn their keep, though Elias was talented with a sword and Egrel adept with potions and spells.
“Have they brought him, then?”
Ephraim whirled and found his mother standing at the doorway of their cottage, leaning against the frame for support.
“Here, mother, let’s get you back inside,” Ephraim said, crossing the yard to assist her.
“That was your father, was it not? He wears the shroud,” his mother mumbled. She was light as a feather when Ephraim half-carried her back to the makeshift bed they’d set up by the fire. The nights were cool this time of year, and her health was poor. Worse, even, since word came that Ephraim’s father was gravely wounded in battle a week past.
“Just rest, mother,” Ephraim said. “I’ll get your special tea, to help you sleep.”
“I want to see him,” she said, but already he could see that she was fading. “I need to see him…”
Once she was settled in and sleeping soundly, Ephraim stepped back outside. Elias and Egrel stood less than fifty paces from the cottage, and they both went silent upon seeing Ephraim.
“Brothers,” he said, watching their stiff posture. Guilty, almost. “What is to happen to father’s body?”
“The warriors are already building the funeral pyre,” Egrel said, jerking his head toward the valley.
It was true; Ephraim moved closer to watch his father’s brethren stacking lumber, wide and high.
“Will there be a ceremony?” Ephraim wondered. Usually death was a private affair, mourning kept to each individual family, but his father was no ordinary villager.
“No doubt.” Elias shifted his stance, his eyes downcast.
“Mother will want to go,” Ephraim said, sadness welling in his chest.
“She is too ill,” Egrel shot back immediately, hostile. “I won’t have you dragging her down to the village, making her health worse, just to keep her favor.”
Ephraim’s mouth opened and closed. Egrel had a cruel mind, always assuming the worst of everyone. What was there to say to that, really?
“She is sleeping now,” Ephraim said, looking away instead.
“Let us go down, then.” Elias, never one for two words when one would do. Head of the family now, it seemed.
Ephraim nodded and followed them, heart heavy.
As they trudged back up the hill from the ceremony, the pyre’s ash and smoke still clinging to their clothes and hair, Egrel was the first to break the heavy silence.
“I’ve asked a sorcerer from a distant village to come and see to mother,” he said, trading a heavy glance with Elias. “He should be here today.”
“A sorcerer? Their services are very expensive. How will we pay for that?” Ephraim asked, frowning. “Our flocks are thinnest this time of year. We can hardly afford to give away as many sheep as he would surely ask.”
“We will make an arrangement,” Egrel said with a shrug. “Mother’s health is most important, as I am sure you will agree.”
Elias merely grunted, his expression dark as a thundercloud. There was something they weren’t saying, Ephraim was sure of it. But what?
When they reached the cottage, the sorcerer was waiting for them. Swathed in many layers of woolen coats, hood shoved back to reveal a shock of perfectly white hair decades too old for his youthful face, he watched them all with darkly shining eyes.
“I am Egrel,” Ephraim’s brother said by way of introduction. “This is the older, Elias. And the youngest, Ephraim.”
“I am Crane,” the sorcerer said, inclining his head. “I haven’t much time, so let us begin.”
Ephraim and Egrel hovered as the man examined their mother, pushing back her thinning blonde hair, looking in her ears, pressing his finger against her parched tongue. It went on like that for some time, the man looking at her wrists and ankles, asking a few questions about whether she’d had fever, whether she’d met any strangers of late.
The sorcerer lay her in the bed and drew the covers over her once more.
“It is a malady of spirit, the most difficult to cure,” he announced. He shot Egrel a meaningful glance. “I can mix something to heal her, but the ingredients are very, very rare.”
“Do it,” Egrel said without hesitation.
Ephraim wanted to ask outright what the cost would be, what understanding Egrel and Crane and Elias had between them, but he was afraid. Afraid that Crane might not cure his mother, afraid that the price they’d agreed to would be dark and shocking. After all, there was no way to un-know something once it’d been said aloud.
The man sat down at the broad kitchen table, clearing away Mother’s other medicines and herbs, and began to unpack various small jars and bottles from somewhere in his many cloaks. He pulled out a mortar and pestle and ground up a number of ingredients together, eventually producing a small amount of greenish, herbal liquid and pouring it into a glass vial.
“Give this with her tea, three times a day until it is gone. Do not miss a dose,” the sorcerer said, handing it over to Egrel. He gathered his things, vanishing them all back into his cloaks, and stood.
Those dark eyes landed on Ephraim again, giving him a chill. Crane arched a brow, glancing at Egrel.
“I will take my payment now,” he said simply.
A sense of foreboding slithered down Ephraim’s spine a split second before Elias and Egrel sprung forward and grasped each of his arms, pulling them tight behind his body and cinching his wrists tight with a rough piece of cord.
“What—?!” was all Ephraim managed before Egrel clapped a pungent-smelling wad of cloth against his nose and
mouth. Ephraim gagged at the oily residue that covered the cloth, but his muffled protest only made him drag in deep breaths of the heady odor.
His eyelids drooped, then his body, then he knew nothing.
The first thing Ephraim knew when he opened his eyes was that he was far, far away from home. The world shifted and rolled under him with merciless rhythm. There was a loud sound, rushing and hissing in time with the movement of the dark, cramped space where he lay.
A ship, he realized. He was in the underbelly of a ship, bound for parts unknown.
The next reality that sunk in was the feel of cool metal, wrapped around his neck and wrists. He couldn’t make out the slave’s collar and cuffs, they seemed to be invisible. But they were heavy and tight against his skin, all too real to him.
Once he worked up the nerve to explore his shadowy berth, he found a chamberpot, a flagon of stale water, and a box of mealy hard-tack biscuits. He couldn’t even look at the food or water for a full day, his body falling victim to violent sickness caused by the movement of the ship. He’d never even seen the ocean, having in fact never been outside his village, but already he knew that he hated the sea.
Though he waited, no one came.
The ship rocked and rolled, and slowly he grew used to the feeling of it, his body adjusting.
He rationed his water and food.
Still, no one came.
At last, one day the ship’s indomitable rhythm changed. The waves were harder, choppier… and then the movement ceased altogether. A door flung open and sunlight poured into the ship’s hold; Ephraim’s relief and terror were equal in measure.
An unfamiliar man with dark olive skin beckoned, speaking to Ephraim in a harsh and foreign tongue. Unsure what else to do, knowing he had nowhere to run in a strange land, Ephraim allowed himself to be pulled off the ship and loaded onto a cart piled high with boxes and bags. As if it wasn’t clear enough that he was a possession, a piece of cargo…