by A. Faris
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Wings of a Butterfly
Copyright © 2011 by A. Faris
ISBN: 978-1-61333-084-5
Cover art by Dara England
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Wings of a Butterfly
A. Faris
A 1 Night Stand Story
#15
~DEDICATION~
Where credit is due,
for Val
Prologue
14th June 1876
After the perpetual noise and smoke of Nantes, the peace in Dunkirk was foreign to Elizabeth. She spun the globe around for the second time, with her eyes closed, the silence a suitable companion to her loneliness. Her fingers skimmed the polished wood and she exerted light pressure with her index finger to bring the globe to a stop.
Paris.
With a huff, she closed her eyes again and pushed the globe in the opposite direction. This time, she stabbed at it.
Montserrat.
She growled.
“Playing a game of chance, my dear?”
Elizabeth stiffened when her father's hands landed on her shoulders.
“Papa.” Immediately, she wanted to slap herself. At twenty-six, she should have addressed her father more formally, but an ingrained habit of a lifetime controlled her tongue. No wonder, for she had left Dunkirk to mate into the Loire Pack in Nantes when scarcely out of childhood.
Perhaps she should have just stayed in Nantes and faced the troubles she had caused.
Father bent to press a kiss on the top of her head, compounding her lapse into childish behaviour.
“If you cannot face even a short visit to France, you should not contemplate staying there.”
“Oh, Papa, I wish you would stop reading people's minds. It is impolite.”
He came around to sit on the footstool in front of her, a wide smile on his face.
“Of course it is. But if I do not, I will never know what my children are thinking.” He turned serious. “Were you that miserable amongst the Loire? Did Robert treat you badly? You should have returned sooner.”
“No, Papa.” Elizabeth laughed under her breath. “I scarcely credit enough notice for him to treat me badly. And well you know it.”
It could have hardly escaped Papa that Robert had been no skirt-chaser, preferring instead the company of men. It had taken Elizabeth four innocent years before she understood why her mate showed her so little interest, but Papa could not have been guiled by Robert's deceptions.
She had only herself to blame for choosing Robert. After begging Papa to allow her the choice in mating, it would be churlish to cast the blame at Papa's door.
“Yet, it was I who presented him as one of your choices.”
Elizabeth’s mouth curved, because Papa appeared sorrowful. “I made the choice from the twenty males you selected, Papa. And it was I who was taken in by Pierre.”
Pierre, whom she had thought loved her, had only wanted her in order to incite Robert into a duel. Making love to her had only been a strategem to him, while she had thought it the culmination of their forbidden love. After killing her mate and taking his place in the hierarchy, Pierre had not sought her since.
Papa's own smile did not quite reach his eyes. “You're a good girl, Lisbeth.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a sheaf of papers. Unfolding them, he handed the papers to her. “Your permit to travel.”
Elizabeth frowned at the top sheet. “This is for three months.” The longest anyone had gone to another time as a tourist was a month. “Oh, Papa. Thank you.”
“It'd do you well to be away.” Drily, he added, “It did take some doing. I should hope that is sufficient time for the whole affair to be settled.” He patted her cheek. “And sufficient time for you to heal.”
She swiped at her sudden tears and gestured towards the globe.
“Would you like to do the honours? Perhaps you'd have better luck than I.”
A gleam of fun entered his eyes. He spun the globe and tapped with one finger. “Madrid. How fortuitous. We have family there, in the twenty-first century.”
Elizabeth pushed his finger away. Paris, again. She started laughing. “Papa, lying is a sin.”
“I have never taught you that. I see that Rebecca's dedication to your moral upbringing has triumphed.”
Elizabeth shared a conspiratorial grin with her father. Rebecca, her brother's mate, had been brought up by humans and consequently had a stricter moral code than the rest of the Wentworths. She had taken Elizabeth under her wing since mating into the family.
“And I suppose the family you refer to is from her side?” Elizabeth riffled through the papers. “You have arranged everything.” With his customary precision and eye to detail. Between irritation and love, she settled for gratitude. “Thank you.”
Her father patted her knee. “I want my happy child back, Lisbeth.”
Elizabeth's smile dimmed.
“I do not know if that child will ever return, Papa.”
Chapter One
Three months of doing nothing had gone by with surprising swiftness. Elizabeth fingered the stretchy material on her body as she climbed the stairs to the Museo del Prado. She had gotten too used to these modern clothes, with their ease of movement and wonderful fabrics. She wondered if she could ignore the strict rules printed in her time traveller's guidebook and sneak some of the brassieres back with her.
She would miss this museum, too, with its curious nooks and crannies, hidden facilities and access, the gateways to four storeys of treasures. She had been there many times, and each time she came, still discovered more that she had not seen. Even on this last day, as she went around to say farewell to her favourite refuge, she found a few more she wished she’d the opportunity to study in greater detail.
Rounding the corner, she stepped into a darkly-panelled room. She managed to turn a shriek of terror into a sharp exhalation. By some trick of modern lighting, the softly-illuminated paintings contrasted strongly with the walls they hung upon, clearly visible despite the lack of bright lights.
“Fascinating, aren't they?”
Elizabeth tore her gaze from the unnatural, bulbous eyes of the creature on canvas. The hair at the back of her neck stood, her body reacting as if all the painted figures stared at her. She kept her own eyes on the stranger. His finely-cut features were a vast improvement to the images surrounding her. “Fascinating is not the word that comes to mind, no.”
He quirked a dark eyebrow.
“Well, the collection at the Thyssen-Bornemisza might be more to your taste then. You know, prettier stuff. Very big on the Impressionists.”
Goaded by his dismissive tone, Elizabeth took a step further into the room. It was not so much the violence o
f the paintings that disturbed her. What bothered her was how these inert collections of lines could follow her without moving.
“The boldness of the Impressionists is to be admired. As well as their techniques.” She wandered towards that repellent depiction of—Saturn devouring one of his sons, she read—aware that the man, soft-footed, fell in step with her.
“I prefer paintings with more emotional resonance than technical perfection.”
“Isn't that the wonderful thing about art? There is something for everyone.” Elizabeth smiled at him.
He laughed. “There is nothing I can say to that without sounding like an ass.” He extended a hand. “I'm Damien, by the way.”
The inside of his forearm was inked. Non est priorum memoria. There is no remembrance of former things. A reminder of the trivial nature of life, it gave Elizabeth a peek into his soul. She accepted his hand with a small chuckle, amused both by his comment and the inscribed words.
“Elizabeth.” She reined her strength to meet his firm handshake, not wanting to crush the human's hand. He shifted slightly, letting go, and disturbed the air around him. His scent cut through the museum's mélange of linseed oil, paint, varnish, and floor cleaner. Elizabeth took a deeper breath, trying to pin down the human's scent. No, human, and something...else. Tantalized by the scent of the male, the blend of sweet woods, nose-tingling spices, and rich roses that was his soap and perfume frustrated her wolf.
Elizabeth appeased it by moving unobtrusively closer to Damien. It settled, intrigued by the hint of something other that it could not identify, but content with their proximity. She had only to reach out to stroke the inviting honey-coloured skin. She turned the motion into a production of tucking her hair behind her ear.
He gave her a genial look, not knowing the direction of her thoughts, something Elizabeth was thankful for.
His dark curls made her fingers itch with the need to tangle in them. And his mouth was level with her own. It would be so easy to take the single step and tug at the full lower lip with her teeth.
Enough.
The physical ache in restraining made her wonder about the intensity of the urge. Even with Pierre, she had not felt this need to touch. While she had welcomed his overtures, she had not been overwhelmed by the need to feel his skin, to imprint the scent of him into her own.
And this Damien, a stranger at that. She nibbled at her own lip. It was a poor substitute, but the slight pain provided a welcome distraction. She took another cautious breath and suspicion solidified to certainty. He was a potential mate, one whose biology was most suited to her own. A real mate, instead of one in name.
Still, she had always maintained a delicate balance with the animal within, and in such matters, she would never let it rule. She did not need the complication of a mate right now. Especially when he was not of her time.
It growled and withdrew to sulk but the instinct still rode hard on her.
Walking on, Elizabeth put aside her unsettled feelings and studied the pictures with detachment. Then, awed by the next painting, she halted.
“You like this?”
She ignored his question, knowing somehow that he would not mind. It had emotional resonance and she had an inkling as to what Damien meant. Perpetually looking for someone, with nothing in front of him nor behind, the forlorn dog was appropriately tiny in a sea of ochre. Alone, waiting, for someone who would never come.
“The original mural decorated one of the walls alongside the door of the upper floor of La Quinta del Sordo. I have always wished that the house had not been destroyed. To be able to see the paintings in their original form, it'd truly be wonderful.”
Elizabeth was glad for his comment, which pulled her away from her fixation on the lost soul. She gave him a sidelong glance. His gray eyes had a wistful look. “Do you haunt Room 67, Damien? You know a lot about the paintings.”
“They speak to me.”
She glanced at the figures around her and shivered. “I hope you do not mean that in the literal sense.”
He laughed. “You have quite an imagination.”
Elizabeth sighed, disappointed. She had been mistaken about this male. He was a human, and one who had had no contact with the shadow world. Perhaps he had some other-blood from a distant relation, but he was not of her world.
He’s the one, nothing else matters.
She hushed the wolf’s whisper and pasted a bright expression on her face. “I suppose I do. Oh, well, now. It has gone on three. I have to go. It was a pleasure meeting you, Damien.” Without waiting for his response, she rushed out of the room.
At the foot of the staircase to the first floor, she paused to catch her breath.
She had not known that resisting a mate would be so difficult.
“Elizabeth.”
She clenched her fists and turned to face Damien.
“Lizzie? Beth?”
“Lisbeth.” The correction came out before she could stop it. His tense face relaxed. He reached out and touched her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. Elizabeth corralled the beast in her that bucked for more.
“Have a cup of coffee with me?”
“Right now? I've agreed to meet my cousin. I'm sorry.”
“Another time? Let me get your number.” He took out a tiny, metal—mobile phone, Elizabeth reminded herself—from his jeans pocket.
“I do not have a mobile.” Then, she bit her lip in consternation for her slip.
Surprise crossed his face. “Okay....” He peered at her. “For real?”
“I cannot make international calls,” she amended.
“No roaming? Ah. I see.” He put away his mobile. “You're trying to let me down nicely, aren’t you?”
Elizabeth's lips wobbled in a futile fight against amusement. “No. But I'm not going to be here long, anyway.”
“Returning home, huh?” He considered her for a long moment. “I travel a lot. Maybe we could meet up. Let me guess...Glasgow? Edinburgh?”
“Dunkirk. I don't think even you travel there.” Especially when my home is more than a hundred years away.
“You are definitely giving me the brush off.”
“Are you usually this persistent?”
He beamed. “When I find something—or someone—that speaks to me. Especially when it is a someone. That has not happened to me for a long time, and I know well enough that when it happens, I should never let her go.”
His open honesty made Elizabeth as uncomfortable as it pleased her.
He put a hand on the small of her back. “Right now, though, I'll settle for walking you out.”
She let him usher her to the exit. It would only take five minutes and he would be out of her life, with space and time separating them. In the meantime, she could satisfy her curiosity about him. “Where are you from?”
“Tough question.” He wrinkled his nose. “Born in the States. Parents got divorced and my father got custody. Had to move to Paris when I was twelve because dear Papa wanted to be back with the family. I've been travelling since...college. So, can we say citizen of the world with a French passport?”
She stared at him in disbelief. “You do not have a home?”
He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “It's not such a bad thing.”
Unbound by family ties, or Pack, it sounded like hell to Elizabeth. Through all her troubles, the knowledge that she had a family to return to had sustained her spirits.
Dry heat enveloped them as they exited the museum. He guided her to a shaded area, though there was no escaping the heat. “At the risk of coming off as a total psycho, can I see you before you leave Madrid?”
She wanted to agree. She opened her mouth to speak...to agree to just one meeting.
“Lisbeth.”
Elizabeth turned away from Damien, grateful that her cousin, to use the term loosely, had come at the most felicitous time.
“Sofia!” Elizabeth grasped at her arm, with more force than the simple greeting warranted. “My cousin, S
ofia. This is Damien. We just met.”
The coolness of Sofia's nod bewildered Elizabeth. As did the disappearance of Damien's light-hearted mien.
“Are you acquainted?”
Sofia looked down the length of her nose at him, a feat for someone five inches shorter. “I am well-acquainted with his reputation.”
“I'm sure you are,” Damien murmured.
“Come, Elizabeth.”
She glanced back to Damien as Sofia pulled her away. He gave a cheery wave.
“That was very rude.”
“I'm sure he's used to it.” Sofia handed her a piece of paper. “Forget about him. You've better things to do than chit-chat with le grand méchant loup.”
Elizabeth gave a quick glance at the paper and folded it hastily. Emblazoned at the top was the company logo, 1Night Stand, in large, bold print. She had not known what that meant when Sofia had first proposed the idea one sotted night, but the people around her would. She put the receipt in her pocket; it was not something she wished to be seen with in public.
“I am still uncertain about this.”
“And so you will be until you are safe at home.” Sofia shrugged. “It's up to you.”
“I'll think about it.” Elizabeth remained quiet as they walked away. At Plaza de Murillo, she finally asked, “Why do you call him the big, bad wolf? Is he really?”
“Everyone calls him that. He was in the Méchant Pack.”
So, her first instinct was right. Elizabeth mulled over that, worried that her senses had gotten so confused.
Sofia sighed. “Are you still thinking about him? Okay, so he's nice to look at, but he's the only one who got kicked out of the Méchant Pack, and they're a crazy bunch. What do you expect from a Pack that calls themselves nasty?”
“They've always been called that.”
“Well, then, they come from a long line of loco. Back to your Damien. It takes quite a lot to get the boot but he managed it, not that he was all too popular to begin with. Mongrel blood, you know. And the things he did after that—you do not want to associate with him. Your Papa will not thank me for it.” Sofia crossed herself, to Elizabeth's amusement. Papa was not as bad as everyone seemed to think he was.