by Dianna Hardy
“It’s done.” Her aged face looked menacing under the low lighting, but then, she kind of looked like that in broad daylight too.
He breathed out a sigh of relief that Lydia was safe – that she’d survived – although his heart bled for the fact that he’d lied to her all these years. Her own father. Surely she’d have realised that by now. He wondered if she hated him.
“Get over it, James,” scolded Aunt Gladys. “You did what was right. You did what you had to do.” She covered her crystal ball, and cleared up her saucer and cup lined with tea leaves.
“For whose benefit?”
She glared at him. “She’s safe, isn’t she? She’s mated now.”
“Are you sure—”
“My Guides don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not suggesting they do,” he mumbled. Although he wondered if they omitted certain details as they saw fit – sort of like how he had done with Lydia all of her life. Guilt ate at him.
He didn’t know if he completely believed in his aunt’s mumbo-jumbo, but he did know that he’d been witness to some inexplicable things over the years, attributed directly to her, so he decided to trust her clarity over his lack of it. “So, what happens now?”
She smiled through her many wrinkles and he was reminded of an arid desert floor that would leech the water right out of anywhere it could to satisfy its own thirst. His aunt was a woman who would ensure she survived before she ensured survival for anyone else.
“Now, we wait.”
~*~
“What do you mean, gone?”
“I mean, gone. Vamoosh. Au revoir. The removal men were here Thursday. You should have seen the size of them – who was I to argue,” he shrugged.
Brendan regarded the man in flat 2 warily. He was obviously a drug addict. If the bleary red eyes didn’t give it away, the needle marks on his arms, coupled with his too-thin frame, did. He’d clearly been expecting someone else at the door or he’d have covered those arms up.
“What did they look like?” pressed Brendan.
Drug-man sniffed and shrugged again. “You know – big.”
“No, I don’t know,” he seethed, impatiently.
The man sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Well, they were tall and with muscles, though one of them was more bulky – looked like a body builder or something. Other guy was blond – white-blond hair – and he gave me the shivers. Won’t forget his eyes. Colour of ice – if ice had a colour – and I reckon he could kill you with a look too.”
Lawrence. And the ‘body-builder’ would be Ryan. A knot tightened in his gut. Guess they lied about Ryan being missing then.
“And they took everything?” asked Brendan.
“Yeah. Do you want me to let you in?”
“Let me in?”
“Yeah.” He pulled a credit card from his back pocket and winked.
Jesus Christ, Lydia was sharing her building with these kinds of people? Shit. “Yeah, let me in,” he replied, grimly.
The guy grabbed his keys—how ironic—shut his door and walked down the corridor to Lydia’s. Flat 4.
Brendan battled with a wave of anger. He should never have left her alone Wednesday night. What the fuck had happened? He’d arrived at work this morning only to have his dad tell him that Lydia had left. Handed in her notice. Except her notice wasn’t signed by her – it wasn’t signed at all, just printed. Besides, Lydia simply wouldn’t do that. Okay, so he’d only known her for little under four months, but he knew she wouldn’t do that without a word. If something bothered her, she was the kind of woman who picked up a phone and shouted expletives at you – as she’d proven – not the kind of woman who just fucked off.
The guy shoved his credit card into the gap at the side of the door and wheedled it down until it hit the catch. Then with frightening ease, he lifted the door by its handle, just a fraction, which created enough of a shift so the card slipped between the catch and the wall, and he pushed the door open.
Brendan grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt and barrelled him against the wall. “You ever been in here without her knowing, you piece of shit?”
“No! Man, what’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” He bunched his hand up against the man’s neck so his breathing laboured.
He wheezed. “I’m helping you out here.”
“And I’m grateful. If I ever find out Lydia felt uncomfortable in her own home, that she found you creepy in any way, I’m coming back to let you know about it.” He threw him out the door. “You can go now.”
The guy didn’t argue, but hurried back to his own flat. Maybe he was due his next fix.
Brendan gazed at his surroundings. Yeah, the place was completely empty. He cursed and entered the bathroom. That had been cleared out too.
He grabbed his cigarette packet from his back pocket, lifted the lid and pulled out a Marlboro with his teeth. He wouldn’t light it in here, but he was done anyway. He turned to leave.
Lydia had said something about Lawrence owning the theatre, hadn’t she?
Time to pay the bastard a visit.
~*~
From a distance, he watched her on her knees, digging into the bed of flowers in her front garden. She was clearly good with her hands. He wondered what else she could do with those hands while on her knees. The thought got him hard, and it was such shame it was a busy, bright, Saturday summer’s evening, and he couldn’t just reach into his trousers and bring himself off as he stared at the creamy tops of her breasts swaying slightly as she dug into the earth.
This wasn’t the one he’d originally been looking for; he knew that – although he hadn’t known it at first. It wasn’t until yesterday that he’d finally been a hundred percent satisfied she wasn’t a wolf. She was human.
That female Trident bitch was an idiot. She’d left the warehouse in a mess, and almost lost the syringe to boot. But he had predicted her clumsiness. She’d been so wrapped up in that Alpha – Ryan – for her to focus properly … for her to see the bigger picture.
He’d created a diversion on the High Street for the police by setting a building on fire, then he’d crept into the warehouse after the storm had passed, cleared all the dead bodies, found the syringe that held everything they’d spent so long working for … and he’d found this little treat too.
He held up the blouse to his nose for the hundredth time and inhaled. Definitely a female’s scent, but also a male’s. He wasn’t interested in the male – he cared not an iota about finding the fucking pack and the Trident taking over the werewolf race – Dr. Trident had been insane. A complete loony-bin. The Trident just couldn’t admit it; none of them could except him – he called out the belated doctor for what he was. And he hated him. Hated him for creating their abominable species. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to use the doctor’s marvellous genetic work for his own gain. He wasn’t a fool, and, after all, wasn’t he allowed a mate too? He’d always envied humans their ability to love. He wanted to love, and to be loved in return.
So he played along, towed the line, stood to attention when called to do so, and pretended he was one of the in-crowd. He’d dutifully handed the syringe back to The Trident (though not before removing a portion of the liquid for himself), but he hadn’t told any of the surviving Trident about his find.
He stroked the blouse against his cheek. Funny how things turned out, wasn’t it? Funny how fate always stepped in with her own plan. He’d gone searching for the female wolf imprinted on the blouse, and instead he’d found this human, purely by accident. He’d been standing at the edge of the woods, the female wolf’s scent hovering in the air, when voices had carried up the path. He’d whipped out his map and had pretended to be studying his route. Two hikers had walked by, one of them her – this woman now tending the flowers…
“When are you going back home?” her companion had asked.
“Tomorrow morning. Weekends are always busy for me.”
And as she’d passed him, her delightful aroma ha
d hit him full force and sent prickles all over his skin … because riding on it was something familiar – something he’d been searching for but hadn’t known it at the time. It was barely there at all, but there nonetheless. It intrigued him no end, and his instinct to conquer and claim overrode all else. He abandoned his search for the female wolf straight away, and had followed this woman instead – this woman that carried the other scent imprinted on the blouse.
He dropped the piece of clothing beneath his seat, reached under his dashboard and yanked a wire out. Then he abandoned his car and made his way down the road. His throat dried as he approached her. God, she was beautiful; such a tenderness in her actions … he just wanted to eat her up.
“Excuse me,” he said.
She looked up at him, blinking the evening sun out of her eyes – amazing, dark eyes…
“I’m so sorry to trouble you. My car’s broken down and I can’t get a signal out of my mobile phone. I was wondering if I could trouble you for yours so I can call breakdown recovery?”
Something in those dark brown eyes froze for a moment, and he thought he saw a flash of pure terror in them. What on earth had he said to cause that reaction? But then she shook her head with a bashful smile, as if apologising for her silliness. “I’m sorry; I got the weirdest sense of déjà vu… Of course you can use my phone. Oh…” She stopped mid-sentence. “I just remembered the battery’s dead and I haven’t got around to charging it. Erm—”
“Do you perhaps have a cordless landline phone?” Almost everyone had a cordless nowadays. He was playing it safe, letting his hands hang loose by his sides so she could see he hid nothing, that he was open – trustworthy…
She hesitated, glancing around briefly.
Yes, sweetheart, take a look around. You live in a town house and it’s busy. You’re safe. People are milling about; a couple have even glanced this way and seen me…
He stood his ground, saying nothing. He would not invite himself in.
She met his eyes, seemed to relax, then smiled that shy smile again that made him wonder what those lips tasted like. “I don’t have a cordless, but why don’t you come inside. The phone’s just behind the door in the hallway. You can make your call from there; it would be no trouble.”
“You’re too kind. My name’s Amil, by the way.” He held out his hand for her.
She took it and her cheeks tainted pink.
Too cute. He could lose control over this one. He already had a strong urge to shift.
“Sarah,” she said, quietly. “My name’s Sarah.”
He smiled his most charming smile at her, and he knew he didn’t brush up ugly. “Sarah.” Her name rolled off his tongue like syrup, and he finally uttered a truth. “I’m delighted to meet you.”
He followed her inside her house.
“...Everything can be taken from a man but one thing; the last of the human freedoms – to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”
Viktor Frankl
Book two, Cry Of The Wolf, is released in 2013. To keep up with all updates, please join me on Facebook or Twitter.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to extend my huge thanks to Elizabeth and Ninfa, both of whom have provided much needed support over the past two months, with both my writing and my personal life. It’s not how much you do, it’s how you do it, and the fact that you’re simply there. xxx
About The Author
Dianna Hardy is a UK-based, independent author of gothic poetry, adult urban fantasy, dark fantasy and paranormal romance, including The Witching Pen Novellas and ‘Til Death Do Us Part (an adult retelling of The Little Mermaid). She is currently working on the Eye Of The Storm series, The Last Dragon (a spin-off novel to The Witching Pen Novellas), and the Project Veil series.
She pens stories that are fast-paced, action-packed and sexy, and writes both full-length novels and short fiction.
Dianna resides in Surrey with her partner and their daughter.
Official site:
http://www.diannahardy.com
Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/authordiannahardy
Twitter:
http://www.twitter.com/thewitchingpen
Coming Soon
Cry Of The Wolf (Eye Of The Storm #2)
Heart Of The Wolf (Eye Of The Storm #3)
The Last Dragon – a spin-off, full-length novel to The Witching Pen Novellas
The Project Veil series
Other Titles
A Silver Kiss (Vampire Poetry)
A dark and daring addition to the literary world of vampirism, this is a collection of rhyming and freestyle poetry that explores the often taboo themes of power, possession and seduction.
Emotionally charging, each poem is written from a different perspective, be it the hunter or the hunted and inspires a deeper look into the psychology of the human mind and the darker aspects of human relationships and society.
Age range: suitable for older teenagers to adults
Published by Bitten Fruit Books
All details can be found at
http://www.vampirepoetry.co.uk
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