by C. A. Storm
When Rik's phone buzzed again, he shoved it against his chest with a muffled grunt, glancing over to see if it had bothered Sam. She had rolled over to her back, one arm crooked over her eyes while the other was curled over her stomach. The damned sheets were still covering her. Lucky bastard sheets.
Carefully edging out of the bed, Rik pulled on his jeans and quietly padded over to the window. Coming face-to-face with the large, white wolf seated in a chair and staring at him with blue eyes glinting in the darkness, Rik cursed and instinctively called forth his power. When his energy surged, becoming visible and coalescing in his right hand to form a long, narrow blade, the golden light reflected from glassy blue eyes. A fucking stuffed animal. Sam had a life-sized white wolf plushie. In her room. And it was looking at him with pity.
Rik released his grip on his glamour with a huff. Note to self. Find out why Sam has a wolf, of all things, in her room.
Patting the thing on the head, Rik whispered softly, "Good boy. Stay."
Turning his body to shield the light from his phone, Rik eyed the screen. It was a text from his grandfather.
Réveille-toi, Garçon! Your mémé missed you. Join us for café downstairs.
Yes, it was totally a command and not a request, and unsurprising, thanks to Clay's warning. Even if they had arrived late last night, they were both early risers, and though their private residence was a distance away from the Château, weather permitting and family in residence, they often met here. Quickly, Rik tapped a message back, Be down in 15.
Padding barefoot back over to his sleeping beauty, Rik gazed down at her and felt his heart flutter. The faintest of snores escaped her, and with her tumble of hair in disarray around her, she looked soft and cuddly and inviting. When she rolled over away from him, revealing the curve of her back, Rik groaned under his breath as the sheet slithered down to reveal that dimpled flesh at the base of her spine.
Rejoining her in bed was a bad idea. Right? Right! He'd never leave, and he wouldn't put it past either Clay or his grandparents tracking him down. And that would be a very bad thing. He wasn't quite ready to inflict any of them on an unsuspecting Samantha.
Absently rubbing the left side of his chest, fingers unconsciously tracing over the still incomplete markings, Rik leaned to kiss her cheek.
"Whazzit?" Sam mumbled groggily, lifting a hand to flail limply at him as she mumbled into the pillow, "G'way. No mas. Sleep. Precious."
Rik buried his grin in her hair. "Sorry, baby, I've got to run. Sleep, love."
Once more, Sam batted him away. A light slap landed on his cheek as she pushed his head away. "G'way!"
Laughing, Rik stood up. "Love you." He froze. He'd never said those words to anyone not blood related to him. Ever. He didn't know they were actually in his vocabulary. His entire body trembled as the air in the room stilled, a torturous silence settling over him.
"Love you, too," Sam responded before she yanked the blankets up over her head and burrowed beneath them.
The air whooshed back into Rik's lungs, a huge grin settling on his face. He knew it shouldn't really count, not officially, but damned if her words didn't unerringly strike his heart and get it to beating properly once more.
Resisting the urge to whistle jauntily, Rik quickly—and quiet as a child up to no good—tossed on his shirt, not bothering to button it up. Putting his Stetson back on and tucking his boots beneath his arm, he tiptoed out of her room and surrounded himself with a shrouding glamour as he headed back to his room for a quick shower and a change of clothes.
Dressed comfortably in an old pair of jeans, an equally worn Colorado Rockies sweatshirt, and a pair of broken in Converse, Rik joined his grandparents in the restaurant. Both were enjoying a cup of coffee with some of Bertie's pastries, and were cloaked in their Mortal façades.
Jean-Paul "Leonore D'Arc" Leon resembled a fit and hearty man in his early sixties, with a weathered, sun-beaten face and hair mostly gone white, with a few black streaks in his short hair and his carefully tended beard. His dark eyes were bright, and he was dressed casually—for him, anyways—in a pair of gray slacks and a pale blue button-up shirt, over which he wore a dark, charcoal gray vest. Casual, Old World elegance, until one got to the silver-tipped black cowboy boots and the Stetson. Beneath the façade, Jean-Paul looked much the same, although his face was unlined and his hair was quicksilver and obsidian, with eyes of black onyx.
Like her husband, Judith's façade gave the impression of a woman aging gracefully. Her long, wavy hair hung loosely down her back, a cascade of white and palest golds. Her eyes were a vivid jade, and she had picked up wearing a pair of spectacles, complete with a chain of silver around her neck. She wore a flowing blouse in a shimmering indigo, printed with large, white lilies, over a pair of white jeans tucked into a pair of calfskin boots. Bracelets, oh so many bracelets, adorned both arms, jingling with every grand gesture she made with her expressive hands. In her true guise, her skin was a flawless ivory, her hair liquid moonlight dancing with threads of sunlit gold, and those eyes glowed with a subtle radiance.
All Sidhe aged. All living things age. Only the true Tuatha and those known as the gods were immortal, and even they could be killed—although it was not easy, and with their ties to the very essence of the world, could have devastating consequences. Like most supernaturals, however, they aged incredibly slowly—only the Vampires could truly boast a lifespan as long as the Sidhe and Fae, whose lives were measured in centuries, aging at about a tenth the rate as Mortals did. The only difference was that most Vampires were made, not born, and were frozen at the age they had been turned. Trueborn Vampires were incredibly rare.
Approaching his grandparents, Rik leaned down to give both a kiss on the cheeks. "Grand-père, Mémé, good morning and welcome home."
Jean-Paul waved his tablet between Rik and an empty chair, inviting him to sit as he gave his grandson a small, knowing grin. "Désolé, mon vilain, to drag you from bed so early," Jean-Paul's deep voice was a strange mix of Old World French and more modern Midwestern drawl, much like the man himself. While Rik had been born here, it was from both his parents and grandparents he had picked up many of his own little quirks.
Pouring him a cup of coffee from the pot on the table, Judith gave him a sympathetic smile. "There, there, don't pout. Drink your coffee, dear." Unlike Jean-Paul, Judith's accent was pure Anglo-Saxon, clipped and precise, with just a hint of the French she had picked up from her husband in the 900 years they had been together. He had swept in as a young knight in service to the Sidhe who had allied with William the Conqueror and the Normans, and stole her away from the Anglo-Saxon Court. They had been together ever since.
Being his beloved grandparents, and knowing him as well as they did, they of course waited until Rik took a sip of his coffee before springing the trap.
"Forgive us for tearing you away from your anam cara," Judith said smoothly as she stirred some sugar into her own fresh cup, "But we thought the poor girl could use some rest if she's a Mortal."
Oh yeah, Rik thought ruefully as he grabbed a linen napkin to mop up the coffee he had choked on. I fell straight into that one.
Clearing his throat, feeling an unfamiliar flush creeping up his neck, Rik glanced helplessly between his smiling grandmother and his smirking grandfather, who treated him to a raised brow and a pointed look. "Uh, yeah...she's Mortal."
"What's her name?" Judith gently prodded.
"Sam," Rik muttered, then gave his grandfather a glare. "Samantha Kelly."
"Oh? Très bon!" Jean-Paul boomed, his face splitting in a massive grin as he reached over and pounded Rik's shoulder in congratulations. "I had a feeling! I'm familiar with her family, which is why when I heard about her situation, I thought I should bring her out here!" Jean-Paul's brow furrowed slightly, "But, she's not..."
"Grand-pèrè, the problem is that Audrick wants us to hire someone else for the Landsmaster position," Rik interrupted with a frustrated growl.
"That old dragon?" Jean-Paul's scowl m
atched Rik's own, then he gave an expressive shrug, "Et alors! Hire Audrick's man. If she is your cara, then she will be mistress here eventually anyway, n'est pas?"
Judith speculatively eyed her grandson. Then she sighed and shook her head. "You have not told her, have you?"
Yep, the flush moved up to his cheeks, leaving him feeling like a guilty child. Again. Rik couldn't meet his grandmother's direct gaze as he shook his head and stirred his coffee. "Uh, no." I'm over a century-and-a-half old! Dammit, how does she do that?
"Have you told her anything?" Judith pressed her advantage with the same ruthlessness she had shown him when he was a much younger man.
"No, Mémé," Rik responded in a low voice. "Not really, I didn't want to scare her away!" He looked up, defensive, "She's Mortal, and we've only known each other a total of..." He paused, quickly counting on his fingers, "Six days! And..." Oh yeah, Rik felt his entire face blazing now.
"And?" Ruthless. Rik's grandmother was ruthless!
"And...I may have insulted her before I even met her," Rik said as he slumped in his seat.
For the next half-hour, Judith was relentless in prying every single sordid detail from her grandson. From Sam overhearing him talking to Lizzy to them leaving the saloon together the night before. Every attempt to change the subject, to redirect the conversation, was shot down before Rik could blink. By the end of it, she was looking at Rik with disappointment and Jean-Paul was scowling fiercely at him.
Angrily bunching up his napkin, Jean-Paul threw it at Rik's head and began swearing fluently in Old French, and Rik was grateful he couldn't understand the half of it, because what he did understand was rather uncomplimentary. Judith merely continued to give Rik that disappointed look as she drank her coffee.
Finally, Jean-Paul thrust a waggling finger into Rik's face. "Listen up, mon vilain, you had best get this sorted. I want great-grandbabies to spoil rotten before I am forced to return to the Otherworlds forever, oui? Get. It. Sorted!"
"Oui, Pépé," Rik responded, meeting his grandfather's accusing gaze. The old man softened at the affectionate term Rik hadn't used since he was a boy himself. With a huff, Jean-Paul sat back in his chair and picked up his tablet.
"Okay." With a glance over at his wife, Jean-Paul gave her a quick wink and a knowing smile that made Rik oddly uncomfortable. The old man was definitely up to something, but before Rik could pursue it, Jean-Paul said, "Bring us up to date on the business. The contracts we sent, they were good, yes?"
With a sigh, Rik settled himself in and filled in his grandparents over breakfast, knowing he would have to meet up with his troupe in a little over an hour. It's going to be a long day, he thought, but brightened when he considered that he would see Sam again. They had to talk soon, before things got too much more complicated.
Chapter 25
Not even fronting, Sam stomped down the hall toward the kitchen, a giggling Clara trailing after her. Hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her Oregon State ball cap pulled low over her forehead, and wearing her beloved flannel shirt and jeans combo, along with her heavy hiking boots, Sam was on a mission. Well, multiple missions.
First, get more coffee.
Second, drink more coffee.
Third, plot elaborate and painful retribution for Mr. Love 'Em and Leave 'Em Leon.
Four… Oooh, what's that smell?
Catching the scent of something absolutely, mouth-wateringly delicious and almost certainly to go straight to her hips, Sam followed her nose to the kitchen. Pushing open the swinging door, she staggered nose-first toward Bertie, who was pulling a rack of his Super-Secret Recipe Cinnamon Rolls from the massive oven.
Seeing a zombie Sammy make her way through the bustling staff, Bertie gave her a large grin and waved her over. She ignored the glances she received from some of the weekend staff, who hadn't gotten used to Sam's presence in the kitchens yet, but a single pointed look from Bertie cleared a path between her and her objective.
Pointing a huge, blunt finger at the stool near his station, Bertie told her, "Sit. Eat. I'll bring you a plate and some coffee."
The beatific smile that graced Sam's still sleepy face brought a slight flush of pleasure to the big man's face. Bertie brought her a fresh cinnamon roll and a large mug of coffee, extra strong, with cream and sugar. "Drink up, wake up, then you can tell me why you look like you're about to eat someone's face off."
Sam took a few cautious sips of her steaming hot coffee, a small bite of her cinnamon roll, and another larger sip of coffee before she tilted her head way back to look up at the looming behemoth. She opened her mouth to speak, paused, held up a finger, and took another swallow of coffee before speaking in a calm, even voice.
"Because after being swept off my feet, then well-and-thoroughly...well, you know...complete with the whole magical fairy lightshow shebang...heh, she got banged all right," Sam couldn't help the chortle, but quickly cleared her throat as righteous anger once more blazed through her. "I woke up this morning, and he ghosted! Gone! No note, no word, not even a text message. He's a..."
Sam trailed off, groping for just the right insult. She noticed she had been cussing a lot more since first meeting that arrogant son-of-a...no, she couldn't use that one, since his mother was a Sidhe and not a werewolf, or werecanine, or whatever. “The Bastard” was already “The Bastard,” so she couldn't use that one either.
Bertie waited patiently while Clara made herself comfortable with her own purloined cinnamon roll and cup of coffee, giggling quietly to herself as she watched Sam's expressive face while the redhead pondered the conundrum.
Jerk was too tame a word. Dick and prick both brought to mind that certain part of his anatomy that she had fallen in love with...Sam blinked.
"Holy fuck," Sam whispered, turning shocked eyes up at Bertie. "I'm in love with him. When the Hell did that happen?"
Clara patted Sam's shoulder. "There, there, sweetie. It was bound to happen. Even if he is..." Clara began counting her brother's flaws on her fingers, "Arrogant, inconsiderate, hot-headed, condescending, bossy, more than a little vain, can be a total manslut, and did I mention bossy, because he totally has that whole big brother syndrome thing going on..."
That earned a weak chuckle from Sam, who was still looking rather pale—even for her.
"But," Clara continued, "he's also incredibly sweet, loyal to those few he loves, generous to a fault, and from the way he's been stalking you this last week? I'd say the boy has it bad!"
Sam reached up and partially tugged down the left side of her hoodie, showing the freckled flesh and the writhing mark on her chest, "That's because of the whole anam cara stuff. He doesn't have a choice, it's just magic making him want me."
Bertie cleared his throat—a rather grating sound as it sounded like grinding gravel—drawing Sam's and Clara's attentions. With a short shake of his head, Bertie said, "That's not quite how it works. Yes, Fate has guided you two together, but it's a choice you two make on how the relationship forms. You will always have an impact on one another's lives—you both already have, even if neither of you may have realized it—but, whether it's as friends, lovers, or even as enemies, that is the choice you both must make. Relationships aren't magic, even with our kind, no mystically perfect happy ending is guaranteed."
Clara laughed aloud at that. "Oh man, listen to him! You know Beauty and the Beast? That really happened. I mean, their names weren't really Beast or Beauty. He wasn't really a prince, I mean a French prince at the time of the French Revolution? Yeah, that wouldn't have ended well. Anyways, he was a shifter who pissed off an Unseelie for not wanting to sleep with her skank ass, got cursed for like centuries and terrorized France."
Really getting into her story, Clara was waving her hands energetically, her face alight as Bertie and Sam watched aghast. "Finally, a cousin of ours had had enough, so she went to confront the Beast, and BAM! Anam cara'd! I mean, a Leon with a wolf? It was all the scandal at the time, let me tell you. Anywho, she managed to break the curse, si
nce all Sidhe magic is based on oaths, you know? So every curse has an exit clause, and this cousin of ours might have had furry tendencies, if you know what I mean. Yeah, she and the beast made with the mating, and boom, curse broken!"
Blinking, Sam said slowly, almost afraid of the answer, "That sounds like a happy ending."
Shaking her head, Clara said, "Alas, like I said, cousin was into furries, and when the curse was broken, the beast had been entirely stripped of his shifting ability and made Mortal. He was a bit bitter about that and swore off the Fae, supernaturals, and everything. Left our cousin knocked up and went and became a hunter! Hunting down shifters, fae, witches, whatever crossed he could find—and as a former shifter, he knew quite a bit. Hell, that's why so many of our kind left France, just in time, too, since the Revolution happened not long after that. More than that, though, he started a new family, raising his little brats to also be hunters. Now, they're one of the largest hunter families in Europe, but let me tell you, they really hate that fairy tale, and just how popular it's become!" Clara was positively gleeful at that last bit.
"What happened to your cousin?" Sam was afraid to know, but she had to.
Clara sighed and shook her head, "Rosalind retreated to an Otherworld, where the hunters can't find her. As for her son, my cousin is a Watcher." Seeing Sam's questioning look, Clara clarified, "The Watchers are a small group that work outside the established, individual protection organizations, like the Wild Hunt for the Sidhe and Fae. The Shadow Pack polices the shifters, the Grimalkin the witches, and the Cavalerii Sumbru the vampires. The Watchers owe allegiance to no one, except the High Council, who technically oversees all of us here in North America."
"Politics," Bertie snorted. "Unimportant. The moral is, anam cara, soulmates, true mates, fated mates, whatever you want to call it, does not mean magically forced to do anything. The Fates have merely woven your paths together, and what path you choose to take is ultimately your choice."