by Michele Hauf
Child, she thought wistfully.
“You’re going to love Tigger,” she murmured as she pulled out the box and tucked it under an arm. She’d bring it into the study to look through. It was too cold to remain in this room.
The space behind the small box revealed the front of an old leather steamer trunk she had not noticed before. Curious, Blu pushed aside some of her cardboard boxes of treasures to check out the old trunk. It belonged to Creed, surely. And there was no lock on the decorative iron flap.
The lid initially stuck, so she had to carefully jimmy it open to look inside. Must and mildew assaulted her nose. An old moth-eaten black cloak was laid over the top, and beneath, a top hat had been crushed, causing the silk to tear in the creases and decay over the years. A few books with ornate, gold-embossed cover designs lay inside, as well as an empty glass flask with an absinthe advertisement pasted on it.
A stack of photographs intrigued and she drew out a few. They were on tin or some kind of metal.
“A tintype?” she wondered, thinking that was what they had been called when photography had been invented in the nineteenth century, though she’d never been an A student in history. That was Creed’s forte.
The first featured an image of a man she knew well, yet the label at the bottom cleared declared the bearded gentleman Edouard.
She stroked a finger over his face, which was still fine and handsome after all these years. If anyone was going to age in her marriage, she would develop wrinkles before Creed did. The thought depressed her, so she shoved it aside. He’d worn a beard back then? That gave her a chuckle.
“Edouard, you charmer,” she muttered. “Edouard Credence Saint-Pierre.”
He changed his first name between Edward and Creed every century or so. Necessity for a man who had lived so long as he. She preferred Creed, though there was nothing wrong with Edward, either.
“What’s this?”
Another tintype featured Creed standing next to a woman. The image was blurred, but it was clear he had his arm around the woman’s shoulder with his other grasping across her stomach, very high, just under her breasts. A possessive hold. She had dark hair and a somber mouth. A black ribbon tracked about her neck and the dark Victorian clothing was a smudgy blur from waist down.
“An old girlfriend?”
She and Creed talked a lot at night, before and after making love. He’d told her stories from his past, of his adventures, and pointed out how history sometimes got things wrong. She could listen to his sexy French-accented voice until she fell asleep, which was often the case. He’d mentioned one or two women, but she suspected he’d had many lovers over the years. How could he not?
Tucking the tintypes carefully within the cape’s delicate folds, she closed the lid, grabbed her Pooh box, and skittered out of the storage room. What she wouldn’t give to be a time traveler who could journey backward to visit her husband at various times in his life. Wonder if faery magic could do that?
Idiot, she chastened as she wandered down the hallway. Stay away from faeries and asking for boons, girlfriend.
“Fine,” she muttered. “I have learned my lesson.”
But, lesson learned, she was gaining something amazing in return. All for the price of a great sacrifice.
Stopping at the open door to her husband’s office, Blu spied him sitting behind the desk, and took a moment to breathe in deeply and put her mind in the right place. Don’t think about the sacrifice. Be strong.
She strolled in, placing her box on the desk before him. “So, Eddie, how’s tricks?”
“You’re feeling rather feisty after Bree’s visit.”
She shrugged. “In a much better mood, for sure.”
“I’m glad. Come here.”
She slid onto his lap and kissed him soundly. “Mood swings, I think. The whole emotional gamut thing that comes with being pregnant is weirder than a pack of monkeys chasing the full moon.”
“And nothing whatsoever to do with the fact you drank my blood?”
She sighed and tilted her head against his shoulder. “I was freaked. I’m over it now. Really, I am. For some reason I got uptight about the whole werewolves shouldn’t drink blood thing. But you know? It didn’t change me, and I think the babies needed it, so I’m cool with it. Probably won’t do it a lot, but…”
“Yeah, your teeth are thick, and tend to tear.”
“I hurt you?”
“Your canines weren’t designed for a delicate bite.”
She inspected his neck and found thick scars from her bite. They should have healed by now. Hmm… She wore scars at her neck, a mark of their bonding. Could his be the same? She kind of liked that. “Are these permanent?”
“I believe so. And I wear them proudly. But. Next time,” he said, “maybe we’ll let me cut a vein, yes?”
“Deal. If there is a next time. We’ll let the kids decide that one. So, I was snooping in the storage room.”
“I see that. You found something of yours?”
“And yours. Something in an old trunk that didn’t have a lock on it.”
“Which, in Blu-speak, translates to ‘open me up and look inside.’”
She kissed him, dragging her nails down his neck, but not hard enough to break skin. “You don’t mind.”
“I never mind, and you know that. Kiss me again. You taste good.”
She licked his lip and dashed her tongue inside his mouth. He tasted like icy mint. She wanted to devour him. Dragging up her leg, she couldn’t quite hook it as high along his hip as she normally could, and that spoiled the sexy moment. “Oops, babies.”
“They’re already keeping an eye on their parents,” he said with a chuckle and turned her to straddle him and gave her the deep kiss she’d wanted. He gave her his full attention. His hands caressed her growing curves, his body rising to meet her, and his mouth, ever the master of her desires, explored her mouth with luxurious adoration.
“Mmm, cherries,” he said. “That case I had shipped from California must have arrived?”
“This morning. I so needed fresh fruit, and in the winter it’s impossible to get good stuff here in Minnesota. Anyway…” She tapped his mouth with her red-lacquered finger. “I found a picture of you and one of your old girlfriends. Did you seriously work a beard back then?”
“You saw that in a photo?” he asked.
“One of those old tintypes.”
“Ah, a daguerreotype. Must have been during my Victorian phase. Beards were stylish.”
“Also black clothes, which, I must say, you kinda got stuck in the black mood, eh?” She dusted the shoulder of his black shirt.
“If I was presented with putting together patterns or colors, you know how crazy I would look?”
“Like a fashion nightmare. Stick with the black, lover, and leave the color to me. So who was the chick?”
“I’m not sure. It’s been so long. What did she look like?”
“Dark hair. Dark clothes. No smile. She had a ribbon around her neck.”
“Ah, the telltale ribbon. That would be Dasha. She wasn’t my girlfriend, more like a BFF.”
“Eddie, you are so starting to pick up the lingo.”
“One can hardly not when living with you.”
“So Dasha and you were best buds? You were holding her like she belonged to you.”
“I seem to recall it was more a hurried attempt to hold her still and keep her from giggling while we posed seriously for tho
se interminable camera flashes. Are you jealous?”
“No. Yes. Well, she’s dead right?”
He shrugged. “Not sure. But I’ve not spoken to her since that time.”
“Wow. You and your paramours. Makes me wonder what your number is.”
“My—seriously?” He stroked her lip and tapped it smartly. “You want to know the number of sex partners I’ve had?”
“I won’t judge, lover boy. I know you’ve lived—”
“Almost a thousand years. I couldn’t begin to guess at the number.”
“Well, if you figure at least one partner per year.” She propped her head on his shoulder. “And being the sexy looker you are, I imagine you had more than one a year.”
“You imagine correctly.”
“So we’ll make it one or two a month.”
“Could have been more,” he added.
“Yeah, whatever. Factor in all those decadent orgies you attended in the eighteenth century.”
“Quite a few, if I recall. And don’t forget Marie Antoinette.”
“Yes, the queen. You were such a celebrity hound. You’re right. I don’t want to do that math.”
“Probably best you let it be.”
Her husband had likely had sex with thousands. And the evidence of his skill was apparent every time they slid between the sheets, or when he pushed her up against the wall, or bent her over the back of the couch. As he’d done to so many previously?
Okay, she wasn’t going to think about this anymore.
Sitting up on Creed’s lap, Blu pulled the Pooh box before her and opened it. “I found this stuffed at the back of my mother’s closet. It’s the only thing of hers and mine I managed to rescue after her disappearance.”
Her mom had disappeared when she was ten. She’d been told Persia had run off with a lover, but later, recently in fact, Blu had learned her father, Amandus, had murdered Persia in a jealous rage.
So her family wasn’t exactly the Cleavers.
She drew out a tiny red dress dotted with white flowers and white bows at the hem. “This used to be mine. Can you believe I was that small?”
“I bet you were the cutest baby.”
“I probably wore white tights and little red slippers with this number.” She drew out a gray jumper that had a tail and a hood with ears. “My mouse costume! I wore this for my first Halloween. Don’t you love the braided tail? I think Mom made this. She used to sew a lot of my things, and she’d hand-bead the gorgeous saris she used to wear.”
“Are those your mother’s saris that you wear now?”
She nodded, feeling a lump rise in her throat at her mother’s memory. All she’d wanted after her marriage was a mom to talk to, someone whose shoulder she could lay her head on and get advice. She’d done fine without her, but she didn’t ever want her children to grow up without a mother and a father.
But one would. All alone in a strange land called Faery.
“What’s that?” Creed’s voice brought her back to the present.
With a sigh, Blu pulled out the next item. It was a tiny pink knit cap she must have worn home from the hospital. “A little skullcap. I was so kickin’ in style, wasn’t I? I think I should bedazzle this. Put a heart on it.”
“Is that what you call it when you sparkle like mad?”
She did have a tendency to hit her closet with bedazzler in hand. Life was better when it sparkled.
Creed nuzzled his nose into her purple wig and his thumb stroked across her belly. Blu wondered if her parents had ever shared such intimate, loving moments, then couldn’t imagine the cruel Amandus being so caring toward another living being. She wished her mother could have escaped his torture, and not through death.
Her lungs squeezed, and she sniffed a tear. Emotions rose and the horrors from her past crashed into the uncertainty of her future. “Oh, Creed!”
“What is it, lover? Blu, don’t cry.”
“I don’t know if I can do this. Can I be a mother? I don’t remember much about my mom. And my dad—he was such an asshole. I want to raise my child right. To protect it. To never allow it to fear. But I’m not sure. Is this right?” She met his dark gaze. “A werewolf and a vampire raising a family? That’s so wrong, if you think about it.”
“How can love be wrong?”
Tears spilled freely now and she tucked her head against his neck, breathing in his spicy masculine warmth. “It shouldn’t be.”
Her father would be horrified she was having a vampire’s baby. Her mother? She would never know. But she so wanted her mother to know, to have her around to help her, to teach her how to raise a child. To approve of her actions, no matter how foolish or rash they had been.
“What if I’m a terrible mother?”
“You won’t be.”
“What if my child comes into this world with a craving for blood?”
“That won’t happen until puberty. And what’s wrong with the blood hunger? Wouldn’t it be okay if they took after their father?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. You know I’ve no prejudice against vamps. I will love them no matter their breed. I’m…not in the right place lately.”
“You’re getting worked up, Blu. You’ve so much love to give, we’ll need to raise a whole pack so you can spread it all around.”
“But—”
“Shh…” He kissed her head and hugged her close. “The book was right about emotional mood swings,” he said.
And Blu laughed, but didn’t feel the humor as she cuddled into her husband’s embrace.
If he knew what she had done, he wouldn’t call her such a loving person. Now was not the time to confess her dark deed. How could a man like Creed forgive her that crime against his family? But when would it be right?
Chapter Seven
Two weeks later…
After her daily walk through the forest—she had to get out; her nature demanded it—Blu wobbled into the living room, where Creed sat listening to the strains of some symphony he’d probably once seen conducted by the original composer in a fabulous Parisian opera house. His eyes were closed, his bare feet resting on the end of the couch. She sat and placed his feet on her lap and began to massage them with some of the cocoa butter cream they kept on the coffee table. His feet were soft and she loved touching them, easing her fingers over the thick veins and the hard curves of his ankle bones.
He reached for the remote and turned down the music to a background noise. “You have the magic touch.”
Easing her knuckles along the arch of his foot, she pressed his toes to her belly. “Feel that?”
“One of them is a real fighter,” he said, opening his eyes and sitting up. “Or maybe both. My turn. Pull up your shirt.” He dipped his fingers into the cocoa butter and smoothed them over her stomach. “Feel good?”
“You’re so good to me, lover.” She tilted her head back. The man had magic fingers that seemed to ease every ache she had, and the touch always restored her energy. It was dorky to think, but they really did complete one another. “How will we raise them?”
“What do you mean?”
“We won’t know if they’ll be werewolf or vampire—or both—until they reach puberty. So how will we raise them until that point?”
“There’s much to think about.” He gestured to the baby handbook sitting on the coffee table. “We need to start stocking up on diapers and blankets. And you should pick out things for the nursery.”
“Bree is giving
me a shower after the birth. I’ll get plenty of loot then.”
And then they would only have to buy half as much as Creed suspected now.
“I think we should raise them as both,” Blu said. Nervous now, she felt compelled to confess, but wanted to work up to it slow and easy. “I’ll teach our child—er, children—to run free and hone their natural instincts, while you can teach them patience and understanding. Of which you have a lot. And integrity and honor. That is you to the core.”
“You will teach them to enjoy life and always see the glass half full.”
“You can teach them some incredible history.”
“You’ll make sure they know all the best music and social networking.”
“I want a boy.”
“Really? I would guess a woman would desire a girl. Especially a girlie woman like you, who loves to play dress-up. I won’t have you dressing our boy in wild outfits.”
“Don’t worry. But I want a boy and I want him to be wolf, to carry on the Masterson line.”
Creed nodded. “I see.”
“We could have two boys. One of each,” she suggested, but didn’t want to say any more than that. It was hard enough not to say child when she was supposed to say children.
“I will be happy with either,” Creed offered, bending to kiss her belly. “A little Saint-Pierre running underfoot. I don’t need a child to carry on my name. That feels selfish. You know why I really want children?”
“Tell me.”
“I have lived nearly one thousand years. And in that millennium, I don’t think I’ve ever known innocence.” She stroked his cheek and he bowed his head to her shoulder. “I want to experience the world through the eyes of a child. I want my child to ask me, ‘Daddy, why is the sky blue?’ And then I’ll have to wonder, ‘Why is the sky blue?’ Can you imagine?”
“I can. I can’t wait for you to learn new things about the world through our child.”
Blu sighed. She had used the singular again. Maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult to reveal her sin to him. A necessary sin, she tried to convince herself. But would the child taken to Faery believe as much?