She nodded in understanding. “My young cousin was difficult to deal with.”
“Was? She outgrew it?”
“She moved away with her lover.”
“Ah.”
Somehow they’d ended up walking together and were now exiting the park. He glanced at his watch. She noticed it appeared to be a well-known, expensive make.
“I should be on my way. I have tickets for a matinee show.”
Gwyn nodded. “Have a good time.”
“Do you have plans for the afternoon? I have a spare ticket for the show.”
She rolled her eyes at the obvious pick-up attempt.
“Here.” He reached into his coat pocket. “Take these in case you decide you’re interested.” His extended hand now held two tickets.
“You aren’t going?” She looked at him in surprise.
“My company gave me four tickets. They’re generous that way. You and a friend can go.” When she stared at the slips of paper suspiciously, he laughed. “I promise they aren’t laced with poison or otherwise booby-trapped.” He set them down on a nearby bench and took an exaggerated step back. “See. Completely safe.”
She folded her arms. “You’re mocking me.”
“Of course I am. You’re acting ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous to be wary of strangers bearing gifts.”
“You’ve never heard of random acts of kindness?” She didn’t reply and he shook his head. “I really do need to go. Do with them what you will.”
After he’d left, she picked up the tickets and looked at them. They were for a show she’d been hoping to see but it had been sold out for weeks. Should she go? She wasn’t sure but she pocketed the tickets anyway. No point leaving them in the park for the squirrels.
Movement to his left drew Dante’s attention just as the show was about to begin. Gwyneth slid into a spot two seats over from him. She glanced his way and nodded. He leaned over the empty spaces and spoke in hushed tones.
“I’m glad you decided to use the tickets.”
“It seemed a shame to waste them.”
He flicked a glance at the empty seat. “You didn’t bring anyone with you.”
She looked pointedly at the empty seat beside him. “Your date is using the facilities?”
“Touché.” He eased back into his seat and turned his attention to the stage, supressing a satisfied smile. Patience almost always paid off.
The show proved to be entertaining. Through the intermission, they exchanged opinions about the performance and when it ended they exited together.
“Thank you.” Gwyneth thanked him stiffly as they were about to part ways.
He smiled at how quickly her wariness had returned. “You’re very welcome. Can I walk you home or are you going to whip out a pointy hat and fly home on your broomstick?”
She scowled. “That is so old.”
“Sorry. Has my questionable sense of humour ruined my chances?”
“Chances of what?”
“Of not being accused of stalking you if I stop by the club?”
“The cognac I serve the public hasn’t changed.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to order whiskey instead.”
His persistence made her chuckle.
“I’ve learned to be flexible.” He flicked his eyes over the length of her, a slow smile curving his lips. “So, will I be allowed in the club or has your werebear been told to bar the door if I appear?”
She looked him over much as he’d done to her moments before. “You can stop by right now if you wish. A drink of my best cognac in exchange for the ticket.”
“I’d enjoy that, but not today. I have a business dinner planned. Tomorrow?”
“I’ll see you around two o’clock.”
She extended her hand and he gave it a firm shake, maintaining the contact slightly longer than necessary. The tingle of awareness where their palms met was surprising and he noted that her eyes widened fractionally, perhaps experiencing the same sensation? As he watched her disappear around the corner, he decided the assignment might be over sooner than he’d thought.
You felt a response to her, didn’t you? His wolf murmured the question as they watched Gwyneth walk away.
He rubbed his palm. “A minor reaction. Nothing to speak of.”
Remember we don’t yet know if she can be trusted. She could be in league with our enemy. Finding him is our primary goal. Not wooing a female.
“I’ve not forgotten.” He allowed the smile to fade from his face. “I doubt I’ll ever forget.”
Gwyn considered her strategy as she walked back to the club. It was obvious the Lycan wanted something. He was being too nice, too smooth. The fact that she’d felt a frisson of awareness when their hands had met was irrelevant. Experience had taught her Lycans weren’t to be trusted; she’d lived through almost the exact same scenario with Tomas except she didn’t think Dante’s prime interest was bedding her. It was time to turn the tables on him.
Perhaps, she should act as if she were falling for him. It would provide a means to get closer to him, to discover why he was interested in her. And it wouldn’t be a hardship. The man was good-looking enough that she felt the stirrings of attraction. Too bad he was a filthy dog. She’d made that mistake once in her life, she wasn’t about to do it again.
Her step quickened as she thought about Lycans. Sven had often chided her on her prejudice but he’d not been able to sway her, nor had anyone else. They were pack animals, they took care of their own, turning their backs on Others at the drop of a hat if it suited their purpose.
Tina had tried to argue otherwise as well, pointing out that Stone had gone back to save her when everyone else had given her up as dead. Gwyn had countered that she’d threatened to curse him for eternity but the foolish girl hadn’t believed her, insisting it was true love.
Life had taught her better though. Love did nothing but break your heart and make you grow old. Gwyneth O’Donohue had no use for the emotion. She’d done well all these years without it and would continue to do so for quite some time.
She arrived back at the club close to opening time. Matt greeted her at the door; it was a good thing he had a key or everyone would have been standing outside waiting for her. Instead, the staff was busy preparing for the night under his watchful eye.
“You’re late, Gwyn.” His gentle chide was accompanied with a smile.
“Sorry. I’ll zip upstairs, change and be back in a few minutes.”
“No hurry. We can run the place without you.”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“No. Merely pointing out that if you ever need a break, we could manage. There’s more to life than work, you know.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the wall.
“You’re right.” She winked at him. “There’s sex with a hunky werebear.”
He grinned. “Now how am I supposed to concentrate on my job when you make comments like that?”
“I’m sure you’ll survive.” She trailed one finger down his cheek. “I’ll meet you upstairs once the club closes.”
He pulled her close for a quick kiss before giving her a gentle push toward the stairs.
As she crossed the club and climbed the stairs, she could feel Matt watching her. Oddly enough, the idea of his eyes tracing over her didn’t provide the usual thrill. Of course, she was in a hurry. Now was not the opportune moment to let her libido get the better of her. There’d be time enough for that once the club closed.
Her lips curved. Matt was a find. Not only was he good at his job but he had a mind for business as well as being an excellent lover. And he understood the limits she’d put on their relationship. As friends, they occasionally did things together—movies, a dinner out—but he never demanded more. The arrangement suited her perfectly.
Later that night, Gwyneth rose from bed. Matt was snoring softly, one arm over his head, the covers bunched around his waist. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, each breath hig
hlighting his excellent musculature. His hair was tousled, faint scratches showed on his skin from their recent activity. The sex had been good yet she was restless, the satisfied lethargy that always wooed her to sleep annoyingly beyond her reach.
A snack, perhaps? She padded to the kitchen, the ancient floor boards creaking softly as she moved through the apartment. Staring into the fridge, she saw nothing appetizing nor did the cupboards reveal anything better. Sherman blinked at her sleepily as she circled the living room, before resuming his nap.
“Fine companion you are,” she groused at the feline.
Sherman didn’t respond and she sighed. When all else failed, a drink was usually a good cure in her experience.
Leaving her apartment, she made her way downstairs to the club, pausing in the dark, cavernous space for a moment. She could get a drink from the bar but the club had a sad, lonely air in the wee hours of the morning and that wasn’t the vibe she was looking for right then. Instead, she continued on heading down the cement steps that led to the cellar. Under her bare feet, the floor was cold and unyielding. Just like herself, she mused as she completed the security code sequence that kept the door sealed shut. A soft click let her know the lock had opened and she pushed the heavy, wooden panel aside, stepping into the room where she kept her private stock.
There was nothing outwardly special about the room. Racks lined three of the walls while the fourth contained the door she had passed through and a sideboard with various glasses at the ready. A simple wooden table and two matching chairs were located in the middle of the space under the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling; no cushions or other concessions to comfort were in sight. Functional with no fuss, just the way she liked it.
Now what drink to choose to help her pass the night? Her hand hovered over the array of bottles and then settled on a cognac. It reminded her of Dante and she snorted. Thinking of him would not help her sleep.
She poured herself a measure, sat down and propped her feet on the rough wooden table. With a skill gained from years of experience, she swirled the rich amber liquid in the glass. It shimmered in the dim light, gradually warming in her hand and releasing its heady scent.
“Sláinte!”
Her mocking toast to no one echoed off the walls as she raised the glass to her lips, slowly sipping the potent beverage. It slid down her throat and warmed her gut but did little to chase away the chill of the room.
She tucked her robe more tightly around her legs then rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Her fingers paused over her tattoo. It had been acquired a decade ago, ages after Sven had died. Given the fact that his remains would have been nothing but a skeleton by that time, it had seemed appropriate to get a skull to remember him by. A skull with red roses to commemorate his love. A love she’d never been able to return.
“I’m sorry, Sven. I did warn you. Perhaps, I should have tried harder.”
Eyes half closed she conjured a mental image of the man. It had been long ago yet she could still picture his flaxen hair and twinkling blue eyes. Yes, he’d loved her, declaring the emotion each night as they’d spooned in bed. He hadn’t complained or pressed her to return his feelings. He’d said he was content and, being selfish, she’d believed him. It was only years later that she’d come to wonder.
“Did I hurt you, Sven? When I slept in your arms at night, did you pray I’d awake and declare my love?”
He’d known she wouldn’t…couldn’t. The blood moon spell had ensured that, but had he hoped for some miracle? Dreamed of her eyes gazing into his, filled with the tender emotion?
On impulse, she stood and went to the sideboard, pulling open a drawer and withdrawing a thick book. She pressed her hand to the top, feeling the etching in the leather, sensing the presence of those who had used the book over the ages, before opening the cover and slowly turning the pages.
It didn’t take long to find the page she wanted. She’d studied it often enough over the years, tracing her finger over the text.
By the light of the blood moon, the heart dies.
Without love, time slows.
The curse alone shall survive.
Woe to those that remain alive.
The spell was only half there, of course, the page had torn in half, ripped from her hand by the wind. At the time, she’d felt she’d known the words by heart, but years had since passed and the missing passages were now vague whispers in her mind, no matter how long and hard she searched her memory. Was there a way to break the spell, or would she die if she ever tried to love again? She’d never know the answer. Grimoires were sacred to each family.
She closed the ancient tome and tucked it back in the drawer before returning to her drink. It didn’t matter that the rest of the spell was lost. The capacity to love wasn’t needed in her life. Sven was long dead and he would have frowned at her maudlin train of thought.
“You did enjoy a good time, Sven.” She patted the tattoo on her arm and took another sip before resuming her study of how the light played off the liquid in the glass she cradled.
“Drinking alone again?”
She turned towards the voice in the doorway, a smile on her face. There was only one person who had the gall to enter the club after hours and then intrude on her solitude. An elderly man with snowy white hair and faded blue eyes. “Hello, Cyrus. It’s been a while.”
“Indeed, it has. Since the winter solstice, I believe.” He entered the room and gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze.
“You’re in town early for the council meeting?” She used her foot to nudge out the chair on the other side of the table, a silent invitation to her visitor.
He took the seat opposite her. “Yes, I flew in early to partake in the socials Camille always has planned before the meeting. I do enjoy catching up on all the news.”
She took a sip of her drink and made a noncommittal sound. Idle gatherings were not to her taste. “While I’m glad to see you, you really should knock rather than letting yourself in.”
“But you might not have heard me and I didn’t want to wait outside. There’s a chill in the air and this gown I’m wearing seems to have a draft.”
“So you used a lock charm on my door. Most would consider that to be very bad manners.”
“But we’re old friends and that supersedes tedious bits of etiquette, don’t you think?” He gave her a wink.
She decided to let his breaking-in pass; he really was incorrigible. Instead, she switched the conversation to his garb, a long, flowing white robe. “Is there a reason you’re dressed like a ghost or are you having an identity crisis?”
“I was at the costume ball and didn’t bother changing.” He gave a sheepish grin.
“You mean you like to make a theatrical entrance and you know it, you old goat.” She smiled despite her scolding words. It really was hard to be angry with Cyrus who was a grandfatherly figure with a child-like delight in playing magical tricks. It was hard to believe he was an honoured member of the Universal Coven as well as something of a philanthropist. He used to moonlight as a magician performing charity shows in poorer areas of the world. Now he confined his efforts to North America, bemoaning the fact that age was clipping his wings.
“Guilty as charged.” He pressed a hand to his chest and ducked his head. “And now that I have confessed, may I partake of a drink?”
“Help yourself. You know my private stock is always available to friends.”
He stood to get a glass, poured himself a finger of cognac and then sat down again. “We haven’t spoken in a while. How are you, my dear?”
“Fine.”
“And Sven?” He nodded towards her arm where her tattoo was.
“As fine as a dead man can be.”
“Excellent.”
“Cyrus, is there a purpose to this conversation?”
He ignored her question. “You appeared melancholy when I entered.”
“Introspective. Melancholy implies sadness.”
“And the great Gwyneth wo
uld never stoop to such an emotion.” He raised his glass to the light and then took a tentative sniff of its contents.
“Mock all you want. You know it’s true.”
He said nothing, merely studying her over the rim of his glass.
She sighed. “I’m feeling restless. Matt is upstairs sleeping but I needed…something.” She shrugged.
“So you turned to drink rather than waking him up to talk.”
“Talking to Matt might give him ideas.”
“Ideas?”
“That we’re more involved than we are. Right now he knows the limits. I don’t want to muddy the waters.” She nodded towards the bottle on the table. “Cognac has no misconceptions about its purpose in my life.”
“Ah. I understand.”
“But you didn’t come to talk about my solitary drinking, did you, Cyrus?” She set down her glass and leaned forward, hands folded on the table.
“As delightful as the topic is, no.” He hitched his chair closer and spoke in a low tone. “Camille was wondering why you weren’t at her party.”
“Why are you whispering? She can’t hear you.”
“With Camille, you never know.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll take my chances. Now what’s this about the party?”
“You didn’t return your invitation. She wasn’t happy.”
“I’m a working woman. She knows that. I have to be at the club.”
Cyrus shook his head. “She said you weren’t at the full moon celebration she convened either.”
“I celebrated by myself. A solitary bathing in the moon’s rays is much more energizing than a gossip-ridden gathering.” She made no mention of the strange vision she’d had that night, of a mysterious man appearing out of the mist, his eyes filled with longing. Unlike most visions, it hadn’t made her ill, had in fact left her aching with need. Definitely not the kind of information she wanted to share with Cyrus.
“Your absence was mentioned several times.”
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