Shifter's Dance

by Vanessa North

  “Now, tell me what we’re listening to.”

  Haltingly, she began to talk about the music: the composer, the performers.

  “But it’s more than that to you.”

  She nodded. “I can see a dance, in my head, when I listen.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “A pas-de-deux, that’s a—”

  “Dance for two. I speak French, go on.”

  Encouraged, she told him about the dance she could see as the music swelled between them. She painted the story in words, but she saw it in movement. He asked questions and she answered, and when the music changed…

  “And this one is a dance for the corps-de-ballet, to relieve some of the tension after the drama of the pas-de-deux.”

  “You’re good at this.” His hand took hers, thumb stroking over the soft-textured palm.

  “At what?”

  “Describing the dance. What ballet is this from?”

  “It’s not, I mean, it’s not a ballet, just a classical guitar recording I like. I just listen and see the dance as I would do it, if I were a choreographer.”

  “It’s beautiful, Romy. Can we listen to more?”

  She smiled then and laid her head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent and letting her eyelids drift closed. He felt so big and safe, and he liked the music. Maybe it had nothing to do with healing her spirit or learning to do things on her own, but it was nice to share the music with him.

  She handed him the iPod. “Pick one.”

  * * * *

  Shortly before dinner time, a knock sounded at Romy’s door. She counted the fourteen shuffling steps from the bed to the door and opened it cautiously.

  “Hi, it’s Myron.” The other woman didn’t intrude on Romy’s space, didn’t try to push past her or reach to help her. Once again, Romy was struck by how the staff at Wiccan Haus seemed to offer kindness without pity—so naturally it was almost effortless.

  “Hi, Myron.”

  “Sage sent this up for you.” Myron took Romy’s hand, pressed a small jar into her palm. “She said it will help with the discomfort in your eyes, and that you should put it on your eyelids twice a day.”

  “Thank you, Myron. And tell Sage thank you, from me.”

  “I will. She’s great with herbs, you’ll see.”

  “Well, no, I won’t actually.” Romy chuckled. “But I appreciate it nonetheless.”

  “You’re funny, Romy.” Myron patted her hand. “I’ll see you later.”

  As the door shut behind Myron, Romy made her way to the bed and from there to the bathroom. She set the jar down and reached for the ointment the doctors had given her. She opened it and a pungent odor assaulted her nose; heavy and ugly, it hung in the air. She tightened the lid again and reached for the new jar.

  Sage’s concoction was more like a lotion than an ointment, and it smelled completely different: light and flowery, but with a hint of something dark and laden with night. Was that jasmine? Romy inhaled deeply. Maybe just the memory of jasmine. She took a tiny dab on the tip of her finger and smoothed it over her right eyelid.

  Relief tickled across her nerves as the ointment seeped into the thin, tender skin. All the itching, burning sensation that had crackled and roared quieted to a bare murmur. She dabbed a tiny bit on the left eyelid. One-fiftieth of one inch. Such a tiny amount of skin to protect the human eye.

  The relief was so immediate, so unexpected, that Romy shuddered in something like shock as the itching and burning dimmed, letting other senses roar to life. And this relief came without the stench she had become resigned to smelling. Oh, she owed Sage big time. Smiling, Romy made her way back to the bed, reaching for the simple dress she’d laid out upon it to wear to dinner.

  Chapter Seven

  Stephen watched the door to the dining room anxiously. That afternoon in the garden, he’d seen a part of Romy he guessed few others had gotten to know. She had a gift for more than dancing—the way she described the movement as they listened, he was certain she could convey that to other dancers. She could make a career for herself as a choreographer, he was sure of it. Maybe it wouldn’t be easy. But few things ever were. As long as she believed in herself, she could do it.

  And there she was. When she stepped into the dining room, his chest felt tight. She was exquisite. She’d tucked her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, and a drapey black dress hugged her athletic figure. Mine. His body hummed with satisfaction at the thought. When the male vampire he’d been eating with the night before approached her, Stephen bit off a snarl and made his way over to her.

  As he approached, he heard Romy demur, “Thank you, that’s so nice of you, but…”

  “Go,” he ordered. The vamp took one look at him, smirked, and said his goodbyes.

  “You’re gorgeous. Have dinner with me?”

  She laughed, then, her head thrown back. “Are you going to scare away anyone else who asks?” she teased.

  “I hope so. Besides, he’s not much of a dining companion.” He grinned. “I’m sitting near where you sat last night. Would you join me, please?”

  “I’d love to.” She held out a hand, and he pressed a swift kiss to the inside of her palm before tucking her hand into the crook of his arm and guiding her to the table. Conscious to never cross the line from helpful to pushy, he tucked her safely into a chair before taking his own seat.

  They made small talk over dinner, and he learned that she was the oldest of three sisters.

  “They were so sweet, after the…well, you know. But they were stifling me, the whole family was. I had to get away. Anyway, they would be glad to know I’m getting around okay here.”

  “You’re doing really well, from what I’ve observed.” He watched her smile at the praise. “I have brothers. We all live together. It’s rather horrifying actually.”

  “Oh my. More like you? How many?”

  “Just two. One older, one younger.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a computer programmer. Edouard, the oldest, he’s a wildlife photographer, and Bruno, the youngest, is a writer.” That was the cover, anyway. We watch over the various ways one could get to this rock from Canada and the Maine coast on behalf of the Syndicate, and bring Cyrus and Rekkus information when needed.

  “So why’d you come here, all alone, to the Wiccan Haus?”

  “I do work for them sometimes.” So he didn’t elaborate on what that work was, he was okay with her thinking it was a programming project, at least for now. “What are you going to do, now that you can’t perform anymore?”

  “I don’t know. That’s part of why I came here, to think about that. I went to a performing arts school, but then was offered a position with the company, so I never finished my degree. I could go back, but I haven’t learned to read braille yet. I have to learn to read all over again, can you believe that?”

  “Have you thought about choreography? The way you described the dances you see in your head—it was beautiful.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can go back to that world and not resent it.”

  He felt her sadness as if it were his own. He tried to put himself in her shoes and all he could imagine was this endless feeling of isolation. He looked down at her mostly-empty plate.

  “Do you want to get out of here?”

  “And go where?”

  Anywhere. He’d go anywhere with her.

  “Let’s take a walk. I won’t let anything happen to you, and you must be going a little stir-crazy.”

  “A little. Music helps, but since I was blinded, I get a little claustrophobic. Like I’m stuck inside my own head, and it’s dark and I can’t get out.”

  “Let’s get you out.” He reached for her hand, placed the handle of her cane in it and was rewarded by a brilliant smile. So brilliant he didn’t notice the shadow that slipped out the door behind them.

  * * * *

  Here she was, going off alone—again—with this huge man she didn’t know. But after th
e last twenty-four hours, Stephen didn’t feel like a stranger anymore, and Romy couldn’t get that kiss out of her head. That afternoon, on the bench in the garden, she’d never been more aware of another human being—and considering how often she’d leapt into the arms of another dancer, trusting them to be there for her, that was saying a lot.

  But he hadn’t made a move to kiss her again. Instead, he’d just been this steady, larger-than-life presence, showing up wherever she happened to be. He held her hand and let her practice with her cane as they walked, telling her stories about Edouard and Bruno to make her laugh. Every step heightened her awareness of him. When he let go of her hand, the darkness washed over her. When he seized it again, a bit of light warmed her.

  She didn’t want to feel this connection to another person; this wasn’t why she had come to the Wiccan Haus. She came for her independence, to find her own way, not to be swept into an eddy of lust over the first man to show her kindness.

  He’s not the first to show you kindness, the little voice in her head reminded her. Just the first who made you feel whole again.

  But why should he—the last thing she needed was a man to feel whole. Frustrated, she let go of his hand and stepped a few paces away from him, sweeping across the ground in front of her with the cane.

  “Romy?” His voice was hesitant and apologetic. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

  “I’m not your sweetheart.” She called back over her shoulder. This dance they were doing was too dangerous, too much. She couldn’t handle it right now. “I need to be alone.”

  “Okay, I don’t know what it is I said, and I swear, I will leave you alone when we get back to the hotel, but Romy, I can’t leave you alone out here on the grounds. Let me keep you safe.”

  The more rational his words sounded, the more irrational she felt. She felt the rage boiling over, bubbling up in her, and she couldn’t even run to get away from it, so she let it over take her, and she swung around toward his voice, the anger inside her finally—after eight weeks of “dealing with it like a professional”— finally breaking free.

  “Dammit, Stephen, I didn’t come here to be coddled. I told you yesterday, I don’t need anyone to take care of me!” She flung her cane in his direction, heard it crash into a bush.

  “Romy, please. I’m not coddling you. There are things you don’t know about, things you couldn’t know about, and damn the Rowans for letting someone like you be exposed to them. Honey, I don’t want to take care of you because I think you’re weak. I think you’re amazing, and I think I’m not the only one to see that. I wish I could, but I can’t explain it—I just need you to be safe. I need it more than I need anything right now.”

  “I don’t care what kind of hero complex you’re sporting, big guy, but I didn’t come here to fulfill it for you.” She turned back away from the path, and with her hands out in front of her, she started to move away from him, panic welling up.

  “Romy, please don’t!” he shouted after her.

  She sped up, running straight into an unyielding bulk that didn’t feel anything like Stephen.

  “Well, hello, lovely.” The arms that came around her were cold and the voice colder still.

  “Who are you?” She pushed against the cold chest, struggling to break away.

  “You smell nice.” The grip around her arms tightened, and her skin crawled. The man who had been trying to get her to have dinner with him, the one who had been pushy when she’d said no. This man was not here to help her.

  “Leave her alone.”

  She could have wept with relief when she realized Stephen had followed her. The cold arms loosened slightly, not enough for her to break free.

  “You don’t have to go with him.” A cold voice, a gentle caress at her ear. “Stay with me. I’ll see you safely home for dessert.”

  “Let her go.”

  “Please. Stephen and I were just arguing. I’m perfectly safe with him.” This time, when she pushed away from the cold chest, the man let her go. She spun around, straight into Stephen’s waiting arms. She didn’t want to feel the rush of relief, but she did.

  “Who was that?” she asked as he half-carried, half-dragged her back toward the path.

  “Not anyone you want to know.” He pushed the cane into her hand. “I’m sorry Romy. I don’t know what I did, what I said, that made you feel threatened, or coddled, or whatever. But please, don’t run off like that alone. Not ever.”

  What was this? Just minutes before she’d felt panicked, needing to get away, and now she was so relieved she wanted to climb up him like a cat up a tree. Why did she need him like this?

  “Kiss me,” she demanded. “Please, I don’t know what’s going on, but I feel crazy. I have to know why you make me feel this way.” Her hands tightened in the front of his shirt and the cane fell to the ground. She heard him growl, a rough exhalation before he hauled her body tight to him.

  “I didn’t want to—”

  “I don’t care. Kiss me, Stephen.”

  His lips crushed down over hers, igniting fires she’d been trying to keep banked. Yes! Her body tightened in response as his big hands ran down her back from shoulders to waist and tugged her tight against him. His sweet tongue swept through her mouth, his beard soft against her chin. A delicious tingling tightened her breasts and her spine seemed to dissolve into pure heat as she arched into his body.

  Dragging her lips from his, Romy clung to his chest, burying her face into that tender warm spot where his shoulder and neck came together. She remembered how sweet it had tasted yesterday, couldn’t help but let her tongue steal out for another taste. At the contact, they both groaned.

  “Why, Stephen? Why do you make me feel this way?” Her voice broke.

  “Do you believe in soul mates, Romy?” His breath was ragged. She shook her head, but didn’t drag her face away from the comfort of his shoulder.

  “No,” she answered.

  “If you did, this would be easier.”

  She felt him chuckle, lifted her head to lick at his chin. “What, getting in my pants?”

  “No, getting in your heart. Let’s go back to the hotel, okay? We can talk more there.”

  Chapter Eight

  But talking didn’t seem to be on the menu. He was silent in the elevator, though she could feel him, smell him, taste him. She didn’t know if he was right next to her or all the way to the other side of the box. In her mind, he filled the space the way he filled her thoughts and his presence kept her body humming and vibrating to the larger than life fantasy he became when he stepped away from her. He was under her skin and he wasn’t going anywhere.

  She felt his hand on hers and suddenly she was in his arms and this was okay—better than okay—because as soon as he touched her she felt anchored, present in a way that no yoga or meditation had made possible.

  “Kiss me.” His command carried a rough edge, urging her up to her toes. Even in tennis shoes, her feet were strong enough to propel her all the way up, en pointe, to the very tips of her still-bruised toes, and she pressed her lips to his.

  Cymbals clashed and strings swelled and she didn’t care that the orchestra only played in her head as one leg wrapped around his waist.

  His hands slid down and dragged her up his body, holding her exactly where he wanted her as she tasted him, buried hands in his hair, and felt him crowding his way into her heart. The roughness of his breathing told her he was as affected as she was.

  A bell chime and a rush of air and the elevator opened and he was pushing her against the door to her room as she fumbled in her pocket for a key.

  “Now, now, now,” she pleaded.

  He crossed the room to her bed in four sure, strong steps, flinging her cane aside as he dropped her down on the mattress.

  “Romy.” A breathy whisper as he lay down beside her. “Slow down, love.”

  “Need you—can’t get enough.”

  It wasn’t hyperbole.

  Desperate for the taste of him, the textur
e of his skin on hers, she tugged at his shirt, trying to get at the heated skin beneath. A low growl rolled from his chest as he snatched her hands away and pinned them to the bed.

  “Romy Lewis. I swear by all that is holy you will get every inch of me you want, but if you don’t want me to come before I’m halfway inside, I need you to stop touching me for a moment, okay?”

  Startled, she did as he said, relaxing against the bed and letting the tension seep out of her body.

  “Every inch?” she teased, her lips tilting up at the corners.

  “Every inch.” He growled back, letting go of her hands in order to tug her clothes from her body. She let him undress her, all the urgency that had been stirring her a moment ago giving way to a deep languidness as he stroked down her limbs, caressing the strong ropes of muscle that had propelled her across a stage countless times.

  When it occurred to her to touch him back and she reached for him, she touched naked skin, warm and covered with soft hair.

  A heartbeat oriented her just as her fingers skimmed a nipple. His chest. She explored him with her hands, listening to the changes in his breathing as she touched him, running her hands down his chest, first gently, then with more confidence and fervor as her own lust roared inside her.

  When his mouth closed over her nipple, her head lolled back and his name flowed from her lips over and over again. A huge hand plucked and rubbed at the other nipple before he switched sides, lavishing wet heat over her entire breast before swirling his tongue around the peak. Her breasts had always been a traitorous bit of femininity that she had feared would threaten her dancing, but under his hands, with his mouth teasing out her response, she learned to cherish the feelings that sang through them as she arched into his touch. Each gentle draw against her nipple brought an answering tug from within her core until she finally pushed him away so she could catch her breath.

  “Stephen, do you have condoms?”