Where Dad was concerned, Litha was beset by a little sadness. He said he liked living alone, but that didn’t preclude being lonely.
"Stay with me longer," he pleaded. "There is so much more I'd like to show you."
"Not more relatives."
"No. Not more relatives."
Litha sighed. She would never have expected to feel even a little bit torn. "The way you felt about Rosie, that's how I feel about Storm. I don't want to be away from him any longer. It doesn't mean I don't... that I haven't gotten a lot out of our time together. I just need to see him and try to make him love me."
The demon looked alternately shocked and mystified. "He doesn't love you?"
She sighed and looked out at the navy blue water of the lake. "I... think we were moving in that direction when I disappeared, but he's confused and not ready to admit anything. I'll never know what would have happened unless I go back."
An appropriately demonic and very wicked smile spread over Del's face. "Would you like me to persuade him?"
Litha suddenly stood up straighter as panic crossed her features. "No! I don't... you've got to promise me you'll never..."
He laughed as he threw himself into a soft, leather chair. "Just kidding. You have your own innate ability to enthrall. Combine my magnetic hotness with your mother's green eyes and red lips? There's not a dangler in any dimension who could resist."
"Dangler?"
He cupped his generous manhood with his right hand.
She gaped. "Ew! And once again let me say ew! Are we coming any closer to observing those ground rules for acceptable behavior we've talked about? Repeatedly?"
"What's the problem? I'm dressed."
Litha just stared at him thinking she wouldn't live long enough to bridge the cultural gap. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. "Well, you might be surprised how many danglers manage to ignore me altogether." She sat down across from him using purposefully graceful movements, having stopped just short of throwing herself into a leather chair exactly as her father had just done. Blood will tell. "I'm glad you think I'm attractive. So long as it's in a purely paternal way."
His smug look faded as the demon's face became smooth and serious. "I don't think you're attractive, Litha. I'm absolutely positive you're the most beautiful person in Loti Dimension. And I should know."
"Wow. Maybe having you for a dad isn't completely awe-full."
"I shall disown you if you ever twist a pun my way again."
"Disown me?" She laughed. "Wouldn't you have to own me first? Come on. Puns are classified as word humor and word humor is intellectual humor. Therefore, the highest form."
"My house. My rules." He shrugged with the practiced nonchalance of someone who had either been an acting parent for a long time or watched a lot of sitcoms. Litha thought his adaptability was really quite something - perhaps a survival trait, the result of a challenging evolution. "Anyway, I do like the name Storm. It's a good demon name."
Litha didn't have the heart to tell Deliverance that Storm's first name was Angel.
"His eyes are a lot like yours."
His interest sharpened. He was clearly enjoying the idea of that. "Well, then. Perhaps he is kindred to Abraxas demons. And perhaps that's why you are drawn to him."
A smattering of information paraded across her consciousness. Storm had demonstrated innate talent for magicks by nightwalking spontaneously, especially during the instance when he was able to direct the projection of himself. According to his file he was scary smart, considered by many to be the quintessential Black Swan hunter with a record that indicated a gift for "hunches". She couldn't help thinking how ironic it would be if The Order's proudest and best turned out to be part demon.
"You're no' responsible for that harebrained mutt. 'Tis Simon's problem." Ram argued when Elora insisted that she couldn't feel good about leaving with Harry's disposition unresolved.
"Technically you're right, but that doesn't change the fact that it feels like it would be wrong to just pick up and leave. I'm the one who told him we'd find him a new home. That sounds a lot like responsibility to me."
Ram softened. "You're always creatin' angst-driven, internal conflicts profoundin' the philosophies of honor and, normally, I admire you for it greatly. I truly do. But this time is different because Harry is just no' worth it."
Elora looked up. "You made a verb out of profound?"
She was wearing a filmy scoop neck nightie cut to just above the nipples as she sat on the side of the bed mulling over her husband's point of view. Without self-consciousness she appeared to be concentrating on nothing in particular in the direction of the floor in front of her feet. She heaved a big sigh that caused those barely disguised nipples to press against the see-through fabric.
"Oh, 'tis no' fightin' fair."
She looked up just in time to see Ram pull off the tee shirt he'd just put on and lunge at her.
Elora had been on the phone everyday as a volunteer in the search for a new home for Harefoot O'Moors. She had finally convinced the leader of the Elk Mountain Tribe in Idaho to consider taking him in exchange for a sizable donation to the Tribe's treasury by The Order. In some ways the idea of buying a home for Harry seemed distasteful, but Elora was willing to compromise idealism for practicality in this instance.
The timing couldn't have been better. The king was coming to Edinburgh to meet Harry and make a decision. Simon had sent a small charter to Coeur de Lane to pick him up and take him to Spokane where there was a large enough runway for one of The Order's company jets. If they could get this adoption wrapped up quickly, she could leave for Kay's wedding with a clear mind.
She was held up in a meeting with people from the Department of Science and the Department of Interspecies Relations who had been asking for a chance to question her about her experiences surrounding the journey and adjusting to life in a new world. They had started to piece together some information that might prove useful to the future of interdimensional travel.
It was not a "need to know" meeting. The little round table group was informal and they were happy to share what they knew or suspected. First, they had figured out that Elora's transport device must have been programmed to search out a delivery destination according to two priorities: the dimension had to have a counterpart to her Monq and there had to be an "Elora placeholder". In this case, it was a young version of herself who had died at age twelve from a case of pneumonia that didn't respond to treatment.
They were proceeding on the working assumption that only one life signature can exist in a single dimension at a time; therefore, the need for a "placeholder". But they were quick to add that the idea was theory in the popular sense of the word and not the true scientific sense.
She had stayed to listen to some of the brain storming about all the versions of ourselves in alternate dimensions, maybe hundreds, maybe thousands, sharing a bit of consciousness that is networked through dreaming; the idea being that some dreams are being simultaneously experienced in another reality by another version of ourselves.
The idea was being proposed that, if another very similar dimension - such as Elora's home world - was close to developing the means by which to slip dimensions, others probably already had the technology and still more would be following shortly. That would mean that, at some point in the future, there could be so many comings and goings as to guarantee chaos. It would be a boon to crime and bounty hunters as well. It could also be a worst nightmare scenario for a secret society whose mission was to keep humanity safe.
One of the biggest surprises for Elora was the fact that the person sitting at the head of the table was none other than her youthful dog sitter, Glendennon Catch. She knew he was doing an internship with the Edinburgh office of The Order, but had never asked exactly what they had him doing when he wasn't responsible for Blackie.
It seemed his ability to find patterns that were, in practical terms, invisible to others was being applied to the files of unsolved cases and to issues
of preparedness for what multi-dimensional travel might mean to the future of the organization. Elora noticed that, whenever anyone said anything, all the esteemed heads turned to see how Glen would react.
She looked at him like she'd never seen him before and it appeared that, in some ways, she hadn't. She gave him a look that said, "No. Way. Shut the fuck up!"
Joining the wordless dialogue, he gave her a little shrug and a boyish grin that she interpreted as, "I know! Right?"
Just as they started talking about the possible future need for a Department of Multi-Dimensional Anthropology, Biology, Psychology, and Linguistics, she looked at her watch and practically leaped from her chair. Offering quick apologies, she jogged to Simon's office and hoped the werewolf king had been delayed.
To her relief, she wasn't late at all. Simon put his phone away, but, as he rose to greet her his eyes moved to fix on something behind her. The werewolf king had arrived.
Elora turned to see a striking male striding toward them purposefully. He might have been younger than he looked. He had a deep tan and excessive time spent in the sun tends to age skin prematurely and deepen lines. He appeared to be, perhaps, mid thirties in human terms.
Everything about him looked hard and unmoving except for full, youthful lips and long, shiny, silky-looking hair. He wore a silver gray, business suit that matched the color of his eyes. It appeared to be an Italian fitted, silk and wool blend with just enough sheen to suggest expense without looking like gangster chic. The fact that it was three pieces made the incongruity even more intriguing.
His medium brown hair fell to his shoulder blades and, though at odds with the look of the suit, he had used a leather thong to catch it at the nape of his neck like a symbol implying, "Do not mistake for domesticated." That hair had the sheen of youth and vigor, naturally highlighted with sun streaks ranging in shades from lighter brown to blond. It was a look that high-end salons in fashion capitals had tried to recreate without success.
Elora was thinking, "Geez. And some people say my hair is pretty."
On the streets of Edinburgh he would draw attention for the depth of his suntan alone. Of course, there was plenty more to make him stand out from a crowd than just sun kissed skin.
The werewolf's pulchritude was not the least compromised by the gorgeous fall of hair. If anything, it offset and accentuated his blatant masculinity. He walked with the athletic grace of a wild animal, but also with the self-confidence of a man who had slept in a vat of testosterone. Since he had left his suit coat unbuttoned, the eye was naturally drawn to the fact that every stride pulled the pants fabric tight enough to accentuate that he was well endowed.
Elora gave herself an internal slap for letting her eyes wander toward his crotch. As soon as she realized she had done it, she jerked her gaze upward. Too late. Though his expression was passive, his eyes said, "Caught you looking."
It's not that she was interested. She was mated well and true. It's just that he was a commanding figure who was extraordinarily gifted in the department of male packaging.
"Stalkson Grey?' Simon asked.
The werewolf gave no response, but continued to stare at Elora. His expression, which was already hard and unyielding, seemed to be growing stonier with every second that passed.
Ram finally arrived with Harry. As they were approaching from behind Ram heard a low, almost inaudible, but unmistakable growl coming from Grey.
"Hey! 'Tis my mate you're bloody growlin' at!" When Ram's natural mate instincts roared to life, he forgot all about the fact that Elora was in a better position to take care of herself than any other humanoid on the planet. He started toward the wolf, but Harry grabbed him by the shoulder and spoke to Elora.
"Lady Laiken, the king is becomin' distressed by your refusal to look away." Harry kept a symbolically restraining hand on Ram's shoulder.
Elora did not take her eyes away from Grey, but her expression changed to uncertainty and her brows pulled down into a small frown. "What do you mean look away?"
"Kings do no' like to be looked in the eye for longer than a couple of seconds. They expect others to look away."
At that Elora did jerk her gaze toward Harry. She stared for a couple of beats and then laughed like it was a practical joke. "You're kidding, right?"
Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other out of nervous habit. Meanwhile, the visiting werewolf held the same unforgiving pose, but seemed just a little less menacing now that Elora's attention was focused elsewhere. "No ma'am. I'm no' kiddin'."
Elora pulled her chin back and gave Grey a look like he was a circus exhibit. "Why would he expect others to look away?"
Harry put his hands in his pockets and studied the carpet by his toes. He mumbled, "To establish dominance.”
"Beg your pardon?" Elora tried not to sound exasperated. "Harry, I can barely understand you even when you speak up. Say that again."
Harry looked up at Elora, but seemed embarrassed.
Simon interjected. "Some of the tribes uphold the old werewolf customs." To Grey he said, "Thank you for coming all this way, my lord. We are honored to have you and regret that our personnel have limited experience in the actual presence of lupans."
Grey still did not look away from Elora, who had resumed staring at the king of the Elk Mountain, Idaho reservation lupan tribe. Elora was indignant. Without looking away, she said to Simon, "You're apologizing for me because I'm not going to let some pretty boy wolf strut into Order headquarters and behave like a schoolyard bully?"
The corner of Grey's right eye twitched slightly when she said "pretty boy" and she noted, with a little satisfaction, that his eyes sparked right after the taunt. He was probably cursing himself for practically wincing, divulging weakness and his agitation was escalating again. Elora was reacting with hostility of her own keeping pace with the tightening spiral.
"And, furthermore," she said, "I don't really want Harry placed with someone whose self-importance depends on mindless demonstrations of tyranny."
Simon and Ram groaned simultaneously. Simon said, "Crap," pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger like he was developing a headache.
"'Tis fine ma'am," Harry found his voice and interjected. "I can adjust to a tribe that's a little old-fashioned. I will just be happy to be with others of my kind."
Elora looked at Harry like he'd grown an extra head. "Harry, you can't mean that you want to go with this..." She scrutinized the werewolf king by unapologetically looking him up and down. "...despot."
That pushed the werewolf to the end of his tether. He took a threatening step toward Elora and snarled so loudly she could hardly believe the sound came from a face that seemed so human. Acting purely out of reflex, before the wolf could even know she had moved, Elora had lifted him and slammed him onto his back. Relative to her capability she used great restraint, but a body slam is still a body slam. And it hurts.
He was initiating snarl phase of the domination ritual. Then, the next thing he knew he was on his back on the floor with no breath in his lungs with a woman on one knee holding him down. The impertinent female's hand pressed lightly, but with undeniable authority, around his neck, thumb threatening his carotid artery.
She didn't break anything. Thankfully. But the air had been forced from his body. He stared at her face in shock while he turned various shades of blue and purple waiting for lungs to wake up. Finally, he drew in a ragged breath and his color began to return to normal. After a few minutes he had refilled his lungs and was breathing normally again. He turned his head to the side to expose his neck.
When he did so, Harry hissed in a breath and turned away. "He has submitted to you. It's over."
Elora said to the werewolf who was currently on the floor and at her mercy, "Submitted huh. You'd better be bloody glad that I didn't give your snarly snout a firm tap with the heel of my hand or else you'd be returning to Moose River..."
Ram cut in. "...Elk Mountain."
"...yes, Elk Mountain,
with a broken pecker."
She released Grey and got to her feet. When she looked around, she realized that all the men were staring at her. "What?"
Ram cleared his throat. "Em, when you say 'pecker', would you by any chance be meanin' the werewolf’s nose?"
"Yes. Of course. What else would I mean?"
"Well, in this culture, pecker also refers to... em. Never mind. I'll be explainin' later on then." He gave her a small smile and a pointed look. "In private."
Everyone in the room was prepared for the werewolf king to rise and go storming away in a huff - a version of the-werewolf-has-left-the-building and taken Harry's chances for normalcy with him. Instead, he stayed where he was for a few more minutes and then began making noises indicating amusement. It started with a small chuff that turned into a chuckle and rose to the crescendo of a full out hardy laugh.
When Elora held her hand out to help him up, he took it. Once on his feet he looked back and forth between Simon and Elora.
"Seems I've grown complacent and arrogant in my expectation that everyone in my presence recognize my, apparently exaggerated, importance.
"I suppose I needed a reminder that I'm king of Elk Mountain. Not the world.
"Stalkson Grey." He said his name as he held out his hand to Simon. "I apologize for ignoring you earlier."
Simon shook his hand and nodded toward Elora. "This is Lady Laiken, knight of The Order of the Black Swan." Grey smiled and the redistribution of facial musculature altered his entire persona. He morphed into someone who looked relaxed, approachable, and definitely more handsome. "I believe the two of you have been communicating by telephone about the possible adoption of Harefoot O'Moors?"
Grey's face looked so completely different when he wasn't trying to force others to look away, a concept that would forever strike Elora as, well, stupid. Her feeling was that, if people could walk on two legs and hold a tea cup, shifter or not, they should be held to a certain standard of civility.
The Witch's Dream - A Paranormal Romance (The Order of the Black Swan, BOOK TWO) Page 23