Slay Belles & Mayhem: A Medley of Dark Tales

by Dani René

  He’s a dozen feet away when Carys calls, “It’s not that we don’t like company. The last pack who lived in that valley were dangerous.”

  The woman turns back and grimaces. “We heard about them, and that someone finally cleared them out. Good riddance to that pack. They caused nothing but trouble.”

  “They did, and they took some clearing,” I grunt.

  The man’s eyes widen. “That was you? What would possess you to take on a whole pack?”

  “They were after my woman.”

  The man glances at Carys. “A skinbearer, is she? I’d take on a pack to protect my family, if it came to it.”

  Carys reaches my side and takes my hand. My fingers are stiff in hers. I’m not convinced that I can relax.

  “I hope it never will,” Carys says, and nods at the pups. “That’s a lovely family you’ve got.”

  The woman breaks into a smile. “Thank you. That’s Hilda, and that’s Aksel.”

  I study the pups. Hearing their names, they shift into human forms. They’re both Finley’s age, or perhaps a few months older. Finley hasn’t started to shift yet; it takes a little longer for the offspring of skinbearers, but it won’t be long. The two children wave at Carys and me, and then go back to playfighting with each other.

  “I’m Sonya, and this is Ulf.”

  “We’re Carys and Balen,” Carys says with a smile. Then she looks over her shoulder and calls through the door. “Finley? Would you like to come out and meet some people like you? There are some wolfskins here. They’re new to the valley.”

  I’d rather not reveal that we’re raising a wolfskin to a couple of strangers. I watch the man and woman closely, my eyes narrowed for any sign that they might suddenly grow hostile. Ulf doesn’t seem to notice anything strange about Finley, but halfway through greeting him, his face freezes. I get ready to charge forward and protect my family.

  “But he’s a wolfskin. That’s wonderful! There aren’t any other wolfskin children Aksel’s age around here.” Ulf kneels down next to his little boy. “Would you like to go and say hello to Finley?”

  Ulf and Sonya smile at me. Me, a bearskin and known wolfskin killer. They’re so trusting, and I’m so suspicious.

  Aksel walks up to Finley and gives him a little wave. “Hi. I like your mountain. It’s pretty up here.”

  “There are salmon in the stream. Want to see?” says Finley.

  Aksel’s face brightens. Wolves love fish as much as bears do. “Yeah!”

  The two boys hurry down the path to the stream, where they lay on their stomachs in the grass and swipe at the water. Their words are lost among the bubbling and splashes.

  Carys has gone back in to get Sienna, and she and Sonya fall into conversation.

  Ulf watches the children playing for a moment, and then says, “We won’t hunt on your territory, but we’d like to come up and visit with you, if that’s all right. You’re always welcome down in the valley.”

  I make a non-committal sound and watch Carys and Sonya head down toward the boys, Hilda following them. I notice that Sonya has a limp. Quite a bad limp. I doubt she can hunt, so it’s surprising she’s survived.

  “The pack wanted to leave her behind,” Ulf says grimly, “so we left together, and now we’re making our own pack.” Defiance flashes in his eyes, and I know nothing on this earth could make him give up the woman he loves.

  “How far did you come?”

  “The other side of Black Mountain.”

  That’s hundreds of miles away. A terrible journey for Sonya, and it must have seemed heaven-sent to find the valley empty of wolfskins and perfect for making their home.

  “We don’t want any trouble. We just want to live in peace,” Ulf says.

  I feel myself relax finally as I hear the sincerity in his words. He’ll have his work cut out protecting his mate and family. He’s not looking to start a territorial war with a bearskin.

  I turn and look at him properly, and even manage a smile. “You found the right place, then.”

  A few hours later, after Ulf and I caught some fish and we’d all eaten, the wolfskins head back down the mountain, one of them limping slightly but all of them close together, nuzzling one another affectionately.

  Carys looks up at me with tears in her eyes, a huge smile on her face as she holds Sienna in her arms. “Can you believe our luck? A wolfskin family for Finley to play with. They can teach him everything we can’t about being a wolf. I’ve been so worried about what we’ll do when he starts to change.”

  I can teach Finley most things, but it’s good to know that he’ll have a friend his own age to learn with. Carys and Sonya seemed to become friendly right away as well.

  “Do you miss the village you grew up in?” I ask, stroking the blonde hair back from her face as we stand on the front step in the sunset.

  “Not one bit, though I have missed company. I’m so happy the valley will have good people living in it. That’s all I want. Good people.”

  Bears are solitary creatures, but I have to agree with her. Good people make this place better.

  “What about you, my big bear? Is there anything you miss since we came along? Peace and quiet, for instance?” she teases.

  I smile down at her, my beautiful mate who dragged herself through the snow up my mountain to be with me, the lonely bear with the empty heart. She’s filled it with her life and happiness, and given me more than I imagined I ever deserved. I have her, and now I have Finley and Sienna, too.

  I take Sienna in my arms and gaze down at her. She could be a skinbearer, like her mother, but I sense something else within her. Something more like me. Time will tell, and now, I have all the time in the world, and happiness with which to fill it.

  I kiss Carys” smiling mouth, tasting honey. “I have everything I need right here. My home. My cubs. My kochanie.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you for reading BEARSKIN, for more alpha, daddy kink and dark reads, check out my Amazon page:

  https://www.amazon.com/Brianna-Hale/e/B071KSY8DG/

  Claim a FREE daddy book by joining my newsletter: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/7xy29ax9dz

  Join my Facebook group to keep up with all my new releases:

  https://www.facebook.com/groups/BriannasBesties

  Part III

  The Blood Rose

  Claire Marta

  Chapter One

  My awed gaze wanders along the names carved into the stones in the dying winter light. Some might find it morbid. I’ve always loved cemeteries. The tranquil quiet, the beauty in death. The overcrowded tombs of Pere Lachaise cemetery stand erect among the mausoleums, some weathered with time. Others are smooth marble with black writing. Floral tributes laid out as offers to those departed. One day, we will all be in places like this. Our bodies in boxes or our ashes. An end to everything.

  Owen never understood my fascination for such things. Controlling my life for over a year, my boyfriend had to come first in everything. It’s the reason I finally dumped his ass. With the trip here already booked and paid for, by me, I wasn’t going to give up spending Christmas in Paris. My friends and family had thought I was crazy. A twenty-year-old woman going alone to a foreign land. Arriving had been exciting and so full of promise. My wistful mood is streaked with a forlornness that’s been growing over the handful of days I’ve been here. The yearning to have someone to share it with.

  Shivering with the cold, I tug the collar of my jacket up. I’m not used to the seasons here in Europe. The cold slices right though you, bone deep. I’ve never experienced anything like it. A Texas girl, I’m used to the heat. Decked out in jeans, a sweatshirt, a soft woollen scarf and gloves, I can still feel its iciness through the layers of my coat. It whisks away body heat faster than I can make it.

  Raising my camera, I take a snap of a particularly lovely stone angel in the fading sunlight.

  “You find beauty in death.” The deep accented voice stirs through me like the frozen wind.

 
Glancing up, I meet a pair of deep-set mismatched eyes beneath thick low brows. The man’s left one is blue and as deep as the arctic ocean, his right emerald green but just as bright. They have a hint of grimness about them. His nose is straight, with a sharp jaw and cheekbones. Tall, slender, and dressed all in black, lustrous dark curls frame his slim face. He’s not good looking in the modern sense of the word. There’s an air of old-world broodiness about him.

  Flustered, I clutch my camera protectively to my chest. “I…erm.”

  Cocking his head, the stranger smiles. “Isn’t it strange how winter is so beautiful, yet everything around us is dead?”

  “Yes, it is.” I agree, finally finding my voice, my breath rising in little puffs. “But only to be renewed, reborn, in the spring.”

  “Such a young soul, a young heart to be so melancholy. Rafe,” he introduces in a polite little bow. A drawing pad is tucked under his arm, a pencil idly moving between the fingers of one of his hands. The gleam of a gold signet ring flashes in the dying light.

  The few people I’ve seen have already gone, and I’m aware were quite alone.

  I take the hand he offers cautiously, noting the strength in his grip and how he squeezes my fingers gently. How it sends a little jolt through my skin beneath my glove. “Samantha.”

  “I haven’t seen you around here before. You’re American.”

  “I’m on vacation,” I tell him, trying to place his accent. Not French. Something else. Ambling slowly, I head for the exit. The place is a labyrinth. With the gloom stretching and darkness descending, I don’t want to get lost.

  Rafe falls into step with me, his long legs moving with a languid grace. “Ah, a tourist.”

  Adjusting the strap of my camera around my neck, I keep one hand curled around it. “I’m traveling around Europe and you?”

  “Paris is my home.” His attention sweeps the stones around us, marking the passage of the dead. “Van Morrison is buried here and Chopin, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde to name a few.”

  “I managed to find Chopin,” I admit, touched by the passion in his voice, experiencing a sense of Deja vu. “The others not yet. Next Sunday if I have a chance.”

  We pass the numerous monuments and chapels of all shapes and sizes. Stone statues and sculptures left in tribute to those who have passed. Trees line the narrow-cobbled trails, their branches void of leaves.

  “The gates are this way.” Rafe gestures when my feet take me to the left. Frowning, I check the silent path, realizing he’s right.

  “I’m glad you know where you’re going. I’d hate to get lost in this maze.” A little spooked, I hurry for the cemetery gates with him beside me. The dying light coats everything around me in a charcoal outline. A cloak of tranquil darkness.

  Gaze bouncing to his profile, I study his face. There’s something about him. A magnetic pull of attraction. I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before. Perhaps I’d spotted him at one of the museums or Parisian monuments.

  Heat steals into my cheeks when I’m caught staring. Rafe’s smile is colored with amusement, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It makes me wonder at his story. Why he’s here. What he does. His kindness helping me find the street before we get locked inside.

  When we step through the gate, I breathe a sigh of relief. Turning to thank him, my ready response is cut off when I’m jerked to the left. A searing sensation burns through my neck as the camera strap that’s looped around is yanked violently dragging me with it.

  Gloved finger clutching it, I try to stop myself from being strangled. It’s then I see the man trying to steal it. Hood of his jacket up to conceal his head, the thief’s face is red with anger, hard staring eyes boring into mine. Everything happens so fast. Raising his hand to strike me, something that sounds ugly and obscene hisses from his lips in French. Rafe move so quickly he’s a dark blur. Stepping in front of me, he deflects the blow with his body.

  One moment I’m struggling to breathe, the next I’m free and sucking in oxygen. Rubbing my sore neck, I clutch my camera and bag to my chest with my free trembling hand. Rafe’s tall imposing back is in front of me. His sketch pad is still wedged beneath his arm.

  Adrenaline fuelled anger has me stepping around him ready to throw some barbed comments at my attacker. The man’s face is slack with fear, eyes bulging, breath coming out in harsh pants. Maybe he didn’t see my companion? Thought I was alone and easy pickings? I’m not sure, and part of me doesn’t care.

  “You son of a bitch…” I grate only to trail off as the man turns on his heels and takes off in the opposite direction as if his life depends on it.

  Brows drawing together, I watch him go. I’m going to have bruises; that’s for sure, from the throbbing ache around my throat. Grumbling under my breath, the sensation of something dripping from my nose throws me into confusion. Tugging off a glove, I press my fingers to the area only to find a bright splash of red on my fingers. A nosebleed?

  Turning to talk to Rafe, I find myself alone. There’s no sign of my savior anywhere; as if somehow, he’s just vanished into thin air.

  Chapter Two

  Two days exploring Paris and my thoughts have constantly been spiraling back to the Pere Lachaise cemetery and Rafe. The man with the beautiful, unusual eyes. My rescuer. He’s been an elusive shadow in my dream filled night. A presence I haven’t been able to shake.

  Inexplicably, I find myself cautiously drawn back to the cemetery even though I know it will be closed. Following the high brick wall, my steps slow as I approach the green elaborate closed doors. I’m wary of danger. A twinge of disappointment darts though me when I find no sign of the person I’m looking for.

  “Good evening, Samantha.”

  Startled by the familiar voice, I swivel to find its own. “Rafe.”

  The fabric of the black loose shirt he wears looks like linen, his collar playing around his neck in the winter breeze. Worn black jeans encase his long, muscular legs and a pair of laced up boots on his feet. He has the look of an eccentric artist or writer. Untamed with his long wild hair and odd eyes that warm with pleasure at the sight of me.

  “You came back.” The smile curving his lips is pure delight as he gallantly offers me his arm.

  “I did. I wanted to thank you for saving me from that mugger.” It feels natural to let him tuck my arm through his as we begin to stroll sedately along the road. Like two old friends who haven’t see each other for ages. It’s as if something has clicked, and we’re both comfortable as if we’ve known each other our whole lives.

  “It was nothing,” he assures me modestly.

  “Aren’t you cold?” I ask, thankful for the protection of my thick clothing against the chill.

  Rafe’s dark curls ripple as he shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it. Let me show you some of Paris. If you haven’t been, yet, you should visit the Pantheon Crypt. They have some notable people buried there.”

  I note again the signet ring on his finger. A skull has been carved into the precious metal, and from the looks of the piece of jewelry, it looks old.

  We walk and talk. His long legs matching my pace as we meander. Light chit chat about the sights of the city I’ve seen and yet to see. Rafe is a wealth of knowledge. Passionate about the history of the place and telling me of hidden off the path gems I shouldn’t miss. I let him do all the talking, a bubble of shy stealing my normal confidence. At the same time, it’s nice to have someone to talk with. Someone who’s not a stranger to the city like I am. Simple and surreal, he has me looking around me with new eyes. Different hues and colors of the world I’ve never noticed before. A fresh perspective.

  We cross the Seine river in a flow of tourists and Parisians. Not far from us, the Eiffel Tower, a skeleton of metal looms all lit up in the black night sky. Rafe takes me to a little place he knows. The aroma of coffee and food in the air is a delicious distraction as we slip into the busy café.

  He orders us two coffees and a plate of macaroons. A decadent ta
ste that will forever remind me of Paris. When I try to pay for my half, he politely refuses.

  “Is that an heirloom?” I question, gesturing at his ring when were safely settled in a corner. People chatter animatedly around us in a range of different languages. Two waitresses flitter from table to table taking orders and distributing food

  Rafe gazes gravely down at it for a moment where it adorns his hand. “My family crest. Our motto is in nomine mortis. Which translates from Latin into ‘In the name of the dead’. Where in the states are you from?”

  It’s the creepiest moto I’ve ever heard. Then again from what I’ve seen and learned from European History, it’s all more than a little grisly.

  Awareness ripples over my senses. Glancing to my left, I see an elderly couple giving us uneasy looks. Gathering their coats and belongings quickly, the old silver-haired woman crosses herself. Her husband takes her elbow, hurrying her toward the café door. What’s left of their meal is left abandoned on the table.

  That’s weird. They’d seemed frightened. Attention returning to settle on my companion, I find Rafe watching the passing pedestrians on the dark street outside through the window.

  I don’t bother to remove my gloves. My fingers are chilled and desperate for the lingering warmth they bring. Wrapping my hands around my mug, I savor the warmth radiating outward. “Austin, Texas. It's hot. We don't really have a winter. The traffic is always busy, and everyone is very serious about Texas Pride. This is my first trip over the pond.”

  “I’ve never visited America,” he confides to me in his quiet accented voice. “I have roots here in Europe, and it has such a vast wealth of history that your country is only a baby compared to what we have here.”