Only Lycans Need Apply

by Michele Bardsley

  With a swift grace, the man crossed the distance between them and stabbed my mother.

  “Nooooo!” I yelled, and then I bounded out of the doorway. My mother held on to her side.

  “Run, babe,” she cried. “Run!”

  The man turned his feverish gaze on me. “Don’t worry. Ssshh. I’m your daddy. You’re mine. My little unicorn.”

  “You are not my daddy!” I screamed.

  He moved toward me, the knife quivering. My mother, wounded and bleeding, somehow found the strength to throw herself on her attacker. They wrestled for the knife. A father’s insanity could not trump a mother’s fierce love. She managed to wrest the knife from him, and with a furious cry, she dragged the blade across his throat.

  He grabbed at the wound and sank to his knees, falling onto his side as he gurgled, his life ebbing away as his blood spilled across the floor.

  My mother stumbled toward me. “Go, Moira. To your grandfather. Remember where his office is?”

  I nodded. But I didn’t want to leave her.

  She whispered, “I love you.” She swayed, the knife tumbling out of her hand as she fell to her knees. “Love is worth sacrifice,” she said. “Remember that, Moira. Remember. And be worthy, my darling.”

  She slid to the floor, lying down as though she was merely trying to take a nap.

  I watched, both apart and within, as the little girl stood for a moment, tears falling as she saw her mother die.

  • • •

  I came to in my body, swaying, trembling, blinded. It took me a moment to realize that I had solid ground under my feet and for my eyesight to adjust. I couldn’t quite get my breath back, either. I was being suffocated by grief on so many levels. I felt betrayed. They’d kept the truth from me. The memory I had about Ruadan and my grandfather’s conversation made more sense. My grandmother passed away just a couple of months before my mother had been killed. I didn’t remember much about my grandmother. My mother had been my world—a world shattered because some goddamned man claiming to be my father shoved a knife into her. Why would Grandfather keep that blade?

  I heard the whoosh mere seconds before the blue-flamed torches lighted. The chamber was much smaller than the previous room. I stood between two beautifully decorated sarcophagi. It was as though this king and queen had been put to rest just a minute ago, so spectacular was the craftsmanship and painted imagery.

  Even though I was no doubt moments away from being the first meal of two Ancient vampires, I couldn’t help but marvel at the burial chamber. The torches reflected obsidian walls that held no decorations. Shamhat and Amahté had not included their death journeys because, technically, they didn’t go on any.

  I was stunned by the idea that I would soon witness an actual ancient Egyptian arise from his coffin. I almost wished Dove was here. She was the only one who could enjoy this situation in the same way I did. Well, except she’d probably hyperventilate before she experienced any giddiness because she really did hate enclosed spaces.

  Blue and green magic appeared over the sarcophagi, looping over the lids in sparkling ribbons. The lids trembled and slowly, creepily, slid forward until the heavy painted stones thudded to the stone floor. The magic dove inside, and I heard rustling noises.

  I couldn’t move. Whatever had dragged me into this place hadn’t exactly let go. It was as if I’d been cemented to the floor. All I could do was watch . . . and wait.

  Most sarcophagi had interior coffins, making the discovery of royal mummies like opening up a morgue version of nesting dolls. But these didn’t seem to have that feature. I knew that because two wizened forms sat up, and both turned to look at me at the same time.

  I screamed.

  The vampires didn’t seem to mind.

  It wasn’t like the Mummy movies at all. They weren’t decrepit, eyeless, dirty-bandage-wrapped corpses. They looked human-ish, just really starved and horribly gaunt. Both had caramel skin, and both of their gazes were pinpoints of red. They were dressed in fine linens that looked as though they had just donned them. Amahté’s hair was shorn, but Shamhat’s was brown and gold and fell in waves to her waist.

  If I hadn’t been glued in place, I might have collapsed. Instead, my legs trembled violently. Oh, I wanted to run. It was a natural compunction because the undead were currently creeping out of their coffins.

  They didn’t say anything, but their gazes were riveted on me. The only noises were my heavy breathing, and the whispering sounds of the corpses climbing out of the sarcophagi. I wasn’t exactly sure what to do . . . or what to expect.

  Shamhat got to me first. Her bony fingers gripped my shoulder, her fetid breath rolling across my face. Fear tumbled through me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t run. Screaming wasn’t doing much for me, so I stopped wasting my breath. My breathing was so shallow that I was barely getting air into my lungs. And I was fairly sure my heart would explode any second. Sweat rolled down my spine, my neck, my temples.

  I had chosen this moment.

  Destiny.

  Fate.

  Choice.

  All intertwined . . . and it was okay, I realized. It was . . . what I wanted. What I needed to do.

  And I couldn’t exactly change my mind now.

  Shamhat waited for him, for her husband.

  Even though fear fogged my mind, clouded my lungs, liquefied my knees, a small part of my brain wondered about a love for all time. Shamhat and Amahté were truly a love for the ages. He had gone to the Underworld to save her soul. And chosen to lie with her, buried and undiscovered for three millennia, because his life was not worthwhile without her in it.

  And I wanted to believe that kind of love was real.

  What was I thinking? Two vampires were getting ready to reconstitute their forms by feasting on mine. I was promised ambrosia, but I realized now that it was a pipe dream.

  My death had arrived.

  The truth was . . . in this moment . . . this moment when Amahté grasped my waist . . . and showed his fangs . . . this moment when two mates rejoined . . . this awful, beautiful moment when my flesh was pierced . . . my blood eagerly imbibed . . . I wished for so much more. Drake filled my thoughts. We’d had little time to know each other. But I suspected he would’ve been the one for me.

  Love.

  Sacrifice.

  Always.

  Chapter 23

  “Are those stories of Dean and Sam Winchester truly a historical account of humans who track and kill paranormal creatures? Is that the purpose of the television? To show what other people are doing?” The fluid female voice held fascination and concern. “I do not blame them for killing the wendigo, but I do not agree with killing werewolves. I’ve always liked werewolves.”

  Me, too. My mind felt mushy, like someone had put my brain in a blender and hit PUREE. I heard the word, tried to process the question, and somewhere there was an answer. My response, however, came out as “Oooooouch!”

  “I do not think that is an appropriate response. Do you suppose I am speaking this new language incorrectly?”

  “No, dear. I think the poor girl is trying to wake up.” I felt a poke on my shoulder. “Are you alive?”

  My eyes fluttered open, and I stared up at two really gorgeous people. They looked rather worried.

  “We learned your language through imprinting with your memories,” said the beautiful woman. “And we learned about the world as it exists now. I would like a car. I think it would be far more fun than a chariot.”

  “You drove chariots very well.”

  “Thank you.” She leaned over me, her curtain of silky hair falling across my face, and kissed the man.

  Shamhat. Amahté.

  Holy shit. I was alive.

  “Did I drink the ambrosia?” I asked. Panic consumed me. Dove needed it. And I was alive, and I really shouldn’t be.

  “Why on earth would you need ambrosia?” asked Shamhat. “You’re a . . .” She frowned, looked at Amahté, offered a word I didn’t recognize.

>   He looked at me, smiling. “Unicorn.”

  I laughed. It came out more like a rusted croak, but I couldn’t stop. “Unicorns aren’t real.” But they were, weren’t they? What a silly statement to make. I sat up, and I honestly didn’t feel too bad. “Where’s Drake?”

  “What’s a Drake?” asked Shamhat. “Is it a car?”

  “No, he’s a werewolf. He was in the other room.”

  “Oh,” said Amahté. “That explains all the howling and banging.” He lifted a hand, and the wall disappeared.

  A very pissed-off Drake, who apparently had forgotten to get dressed, marched into the space looking as though he might kill something with his bare hands. “Moira!”

  “You’re naked,” I pointed out.

  “See? That’s why I like werewolves so much.” Shamhat sent a sly glance to Amahté, but he only gave her an affectionate look and then tweaked her nose. She giggled.

  I hadn’t expected an Ancient vampire to giggle.

  “I think her mate would like to see her,” said Amahté. They moved aside, and Drake, still very much naked, dropped to his knees and scooped me into his arms.

  “Are you all right?” he growled. (No, really. He did.)

  “I’m alive.” I know I was echoing this sentiment a lot, but . . . hey, alive, all right?

  He crushed me into his embrace and kissed the ever-living hell out of me. Oh, my God. Being alive was so, so awesome.

  “Never sacrifice yourself again,” he demanded. “Do you understand me?”

  Then he kissed me again.

  “I didn’t know werewolves could mate with unicorns,” said Shamhat. “The world truly is a different place.”

  Drake turned an incredulous gaze to the woman, who offered him a radiant smile, and then he frowned down at me. “Unicorns are extinct.”

  “Extinct? As in, they really lived?” I asked. But I knew, didn’t I? It was why my mother had died. To protect me. And protecting me was protecting our secret, too. My heritage.

  “Only a unicorn could open the pyramid and survive it,” said Shamhat. “So, no, unicorns are not extinct.”

  Drake stared at me.

  “Why are unicorns extinct-ish?” I asked.

  “Unicorn blood and horns were coveted by humans and paranormals alike. The horns were used to make weapons and other objects because of their mystical properties. And a unicorn’s blood can heal anyone of anything.” A gruesome kind of worry entered his gaze. Uh-oh. That wasn’t good.

  “And unicorn horn can kill anything,” said Shamhat. “Even an immortal. And that’s also the only way to kill a unicorn.”

  My mind flashed to the memory that was embedded in my soul like a poisoned thorn. The white blade with the beaten copper hilt. Unicorn horn. The only way to kill my mother . . . and the only way to kill me?

  “Moira?”

  “Still alive,” I said. “And not crazy. Well, not crazier. I think.” I glanced down and got a gander at his penis. “I really think you should get dressed.” Shamhat was ogling his backside, and while Amahté thought that was all cute and shit, I did not.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “We should get back to Broken Heart.”

  I realized then that he hadn’t been around for Patsy’s visitation. I explained the situation as quickly as I could, and Drake was up and out of the chamber even before the last word echoed off the walls. He returned less than a minute later fully dressed. Well, he hadn’t donned the shirt. Wow, that man had some abs. He eyed the Ancients. “How do we get out of here?”

  “Wait,” I said. “Where’s the ambrosia?”

  Shamhat and Amahté looked at each other. After a moment, Amahté nodded. “It is in another location,” he offered. “We’ll tell you how to get it. It will be your reward, Moira.”

  I stared at them. “Wait a sec. No ambrosia?”

  The vampiric couple actually looked abashed.

  “Ruadan and I created this place from magic—with the help of one of your unicorn ancestors,” said Amahté. He took his wife’s hand and drew her into his embrace. “We had not intended to stay asleep for so long.”

  “You’ve been lost to us,” said Drake. “The vampires have been searching for you for a while.”

  Amahté nodded. “The only way to awaken us was through the blood of one such as Moira. It was necessary to create those protections with that magic so that no one else could enter.”

  “So only unicorn blood would’ve worked,” I said. “That’s why my grandfather was hunting for your temple. Because he was the one who was supposed to open it.”

  “Unicorns are female,” said Shamhat. “Your blood must be from your grandmother’s side.”

  I wasn’t buying that I was a unicorn. Come on! I’d accepted so much about this world already, but I couldn’t wrap my brain around the idea that I was like that innocent, tragic figure from The Last Unicorn. No, I wasn’t that girl who tried to find her destiny, only to find love . . . and to know eternal regret.

  “So what was the deal with the sex magic, then?” I asked.

  “That’s why only two could enter the pyramid,” said Amahté. “Sex magic is very, very strong. And it was that essence, along with your blood, that we needed to revive.”

  “And what was the deal with the scorpion?” I asked.

  “The scorpion was meant to protect us if something went wrong in the final chamber.” Amahté offered an apologetic smile. “Oops.”

  “Oops?” I said. “Really?”

  “We need to go,” said Drake. “We do not know if Broken Heart has fallen to Karn.”

  “What’s a Karn?” asked Shamhat.

  “He’s an asshole,” I said. “A big one.”

  “Sounds unpleasant,” she said, wrinkling her pert nose.

  That was the understatement of the century. Drake helped me to my feet, and we looked at the Ancients.

  “Do we walk?” asked Drake.

  “Let us use alternative transportation,” said Amahté. He swept me into his arms, and Shamhat did the same to Drake.

  “I’d rather walk,” I said. “No. Really. Don’t—”

  Once again I found myself imploding—like a window shattered by a brick.

  Fucking vampires.

  • • •

  We arrived outside the pyramid, and I was so dizzy I had to hold on to Amahté for a full minute until the world stopped spinning.

  “I hate that,” I said as I stumbled out of Amahté’s arms. “Thanks.”

  “You are welcome. I think.”

  “Traveling that way is wonderful fun,” enthused Shamhat. “You can go anywhere in the blink of an eye!”

  Drake studied me, frowning. “Are you all right? You look a little green.”

  “Well, I’m still breathing, so I can’t complain.”

  He nodded. He was all business, his expression serious and his body tense. Warrior vibes rolled off him.

  Behind him, the pyramid gleamed white against the night sky. And then it slowly faded, like a memory, like a dream. It was as if it had never existed, and part of me regretted its disappearance.

  “Can we get Dove now?” I asked.

  “Drake!”

  Across the field, several people hurried toward us. Gabriel and Ren I recognized right away, and then I realized I recognized some of others as well. There were Jessica and Patrick from my desert memories. There was also a blond man who carried himself like military. And then there was Larsa. She looked exactly the same as she had in my vision.

  “Mother!” Larsa broke free of the group.

  “Larsa!” Shamhat enveloped her daughter in her embrace, and they shared a sweet moment of reconnection.

  “It’s so nice to see you,” said Larsa, pulling away, seemingly caught between embarrassment about this show of affection and happiness that she was no longer orphaned. I had a moment of envy. What would it be like if my mother suddenly showed up after so long? Regret was a terrible ache in my chest.

  “It is good that you lived,” said Shamhat. The
n she pulled her daughter in for another hug and made a sobbing sound, even though no tears fell. One of Theodora Monroe’s factoids came to mind—vampires couldn’t cry.

  Drake had joined the others, and they were having an animated discussion. While Shamhat and Larsa continued their reunion, Amahté and I walked to the group.

  Everyone quieted all at once, and their gazes slid away from me.

  “What?” I asked. My heart started to pound, and foreboding dropped like a cold, wet stone into my stomach.

  “We managed to rout them,” said Gabriel. “We killed all but three.”

  “Karn got away again, didn’t he?” I asked.

  “Him and two others,” confirmed the blond man. He offered me a grim smile. “I’m Braddock Hayes. I head up security for Broken Heart.”

  I nodded toward him, and waited for the bomb to drop.

  “They have my wife,” said Gabriel. “And Dove.”

  “Did Patsy visit you, too?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Gabriel. “I’m sorry. Your friend is . . .” The look of empathy on his face made my stomach roil.

  “She’s really bad off,” offered Jessica. “But still breathing.” She sent Gabriel a testy look. “Don’t be a Negative Nelly, Gabe.”

  “Don’t call me Gabe,” he muttered.

  “What’s the negotiating point?” I asked.

  “The ambrosia,” said Gabriel. “Do you have it?”

  I had a feeling that if I had the ambrosia in my possession, he would’ve taken it and popped off to wherever to get his wife. I understood his anxiety. His pregnant mate was chained up and at the mercy of a vampire who had no soul and no conscience. But Patsy was a paranormal being. She was strong. She would survive.

  Dove would not.

  “The ambrosia is elsewhere,” said Amahté. “We have released our claim on it and gifted it to Moira. Now she’s the only one who can retrieve it.”

  “Your claim?” I asked.

  “Ambrosia can only be gifted by the gods—but the people who receive the precious substance can also give it another,” said Amahté. He looked apologetic. “The ambrosia was a backup for our revival. In case the unicorn blood was not enough.”