Elves, I continued the denial process, are a little difficult. But if you can teach them to poop in the neighbor’s yard—the neighbor you don’t like—they’re not too bad. Unless there’s beer at your backyard bar-b-que.
Elves love beer. The greedy little buggers will swill any bottle they can wrap their knobby little fingers around. Flat-backed in the grass, they heft the bottom with curly-toed shoes, tipping the bottle dry. It’s a lie, but the mere suggestion snails might crawl into their bottle ensures guests secure them.
Ghosts? Ghosts make you pee yourself if they pop in unexpectedly, but a little sage, a little Holy Water laced with Latin, and they move on to the light. Of course, everyone else around you moves, too, only they tend to sidle. Away. Quickly.
A quick glance revealed he was close now. Palms suddenly damp, I resumed my dogged musings.
Of the larger, more solid things—him being the largest and most solid—like the sign in the yard says, “Please Don’t Feed the Loup Garou”. Necessary advice. The key to remember with Werewolves is they’re like raccoons and cats; feed them once and they hang around forever.
My shoulders slumped. My uncooperative subconscious kept sending my thoughts full circle, right back to him.
I gave up, pondering him deliberately.
He’d revealed himself during my fifteenth summer, the one I dubbed Summer of the Boobs. Mine, and what the boys turned into.
Returning from night fishing at the river, I struggled to carry the five gallon bucket half full of fish and water, my tackle box, rod and reel and old folding camp chair I liked to sit on. I was regretting Barry Morgan had been forced home early with a treble hook in his right butt cheek, but he’d tried to give me a lesson in unhooking my bra I didn’t need or appreciate and had to be taught manners.
I stepped in a grass camouflaged hole, stumbled and sloshed fishy water on my leg. My worn jeans now clung wetly from my thigh down. I set everything down to switch hands with the bucket handle, my left shoe squishing miserably with what the denim hadn’t soaked up. As I flexed my sore fingers, the thought maybe I should have waited to hook Barry after I got home crossed my mind a little too late.
Resituated, I prepared to start off again, determined not to step off into anything else.
There he stood, not twenty feet from me, in the middle of the rutted dirt road. And different, I knew, from anything I’d yet encountered.
It looked like a boy. A really good looking boy with high, wide cheekbones. One with mesmerizing eyes—Was that a luminescent flash?—and tantalizing smile. I’d never truly noticed a boy’s smile before. My heartbeat stumbled in reaction, disconcerting. It flustered me, as did the heated quiver, low down.
It dressed like a boy. If you like long-haired boys in all black, boots and fingerless leather gloves. It disturbed me I rather liked it a lot. In high school, hell, even through college, every other guy fell just that little bit short in the visual impact department, years of disappointment and disgruntled attitude his fault.
It sounded like a boy. I take that back. Great Aunt Margaret, the one mom hid the bottle from as soon as she’d had the second drink, had described it perfectly, about a half-hour after she’d found the bottle again.
Micah’d said a polite hello (yes, he followed me home like everything else), and she’d declared in that bourbon husked voice, “My God, Wren, that boy’s gotta voice like chocolate-dipped sin!” Followed him around begging him to “say something else” while drinking fast enough her bourbon on the rocks had no opportunity to become bourbon and water. She was right; Micah had entranced me with nothing more than that deep, rich, oh-so-seductive voice.
But no boy I ever met could move so fast my eye couldn’t follow. Unless Mom’s apple pie was involved. There was no pie the night I first met him. Just a summer full moon . . .
I frowned, remembering. He’d looked good, in that sexy dirty boy way, even back then. But it was nothing compared to his aura now. I frowned harder. Every other female in the place was noticing that invisible glow too. And clustering.
Around him. Slowing his forward movement. What happened to all that speed?
The third smile he winged to an admirer as he pushed his way through the crowd turned me to the bar, fuming for no reason I could name, signaling madly for a drink. Shades of Aunt Margaret, I needed fortification; the only way I’d survive failure to compete with all the femme fatales in attendance.
But why should I feel inferior? Education wise I was light years ahead of these snotty plastic Barbies. Twenty-three years old with a double degree. Biology.
And crypto zoology tossed in as an afterthought. Or self-defense; the jury was still out.
Yeah, right, I derided, morose. Smart is sooo sexy.
Snatching the squat glass as soon as the bartender set it in front of me, my lips latched onto the rim, sucking it dry as a sinking shrimp boat’s hold after the Coast Guard helicopter dropped a Jabsco pump aboard.
The bartender quirked a questioning brow. I dabbed a finger to the corner of my mouth before pointing out I’d asked for whiskey, straight up, ice water on the side.
“Ruins them both if you mix them together,” I explained, rattling the dry cubes in my glass, other hand stirring a finger in an invisible air drink.
His second brow went up. But he dug under the bar, setting a clean shot glass in front of me. Noting the white-knuckled grip of the hand I’d drop to the bar edge, he swapped it for a larger glass without prompting.
Tumbler of amber fluid almost to my lips, I jumped as a hand slipped under my hair and warm fingers circled the back of my neck. I bobbled the drink, and Canada’s best rained on the bar. I set it down before I lost my grip completely.
“Still spilling things?” an amused voice murmured near my ear. Familiar, but somehow deeper. Older. Experienced . . . unlike me. My eyes closed on a shiver of yearning. Oh, yes, chocolate dipped sin.
“I was jostled,” I flared. It sounded so prickly my lips should have bled as the lie fell from my mouth. I braced myself. Dared a side-eyed peek at him.
He looked the same, yet different. How was that possible? God, he was hot in more ways than one. My heart pounded, flushing blood to the surface of my skin, making it ultra sensitive to the body heat he exuded. And the palm he smoothed up and down my arm.
He was so large he loomed, the heat and hardness of him crowding me from behind. Something that generally made me nervous with a guy. But with him I felt enveloped, protected. Ridiculous since I knew nothing about him.
I couldn’t explain it, not even to myself. But his strong fingers moved in a gentle massage on my tense nape and I relaxed against my will.
I needed to stay on guard, I reminded myself, casually work up to the questions eating at me for so long.
“Why are you here?” I blurted, instead. He studied me a moment before answering.
“Because it’s time. Finally,” he tacked on. Vehemence roughened the word so my heart stuttered anew. Made a girl wonder, was he as affected as she was?
His hand slid from my nape to toy with individual curls spilling forward over my shoulder and I missed the warmth. He wrapped their length around his fist, seeming fascinated by the texture as he rubbed the strands between the pad of his thumb and curled knuckles.
Using his grip on my hair for leverage, he forced my face up, locking his heated gaze to mine. The sheer dominance in the gesture dropped the bottom from my stomach, weakened my knees. His other hand settled on my hip, fingers biting possessively as he drew me back against his body.
His warmed male scent surrounded me, flooded my nostrils so I couldn’t help myself: I inhaled deeply. The heated spice of him, erotic, quickened something deep inside. He leaned down and I rose to my toes anticipating his kiss.
Only he stopped, his breath a sweet allure, the barest millimeter separating our lips.
“Been kissed much?” His words teased little puffs of air against my need-sensitized lips, and I knew true frustration.
Robb
ed of the ability of speech at the mere possibility of a kiss from those firm curving lips of his, my breathing grew erratic. I needed the press of his mouth to mine. Feeling a little desperate my hands lifted, wrapping themselves of their own volition in the front of his open jacket to keep him close. The negative shake of my head was a bit jerky.
“Good.” His mouth curved in a slow, sure smile; so close I could feel the changing tension in the skin of his lips.
“Except Barry,” the taunt slipped my guard, his arrogance begging a poke.
His body stiffened a moment. Then he relaxed, drawling, “Yeah, one date and he was hooked.”
I grinned. I couldn’t help it.
“What about the guy claiming he burned for you?” Was that bite lacing his words jealousy?
I shrugged. “One of your buddies flambéed his sleeve. He had to go home. Alone.” I frowned. Had he just muttered, “Saved his damned life” under his breath?
“And the Camaro guy?” he prodded. My heart sang! It was jealousy!
“I liked the car,” I replied, straight-faced.
“You like fast?” I nodded. He adjusted my position, draping me along his muscular body. “Dangerous?” His breath fell on my neck. Goose bumps crawled up my arms. Flames shot through me as his teeth threatened the tender skin of my throat.
Didn’t know if my “God, yes” was in response to his question or heat flaring through me.
He pulled slightly back. Studied my bemused expression. “My bike’s outside,” he tempted. “Fast. Dangerous.” His tongue stroking my throat separated the last words.
“Like its owner?” I gasped, lost in sensation. He grinned, strong white teeth, canines just that bit lengthened.
“Do you even know who I am?” It was important to me.
“Since the first time I saw you at the river,” he avowed. “Barefoot, bathed in moonlight, one with the night. Like me.” Gripping my hands, he talked, moving backwards.
I looked around, startled. He’d tugged me out the door, clear to his monster of a motorcycle. He bundled me in his jacket then swung a long leg over, sliding forward to pat the leather seat behind him. I hesitated.
“Who am I?” I insisted, sounding desperate.
Strong hands cupped my face. His single word answer rumbled from deep in his chest, a sincere possessive growl.
“Mine.”
His kiss finally came, his mouth and thrusting tongue wild with carnal promise. He broke away, hand shaking as he dragged my leg over the back of the bike. Unusually daring I opened my blouse, scooted close. Lifting his shirttail, I felt him jerk, “Wren!” hissed, his skin twitching as I settled my breasts against his muscled back.
“Damn, woman. You’re killing me,” he grated, hoisting the heavy bike upright like it was nothing, heeling the kick-stand up.
“That’s what you get for making me wait!”
He twisted around, expression incredulous. “I waited for you. Until I just couldn’t stand being alone any longer.”
We stared at each other.
“Don’t you know how to start this thing?” My prompt carried an edge.
He turned around, kicked the bike to life. My arms wrapped tight around his waist as we roared out the parking lot. Cool night wind ruffling our hair, the bike rumbled like a beast beneath us.
But it couldn’t match the rumble I felt filling the beast clasped in my arms.
My beast. Claiming me at last.
Eternally Yours
by Christine McKay
The first time I died was around the time of the Great Plague. My dear mother had neglected to tell me that I technically couldn’t die; she’d pledged her unborn child’s soul to a demon in exchange for a man’s heart. The man was not my father. He died within a year of her winning his attention. His death left her a rich but bitter widow.
Money did not spare either of us from the plague.
At age five the mere sight of the aforementioned demon caused me to wet myself. Talk about monsters lurking beneath a child’s bed… Mine had blood-stained teeth, claws like scythe blades, and unblinking white pupil-less eyes which prized a person’s most hidden desires from his or her soul. A child has many petty wants; the demon exploited all of mine.
As an adult, the mere thought of the demon’s impending arrival was enough to send my innards into a twisting, grimacing vat of --well, you get the picture. Luckily, my Mother Superior’s spine was buttressed with knight’s steel. Of course she still had her soul. And presumably, God, the choirs of angels, and all the saints at her back. I’d be a little more bold if I had an army such as that.
Ah yes, the only reprieve I found from the demon’s attentions lay in seeking sanctuary on holy ground. He could still torture me and often he did, just to show me he still possessed the power to do so. But he couldn’t bend me to his will. I was no longer his tool. As you can imagine, this angered him.
Only Mother Superior and my confessor knew my “sin”. I thought of my mother’s sin as my own, though both Mother and my confessor told me otherwise. Lord only knew what the other sisters thought when I retreated to my cell, locked in by Mother Superior until the danger passed. My life was not how I imagined it, but I was relatively safe, from myself and others. I had not chosen a life of obedience, celibacy and poverty, but circumstances forced such unspoken vows upon me. What little of the cursed money I still retained from my mother, I spent upon books and manuscripts and learning, until our little library outshone all the nearby monasteries.
In hindsight, this luxury was my downfall.
Books drew monks like trumpet vine drew hummingbirds. Only the monks were not nearly as colorful or high-active as the birds, though their sermons were considerably more entertaining than our ancient priest’s. And he was only too happy to relinquish that particular duty to the monks.
Brother Henryk was a particular favorite of the sisters. With his dark good looks, serious manner, and smooth voice, not a single sister missed services when he preached. I admit, I was also ensnared, but it was his ministrations the night I fell ill that opened my heart to him.
Tomorrow we’d celebrate All Saints Day, but before us lay an all night vigil which was spent in prayer for the souls of the lost (ahem, myself) and the departed. At evening services, Brother Henryk lectured us on the pagan background of this holy day, a fascinating history I’d never heard mentioned from the pulpit. I turned my missal’s page and noticed I left a fingerprint smudge of blood upon the parchment. Snapping the book shut, I immediately rose and exited the pew. The sisters, enraptured by Brother Henryk’s speech or used to my disturbances, ignored me. Behind me, I heard the shuffle of Mother Superior’s coarse robes. Brother Henryk paused and looked right at me. I swear his dark gaze peered into my soul-less cavity and knew my sin. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed, and fled.
Mother Superior and I did not speak in the hallway. Our movements were rote, governed by actions of the past. I sometimes wondered why she bothered to try to save me, but I was afraid to ask. Frankly, I feared everything: her condemnation, being turned out of the convent, myself, and of course, the demon and his plans for me.
I entered my cell and lay down on my cot. Mother Superior dropped to her knees, praying while she fished the thick chain from beneath my bed and wrapped my limbs. Some of the links were warped, evidence of previous battles. The locks sealed me to my bed and my fate with reassuring clicks. Mother wiped my brow with a damp cloth and came away with blood. She hesitated. Bless her. Bless her ten thousand times.
“Go,” I begged. My back arched off the bed. I swallowed a scream. Inside my head, I heard the demon laugh. “Quickly!”
She placed a stick between my teeth, then bound my mouth with a strip of cloth. It wouldn’t do for the sisters or God forbid, the monks, to hear me curse. The cot’s frame groaned as my limbs twisted, testing the wood and metal’s strength, always testing. My hearing sharpened, my senses no longer my own. I heard the bolt slide into place, the metal key turn the lock, Mother’s fading foot
steps, the swish of her skirts, the clatter of her rosary beads, even the whisper of her hurried prayers.
Tonight was different. Tonight foreign metal played with the lock tumblers and clicked. The bolt slid open. I shouted a muffled warning. Something in the bed’s frame cracked, just before I dislocated my shoulder. The pain swept through me, wringing tears and a gagged sob.
Brother Henryk slipped into my room. He said not a word, but proceeded to lay white candles in a circle around my bed. These he lit with a snap of his finger and a whispered word. My eyes widened. The demon’s voice hissed in my head.
Pulling a chair beside my cot, he undid the gag and removed the piece of wood from my mouth.
“Fool! Leave now.”
“Be at peace. You are why I came,” he murmured. Pulling an ointment jar from beneath his robe, he unscrewed the cap, dipped his finger into the stuff, and proceeded to draw strange symbols on my bared arms. He sketched a star on one palm, a sliver of moon on the other. The ointment tingled and smelled of herbs.
“What are you doing?”
“Protecting you.”
“It’s a little late for that.”
“Haven’t you been listening to my sermons?” His hair, ridiculously long for a monk and only passable perhaps for a knight returning from the Crusades, shadowed his face as he worked.
“Of course,” I snapped. I tried to think, but pain robbed me of reason. When I recovered my breath, he mopped my brow with the same rag Mother had.
“I had not realized how bad it was.”
“You’re as much a monk as I am a nun.” My voice deepened, the words twisting with an accent I didn’t normally possess.
“You are Cristiana.” He placed his hand over my heart.
I arched my back and screamed a string of obscenities which made my cheeks flush even though I couldn’t control myself. He covered my mouth with his hand. I bit into his palm.
“Blood to blood, “ he murmured. “I call on the Guardian to the East. Hold fast the gate.” The candles surrounding us guttered, then flared, thin flames kissing the ceiling like sabers from exotic lands I’d only read about.
Just One Bite Volume 3 Page 6