Michael couldn’t sense anyone in the homes. The air was ripe with the ravens’ scent, but it was old. Stale.
“Please enter, travelers,” the woman’s voice beckoned from inside the mountain.
Alison reached out and took Michael’s hand. Hers was trembling. Fear had hold of her. Her pupils were pinpricks, her breath came in short shallow gasps, her heart raced like a hummingbird’s.
He was such a dope. He’d been so busy focusing on himself, on the ravens, that he hadn’t stopped to consider any of this from her perspective. Just yesterday she was a nearly broke academic city girl who had just inherited a dilapidated house in the country, and literally the next day she was walking through a magical forest with a strange man—a strange ridiculously hot man, let’s be honest—who said he loved her and who had already came on way too strong, and now here she was facing some evil trickster queen. No wonder she was panicking.
Michael stepped in front of Alison, facing her. He cupped the back of her head in his large hand and planted a tender kiss on her lips. “Hey,” he said. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here.” She blinked at him. He could smell the arousal and the fear fighting each other. She’d sweated off most of the musk sage, but his bear was calmer now. It’d gotten used to her scent slowly.
“What’s going to happen? I literally have no idea what I’m doing or why I agreed to this.”
“Just focus on the house. On your plans. What are you going to call this brewery?”
“It’s a bed and brew, but I thought I’d give them each different names.” She smiled at him and his heart exploded into a thousand ragged pieces. It was a simple smile, guileless, without fear or agenda. And the warmth of it was almost too much to bear. Could he really be her mate? She was smarter than him, better educated. He was just a podunk mechanic who sold junk in front of his house. What could he offer her, really, besides his body?
“Like, that house is so big I could easily—well not easily easily—fix it up and rent out the rooms to tourists and build the brewery out where the barn used to be. And because it’s Bearfield, I thought I’d call the pub the Bearfield Growler, because a growler is a kind of beer glass. Get it?”
It was Michael’s turn to beam at her. “That’s just a really great name. Did I tell you my brother, Marcus, runs a construction firm? I’m sure I could get him to help you build out for cost.”
An annoyed cawing sounded from the citadel. “This is really fascinating,” the queen said, her voice dripping with scorn, “but are you really going to keep the queen waiting while you discuss names for your bar?”
“It’s a brewery,” Alison said defensively. “Not a bar.”
“Whatever,” the queen said. “Approach.”
The interior of the citadel was carved from the very stone of the mountain. The art of it was lost on Michael, but he was sure it was impressive. The wide doors opened on a path of shining stones, interspersed with lights of every sort. Christmas lights festooned the walls and ceiling. Ikea lamps in a hundred different shapes lined the path, leading past smaller doors and passages that wound off into the mountain. The main path ended at a vaulted throne room so full of mirrors and lights that it was nearly blinding. It was like standing inside some twisted disco sun. At the center of the room was a raised platform and on that platform was a wide low divan with crushed crimson velvet upholstering. Fluted oak legs held the divan up with flawless splendor.
“That’s an early Victorian settee,” Michael mumbled, his antiquing instincts kicking in. “With original legs and exquisitely maintained surfacing.” He did a quick calculation in his head and whistled. It was exactly the kind of thing he hoped to find at an estate sale. It was only after he’d finished appreciating the sofa that he turned his attention to the woman seated on top of it.
The queen was long and lithe, draped artfully over her red velvet high-backed sofa like a fashion model gone evil. She wore a black silk gown slit to the waist. One pale leg emerged from the slit, cocked at the knee. The dress hugged her narrow frame, with a décolletage lined with sparkling rubies. A cape of black feathers spilled from her neck across the floor. She had black hair that framed her face, curling around her jawline in such a perfect bob that a thousand flappers would have burst into tears upon seeing it. She had plum-colored lips and gray eyes heavily shrouded in smoky shadows. Her skin was so pale it was nearly white. She had pouting lips like a wrapped bow and a sharp straight nose. The queen surveyed them through thick lashes, languorously stretching on the divan like she’d just returned from the Oscars and needed to rest before hitting the runway in Milan.
Any other day, Michael would have fallen to his knees in lust. He turned to regard Alison, who was staring at the queen in a mixture of fascination and dread. This woman he’d spent the morning with was short. She was curvy in all the right places. She was wearing hiking boots and a flannel shirt with pants that were too long for her and rolled up at the cuffs. Her hair was frizzy with exertion. She wasn’t a model. She’d never be confused for a model or feel at home lounging around in a bejeweled silk gown. But given the choice, he’d choose her over the queen any day. Alison was beautiful and real. She was soft and yielding when she needed to be, and full of fire and lore when she needed that instead. She could do things. She knew stuff. And Michael found that indescribably sexy.
“Hello, little cub,” the queen said. “It’s been so long. Do you remember me?”
Michael shook his head. “I remember your mother. Have we met before?”
“Met? No,” she smiled an icy smile. When the woman spoke her face had no expression, but her eyes glittered like shining stones. “But when your father brought you here as a boy, I was in attendance. My mother though, she didn’t like anyone stealing attention from her, so I was confined to the shadows.”
Michael glanced around the room. There were no other ravens present. He was sure of it. He could hear a handful much deeper in the citadel, talking and laughing, but the place should have been cacophonous. “Queen, where are your people?”
The queen pouted slightly and Michael was struck again by the feeling that he should have found her attractive, but didn’t. She was exquisitely beautiful, there was no doubting that. But she did nothing for him at all. Alison slipped her fingers into his and squeezed. This must be so weird for her, but he couldn’t risk paying her attention in the queen’s presence. That surely would be an insult, so instead he squeezed back and ran his thumb over the smoothness of her hand. There was an electricity between them, coursing through their skin. It made him more alive than ever, more real. Like he’d been sitting in his shack the past three years, just biding time until she came along and touched him and made him real and whole.
“My people are not here. Where they are is of no concern of yours.”
It is if they’re off robbing everyone in Bearfield, Michael didn’t say.
“Tell me why you are here. Why do you seek audience with the Raven Queen?” Her voice boomed as she said the words, and a flock of normal ravens exploded from a recession higher up in the mountain citadel.
This was the tricky part.
Michael sank to his knees and then bowed forward, pressing his forehead to the ground. His hand slipped from Alison’s and for a moment he felt like he was falling, plummeting away from her. “Queen, a raven shifter last night broke into this woman’s house and stole from her a metal box. In the box were treasures, one of which belonged to me and my kind.”
The queen sat straighter, her dress flowing around her like water, the silk a whisper in Michael’s ear.
“How do you know? Were there witnesses?”
“This woman witnessed, your highness. And so did I.” Michael was careful to not say too much, to just give the facts. The ravens were unpredictable and quick to anger.
“Describe the thief,” the queen said, her voice losing its composure, the rich deep tones breaking into a squawk on the word thief.
“He was thin, with long straight black hair, and a hunche
d posture. He wore a leather jacket that shifted with him.”
“And he had a really big nose,” Alison added, too late realizing her mistake. She was standing, facing the queen as an equal.
The queen flew at her, stopping an inch from Alison’s face. The raven woman’s hands were transformed into grotesque black talons with claws six inches long. When a bird is that big, it stops looking like a bird and starts looking like a dinosaur. The queen had nasty, murderous, velociraptor hands. “Who is this mortal woman who dares speak in my presence?” she hissed, her eyes fully black, feathers sprouting from her head and then down her back in a waterfall.
Before Alison could say anything, Michael blurted out. “She’s my mate. We’re fated. If you harm her, you harm me and draw the anger of Marcus down on you and your clan.”
At the mention of his brother’s name, the queen stepped away from Alison and in a blink she was composed again, all signs of claws and feathers and rage hidden away like treasures. Michael tried not to think about the way Alison’s heart raced, the fear pouring off her skin. He hoped it was fear of the queen and not fear of him. This wasn’t how he wanted to tell her about the fated mates thing. In fact, it was just about the absolute worst way he could have imagined. She was seeing the weirdness, the badness, that so many shifter communities fell into. Without regular mortal contact, shifters of every sort grew wild and aggressive, their animal instincts bleeding through. What would the ravens have been like if they’d settled in Bearfield proper? He could imagine the queen running a bead store, or selling mirrors and glass baubles to tourists. Still beautiful, but in more of a woodsy Northern California way, giving up her silk dress for tight-fitting lululemons and integrating instead of isolating.
“Mate, huh? Does she know that?” the Raven Queen laughed, her visage crumbling for a second as the harsh laugh of the bird inside her escaped. There was madness in her eyes.
Beside him, Alison backed away slightly. Her heart was still pounding. It took everything he had not to jump to his feet and hold her, explain everything. But if he did that, he’d start a war.
“This man you saw—I know him. He’s an exile. His mortal name is Jack Sable.” The queen sat back on her divan, primly now, smoothing out her dress and glancing around for the servants who no longer waited on her.
“I don’t know the name.”
“He wasn’t here long. He’s an orphan and sought protection with us. He bought a year and a day of it with a gift, but abused our trust and was sent away. Though my scouts have reported seeing him nearby. The man is dangerous, bear cub. He possesses stolen knowledge, strange gifts. He has forbidden desires.”
If anyone else had said that phrase, Michael would have assumed that Jack Sable was into some weird stuff sexually, but the way the queen said it he knew in an instant what was going on. “He wants to unseat you.”
“Can you imagine? A foreign raven lives under my roof for not even a month before he starts spreading word of what a poor ruler I am.” The queen thumped her fist against the divan, making Michael wince with worry about the sofa. “My mother built this aerie, but I perfected it. How dare he?”
Alison kneeled beside Michael, pressing her forehead to the ground like he had. She waited a moment until the queen acknowledged her with a haughty sniff. “Your grace, where can we find Jack Sable?”
“Tell me, mortal woman, mate of the bear, Alison Sage-Skin, what is the information worth to you?” In a flash the Raven Queen was kneeling before Alison. She moved faster than Michael could even see. He really, really hoped he wouldn’t have to fight her. He was pretty sure he’d lose.
The queen stroked Alison’s face with her long pale fingers. Next to Alison’s warm brown skin, the fingers looked sickly, unnatural. “Tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me what it’s worth. Strike a bargain with me. You have so much you aren’t using, woman. So much you don’t need. Trade me twenty pounds of flesh for the answer, for you have some to spare. Trade me your connection to this bear. You don’t even want it, do you? You could give it to me, we ravens are clever clever clever, we could take your fate away with a snip and give you a future unburdened by this man. Trade me your soul even, I know some who could use it. And what good is it doing you? Filling you with guilt and self-loathing and so much doubt. Give me your soul and you can walk lightly on the earth.” The queen planted a kiss on Alison’s forehead. “But you’ll need to give me something of worth, Alison Meadows, heir to Jackson’s Hollow, raven law demands it.”
Before Michael could open his mouth, could protest, could demand they come back with Matt and draw up a solid contract, Alison spoke.
“Do you like beer, your majesty?”
“Beer?” the Raven Queen said, like she’d never heard the word before.
“If I get this box back from Jack Sable, I’m going to open a drinking establishment next to my grandfather’s estate. If you tell us what we need to know to find the thief, then one night a month, you can drink free. And all of your crows, too.”
In a flash the queen had Alison by the neck. With one hand she grabbed her and flipped her over onto her back, driving the air from her lungs. “Crows? Crows!” the queen shouted, her face growing monstrous with the shift.
“She meant no offense,” Michael said, putting the growl into his voice. His bear roared within him, furious that the queen should dare touch his mate. In response the queen let go of Alison like she’d been burned and stumbled away.
“This deal, would it include free appetizers as well?”
“Excuse me?” Alison croaked from the floor.
“Mozzarella sticks. Jalapeño poppers. Fried pickles. Artisanal pickled veggies. These things are known to us and we find them pleasing.”
“How about half off on appetizers? I’ll still have margins to meet.”
“Very well,” the Raven Queen said, tapping her long fingers together. “We have a deal, Alison of the Meadow. I will tell you all I know of Jack Sable, and you shall provide me and my kind with beer and fried things one Saturday a month.”
“Tuesday,” Alison said, getting to her feet and rubbing at her neck. The queen’s handprint lingered on her skin. “I can do Tuesdays.”
The queen nodded. “Very well, the first Tuesday of the month shall be Raven Night! And all of my people shall drink their fill.”
“It’s a deal,” Alison said, reaching out and shaking the hand of the queen.
Michael wasn’t sure what had just happened, but it sure seemed like Alison won.
Chapter 6
Bearly Keeping Their Pants On
Alison’s forehead itched where the queen had kissed her. They’d been out of the citadel two hours, making their way through disused paths more suitable for deer than people. Or whatever Michael was. Thinking about the cold burning itch where the queen’s lips had touched her, or the soreness in her neck where the crazy bitch had grabbed her kept her distracted from the elephant in the room.
She was Michael’s mate.
The queen had said it and Michael had agreed, but there was no way Alison could talk about it. How do you bring something like that up? How do you make room for it in your heart? Shouldn’t they, like, date or have at least one meal together? She lived with Drew for years before the idea of marriage became a possibility. She’d known Michael for what, a day? It was impossible.
And yet.
She wanted to touch him again. The electricity that shot between them was real. The way he looked at her was very real. And the way he made her feel deep down was extremely, hotly, wetly, urgently real. She needed to touch him again. To smell him. To get naked and rub herself all over him. The heat inside her was becoming unbearable. She had a wicked sense of what it would take to quench the heat and she knew Michael would gladly give it to her, but how could she?
They were fated to be together. Alison knew the truth of the words in her blood. She’d known from the moment he touched her, even if she didn’t have the right words for it then. She wanted to ask him what it mea
nt, to talk it over, but since leaving the Raven Queen’s Hot Topic Goth-er Than Thou Lair of Eternal Blackness and Slinky Dresses, he’d been quiet, saying only what he needed to. Michael didn’t seem mad at her, not at all. He seemed embarrassed, worried even.
The kiss burned on her forehead.
Once, as a little girl, she and her sisters had been watching that Christmas Story movie. The one with Ralphie and the parade of misfortune? There’s a scene where he dares his friend to stick his tongue to a frozen telephone pole and he does. And it sticks and hilarity ensues. Well, her older sister Diana did not believe that would happen. “No way,” she said. “That’s not how tongues work.” She was ten years Alison’s elder and to a four year old, the epitome of worldly knowledge. So when Vivian, the next oldest, decided to argue the point they decided a practical experiment was in order. The sisters went to the freezer, where their mother had approximately nine thousand cans of frozen lemonade cooling, awaiting some summer day. Alison couldn’t remember the exact details, but the sisters had talked it over and come to the conclusion that the metal lid of a can of freezer juice was the closest they could come to a wintry telephone pole and for some reason, Alison had to be the one to stick her tongue to the can. “It won’t stick,” Diana swore. “Don’t be a baby.” But then Vivian countered with, “It’s going to stick so bad they’ll need to buy you a new tongue.” Sure enough, Alison’s tongue stuck to that can, burning coldly and painfully. Her sisters ran around like cats with their tails on fire, crying and screaming even louder than Alison. They needed to get the can off her tongue before their mom got home, and Vivian was sure Alison was going to get “freezer burn” on her tongue, so instead of doing the smart thing and thawing the can with warm water until it slid from her tongue, they tore it off, leaving the tippiest bit of Alison’s tongue a little bloody circle.
That was how her head felt now, like the Raven Queen’s lingering kiss was a can of frozen juice pressed to her head, only she didn’t know how to pull it off.
A Taste of Honeybear Wine (BBW Bear Shifter Standalone Romance Novel) (Bearfield Book 2) Page 7