by Cecy Robson
God, I really miss him.
“You can’t behave like this,” he tells me quietly. “Especially around Genevieve.”
He had to go and say her name. The image I had of him curling around me as he whispered goodnight, vanishes as quickly as it appeared.
“You’re right, the last thing I want is to upset her. Whatever would you do to ease her distress?”
The sting in my tone is enough to cause him to release me, but not before I notice how he managed to hold me without touching my affected arm.
“Why does everything have to be a fight with you?” he asks, stepping away.
“Why is everything always my fault?” I counter, placing a hand on my hip.
“You know how she is. Why do you let her upset you?”
“Are you talking about Mancuso or Vieve?” I ask. “Either way, I think I have a right to feel what I feel.”
He leans back on his heels, his stare dragging down from the top of my bonnet to my buckled shoes. I shrink inward, as if I can somehow hide what I’m wearing. I do a double-take when I realize, he’s no longer frowning.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask.
“You’re threatened by Genevieve.”
“I am not,” I respond, lying through my teeth.
My former bae isn’t a grinner, he’s not one to flash a broad smile. His expressions, like his personality, tend to be reserved, subtle. It takes a lot for him to really let go.
So that knowing grin that crosses his face isn’t something I’m expecting, or something I particularly appreciate.
“I see,” he says.
“No, you don’t.”
He nods thoughtfully. “No, I think I do.”
“You’re pissing me off,” I point out.
“That’s nothing new,” he adds, throwing in an unfairly sexy brood.
“Um, Taran,” Emme interrupts. I look up in time to see Mancuso lift a particularly vicious middle finger. “Would you like me to help you with your school supplies?”
This time, it’s my turn to smile, ignoring Mrs. Mancuso when she adds another finger. “I’ll get it,” I hold my hand out when Gemini tries to follow. “Would you be a gentleman and open the door?” He already appears suspicious, as he should be. “I only have a few things,” I assure him.
“All right,” he says, watching me closely.
The moment Emme pops open the trunk of my sedan, I lift the box of garlic and hurry to where Gemini is waiting at the end of a driveway. His nostrils flare, he already knows what’s inside. But just in case I rip open the top, sending a cloud of dust in the air and making him sneeze.
I dump the box on the passenger side floor of Gemini’s brandy new Mercedes SUV (can’t leave without my school supplies ya’ know). He whirls away, sneezing repeatedly, only to glare when I climb into the front seat.
I smile sweetly as I reach for the seatbelt. “Ready to go, lover boy? I don’t want to be late for my first day. Oh, and I’ll bet our Most Superior Broom Straddler can’t wait to see her favorite liaison!”
Emme glances between us, clutching a smaller box filled with holy water as if it can somehow protect her from the anger riling Gemini’s wolves. As it is, the head of his twin wolf punches through his back, tearing his shirt as he growls and snaps his jaws.
Gemini edges away, shielding the sight from Mrs. Mancuso.
“Where do you want this?” Emme stammers, making a face.
The wolf sneezes a few times before Gemini lulls him back inside him.
“Oh, just put it in the rear,” I answer for him. “Wouldn’t want to be a bother, would we, cutie?”
My comment earns me another glare. He takes the box from Emme, muttering a growl as he places it in the trunk.
“Bye, Taran. Good luck,” Emme says, hurrying up the driveway and putting plenty of space between us.
Gemini throws open the driver’s side door and hops inside, slamming it shut.
“I just love the smell of garlic, don’t you?” I gush.
He snaps his seatbelt in place, cranking the engine and lowering all the windows. “Why must you make everything so difficult?” he asks, popping his SUV into drive.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Harlot!” Mrs. Mancuso screams as we pull away.
I shove my head out the window. “Shut up and die!” I yell back, refusing to let her have the last word.
“You were saying?” I ask Gemini, kicking the box and sending an extra whiff of garlic in the air.
He groans. “You’re not going to behave. Are you?”
“Now what makes you say that?” I ask, trying not to notice how what’s left of his T-shirt dangles from his shoulders.
He stops at the end of our development, pausing when he catches me gaping. In my defense, no heterosexual woman alive could resist all that.
“It’s hot in here. Don’t you think?” he asks.
“It’s okay . . .” I don’t quite finish my thought. He tears off what remains of his shirt and tosses it onto my lap.
“Problem?” he asks, knowing to damn well my nipples are now doing the Neh-Neh.
I laugh. “Not at all,” I say. I hike up my skirt, revealing my hot pink panties (hey, no one said I couldn’t wear a thong). “But you’re right, it is a little hot.” I fan the skirt, and a little more garlic.
This time, he doesn’t sneeze, but he does look, pass my thigh-high white socks and to where the hot pink silk peeks out. I managed a little naughty to a whole lot of dull, trying to hang onto the me that remains beneath all this heavy cotton.
As if it takes everything he has, he wrenches his stare from my thighs and back to the road. He punches the gas, his typically controlled driving now a thing of the past. I allow my skirt to fall back to my ankles. I’m disappointed he didn’t look a little longer, and maybe I’m hurt that he didn’t pull me in for a long deep kiss. It reinforces my belief that he belongs to someone else, who isn’t me.
Who is more polite.
Who thinks before she speaks.
And who’s simply whole.
I’m sure of it, until he veers onto a different road when we’re almost to Squaw Valley. “Where are you going?” I ask.
“A different way,” he responds. His stare shifts my way, but it’s brief. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you where you need to be.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I say. I’m not afraid of him. One thing I’ve never doubted from the moment we met is that he would never hurt me.
Yet as he reaches the far corner of the valley, I realize I should be afraid. I know where he’s going even before he pulls onto a small narrow path leading into the forest of thick pines. Most who pass by on their way to the ski slopes in winter or to mountain climb in the spring and summer might miss it, especially now that densely packed trees shadow the narrow opening. Some locals might mistake it for a service road, or even a back road leading to one of the larger and more eloquent estates that overlook the lake.
I know it as the way to a small field, where Gemini and I once spent a warm summer’s night making love beneath the canopy of a thousand stars. It was one of my favorite memories with him. He’d built a fire, made me dinner, and laughed when the melted chocolate from my s’more dripped down my chin. I should have been embarrassed, to have a not so great vision of me before this vision of a man. But I’d laughed, too, falling back into the blanket he’d laid out when he met me with a kiss.
It was a perfect night, and the first time he talked seriously about marrying me.
My stare falls to my lap, and to where I’m tucking my sickly hand beneath my thigh. I never expected us to change, to become something so foreign and unwelcomed.
He rolls to a stop, cutting the engine. “Do you know where we are?” he asks, his deep voice quiet, reverting to that familiar timbre, the one that carries so much of his heart.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask in a way of an answer.
He knows what I mean. If he brought me here, there’s a reason for it. But
he doesn’t answer right away, taking every inch of my being in, as if he no longer recognizes who he sees in front of him.
A portion of my soul chips away, another piece to add to the growing pile at my feet. “I don’t know,” he finally responds. “Maybe I wanted to see how you’d react.”
I meet his eyes, his dark irises shimmering with all the heartache I feel. “Why?” I ask. Jesus, can’t he see how much it’s killing me to be here?
His words are slow and sure. “Because there was a time when you were my everything and I was your world. And now, you’re sitting mere inches from me and all I sense is you slipping further away.”
I blink the sting stretching out across my eyes.
“Taran . . . tell me you love me.”
Another crack in my soul. Another sliver that falls. “Don’t do this, Tomo,” I beg.
I use his real name, not his nickname, the one I’d use during our most intimate moments.
Maybe that’s why this time, he’s the one who turns away.
“I need to hear you tell me,” he says. “Me, and my wolves, we need something from you that doesn’t come from pain or anger, a reminder of what we had, of what we meant to each other.” He shakes his head, frustrated. “Taran, give us something.”
My right hand jerks up, smacking against the armrest hard enough to send a jolt of agony streaming to my shoulder. I clutch it against me, trying to hide it. But beneath the thick awning of branches shadowing the cabin, I can’t hide its glow, even with the heavy white fabric of my long-sleeved shirt. The obnoxious light fades in and out slowly, a harsh reminder of everything it cost us.
I glance up at him, wondering if my features give away how sorry I am—for not being the same mate he claimed and for not being strong enough to save us from this torment. Anara, the werewolf Elder who chewed off my arm . . . I should have killed him. I should have set him ablaze or split him into pieces with my lightning. But I didn’t. I charged him in a careless rush, letting my anger rule me instead of fighting smart.
It’s my fault. My doing. I knew what I was up against. I want to tell him as much, except he’s no longer looking at my arm or even me.
He withdraws, taking those words he shared back, along with his heart.
I’m not sure if he thinks the response of my arm was intentional, or if he was simply reminded of everything that wedged us apart. Either way, the hurt that brews between us simmers to a boil.
He mutters a swear, the viciousness in his tone warning me how close he is to surrendering to the beasts that prowl inside of him. I still, wanting so badly to pull him back to me. But I can’t, not when he feels so distant. It’s as if the motion of my arm told him something he didn’t want to hear, know, or remember.
Perspiration gathers along his crown and torso, the small clear beads widening until they drip along his olive skin, streaking his shoulders and chest, and cutting angry lines into his features. The muscles along his arms strain as he grips the steering wheel and takes very deep and laborious breaths, working to hold back his wolves and the turmoil of emotions plaguing him.
He’s scaring me, not because I think he’s seconds from attacking, but because of what it’s doing to him.
“Are you okay?” I manage, my voice cracking.
“No,” he growls. He starts the engine with a harsh flick of his controls and shifts the SUV in reverse, using the rear camera to guide him.
Silence overtakes the air, muffling even the sounds from the road. I don’t bother trying to coax him into a conversation. For someone who accused me of being so far away, what seems like a lifetime of false memories fall like a barrier between us.
It’s only when we’re almost to the compound that he finally speaks. “The other witches, even the Lesser ones, will try to enforce their ranks within the coven,” he tells me. “They’re like wolves in that respect. Hold your ground, but don’t challenge them to a fight, or give them a reason to interpret your actions as cause for combat.”
He’s trying protect me. It shouldn’t surprise me, but considering these last few moments...
“I’m not going to let anyone walk over me,” I assure him.
The corners of his mouth curve a little. “I know you won’t,” he says, his serious demeanor returning as he tosses me an all-too-knowing glance. “But there’s a difference between standing up for yourself and reacting in a way that lands you in a magical duel. You’re not ready for that. Not in your condition.”
I open my mouth to argue, but shut it quickly. He’s right. And it sucks. I think a toddler witch with a plastic wand from a party store could crush me right now if she waved it the right way.
“All right,” I say.
“All right?” he asks, hardly believing it.
“I’m not stupid, Gemini,” I tell him quietly. “And even though I don’t want to be here, I also don’t want this thing to kill me.” I almost motion to arm, but he knows what I mean and it’s already hurt him enough.
“I know you’re not stupid, love,” he says, locking eyes with me.
The gesture is brief, but the effect lodges my breath deep in my lungs. He doesn’t react, as if I didn’t notice what he said and was speaking as if nothing had changed between us. But everything has. If there’s a doubt, my hand gives another involuntary jerk.
My entire body jerks again when we pass through the first ward, that awful feeling of being shoved through plastic wrap returning.
“It’ll get better once Genevieve gifts you with the ability to travel in and out of the grounds.”
I nod, but don’t comment. Genevieve’s name alone casts its own wicked spell upon me, reducing me to this insecure teen with her own personal homecoming queen ready to trip her in the halls and point out her weaknesses.
As we pass the fields and rows of witches making their way with their buckets, I should be panicked about what’s to come and whether I’ll be able to handle it. But the only thing concerning me now is our eminent goodbye. This ride up, wasn’t perfect, wasn’t us. Not what we used to be. But it’s more than we’ve shared in a long while and I’m not ready to let it go.
And maybe he isn’t either.
He rolls to a stop in front of Vieve’s ancestral home. Before I can reach for my box, he takes my left hand and curls it around his fingertips.
Soft warm lips pass along my knuckles as dark irises weld into mine. “Good luck,” he whispers. “I’ll be close if you need me.”
I stare at my hand as he releases me, wishing he could kiss the hand that most mattered...
Chapter Thirteen
I think, I’m really late, in fact I’m sure of it. But instead of rushing, I find myself moving slowly.
Gemini’s contact was a reminder of all the care and kindness he always met me with. For a were who’s very alpha and can rip the head off a charging demon’s shoulders and kick it aside, it’s his gentle side that always blew me away.
“How could you be so brutal during a hunt yet so tender with me?” I once asked.
“Because I love you,” he’d answered simply.
“Do you want me to help you with that?” he offers, motioning to my box of garlic and drawing my attention.
His grimace makes me laugh. “Haven’t you had your fill?” I tease.
“No. I haven’t,” he responds, pegging me with a lustful gaze that I swear could roast the three pounds of garlic in my hands.
I am the queen of awesome, inappropriate comebacks. If there was ever an opportunity for one, this is it. Quaker uniform and all, I return the heat sizzling my pointy girl parts and say—
“Lesser Taran. You’re needed in the fields.”
Yeah, that wasn’t it.
Vieve’s guard Christie, the blonde Bren banged like a pair of horny cymbals, marches down the steps the bodice of her medieval brown dress threatening to choke what remains of her cleavage. She snags Gemini’s attention, as do the four witches dressed in black trailing behind her.
Their stares are intense and very le
thal. I’ll give blondie this, when Gemini and I march closer, she stops, nodding respectfully at him. It’s the long not-so respectful glance down his half-naked body that I take offense to. If I didn’t think I’d end up in Witchcraft and Wizardry detention, I would have nailed her in the head with a bulb of garlic.
Hello. Ex-girlfriend standing right in front of you.
“What’s this?” he asks her, both of us ignoring her “chop-chop” command to get to my station.
My place beside Gemini gives her the barest pause. “A hunt,” she responds.
“For the Whisperer of the Dead?”
I don’t have to guess he means Savanna. In the supernatural world, one of three things earns you a nickname: stupidity, incompetence, or evil. Savanna doesn’t strike me as stupid or incompetent, which of course makes her evil that much scarier. Give me a dumb bitch any day to take on.
His stare passes along the witches, his scrutiny causing them to straighten, and the gemstones fixed to their talismans to flicker in alternating colors. It’s a demonstration of their status and power. Cute. Gemini would tear them apart if they pulled any shit.
“Yes. We were given insight to her whereabouts. Sister Genevieve ordered her immediate capture.”
“Genevieve didn’t mention this last night,” he says.
My head swivels slowly his way. Last night . . .
Christie’s professional demeanor vanishes, reverting back to the personality she demonstrated when she’d told Bren to fuck of. She notices my reaction, and she likes it.
She smiles, apparently thrilled for being the one to inform me that her leader and my wolf were to together last night. “The location where she’s hiding were only disclosed to us in the early morning hours, following your departure,” she tells him, adding another kick to the stomach. “Our most Honorable and Superior Head Witch plans to discuss the hunt, along with other important matters during your scheduled breakfast time.”
Her words repeat in my head like a flock of woodpeckers punching their beaks into my skull. “In the early morning hours after you left”. “During your breakfast time”. How much time exactly does he spend here in Witchland?