The Thing About Weres: A Mystwalker Novel Read online

  For Mom, forever carried in my heart.

  Acknowledgments

  To these people I owe my gratitude:

  Deidre Knight—a wonderful person and a hugely supportive agent.

  Holly Blanck—my talented, keen-eyed editor, who has lots and lots of patience.

  Bella Pagan—my clever UK editor, whose request yielded a prologue I really like.

  Angela Zoltners—cheerleader and champion of the missing word.

  Rebecca Melson—the friend who’s willing to read that first wretched draft.

  Sandra Krecisz—this well-loved girl comes up with perfect names.

  Stephanie Seebeck DiSandolo & Amanda Seebeck—More names! More love!

  Julie Butcher—who listened to me whine. Over and over again.

  Victoria Koski—my eagle-eyed friend, who caught so many errors.

  My family—last but never least.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  On the Tricky Subject of Wishes

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Back ad

  Also by Leigh Evans

  Praise for Leigh Evans

  About the Author

  Copyright

  On the Tricky Subject of Wishes

  I don’t know why Weres think the moon’s so beautiful. Look at it. The thing’s rutted with craters. Not once have I gazed at it and wanted to let loose a wolf howl or break into a melancholy chorus of “Moon River.”

  Most nights, I refuse to give it more than a brooding glance. Matter of fact, most of the time, I make a point of not looking upward. I keep my eyes trained on the life around the pond and the dead air above it.

  But sometimes, when my thoughts are muddy and circular—like they are tonight—my gaze will slowly swing upward to a certain star.

  Star light, star bright.

  If you want to see what I’m waxing poetic about, tilt your chin up and slant your gaze to a few degrees left of the Milky Way. There it is: one twinkle-perfect light. To my eyes, it’s not silver or white but a definite blue—a faint copy of the azure that glimmers from Trowbridge’s eyes. And even though it sparkles from a blanket of similar lights, to me its glow is far brighter than any other star’s.

  It stands alone.

  Brave. Insolent. Bright.

  That makes it unique, and so I claim it as mine. Screw the dudes with the pocket protectors and penchant for Latin. They may have already given that radiant beauty a double-consonant moniker but I’ve redubbed that bit of pretty “Hedi’s Star.”

  The first star I see tonight.

  I’ve never pinned a wish upon my star. Mostly because I have the sneaking suspicion that Karma’s not done with me yet. And I can’t help but worry that no matter how cagily I frame my request, that greedy witch would hear the naked plea in it, and would immediately begin plotting something nasty.

  And she’d already done a whole bunch of the nasty.

  Why? Because Karma’s an insatiable bitch.

  Which is exactly the type of talk Cordelia loathes hearing. Trowbridge’s best friend has several pithy life prompts she repeats whenever she’s convinced I’m in need of some attitude coaching. “You are the architect of your own life.” (Pinched from Alfred A. Montapert.) “Find your passion and embrace it!” (Lifted from Oprah.) And her own wry creation, “Stop brooding, darling, or you’ll get lines around your mouth.”

  They’re relatively new, these buck-up phrases.

  At first, back in the day when we were getting accustomed to each other’s foibles—basically those early weeks just after we’d shoved Trowbridge through the Gates of Merenwyn—my six-foot roommate had been confident that I’d figure out how to summon the portal.

  Uh-huh. That and a dollar bill will get you four bits.

  Then one day, she came to the quiet realization that I wasn’t going to summon up the smoke, and the myst, and the round window to the Fae realm—or maybe better said, she finally understood that I really couldn’t—and she abruptly dropped the subject of bringing the true Alpha of Creemore home.

  That’s when Cordelia started focusing on the here and now, which meant alternately scowling at me with something akin to reluctant affection or holding up her bejeweled finger to utter one of those little bon-mots.

  And that’s when I knew.

  My new best friend had resigned herself to what she considered the truth: that Trowbridge wasn’t ever going to return home; that Merenwyn had swallowed him just like it had swallowed my twin brother Lexi; and now it was up to the three of them—Cordelia, the ex–drag queen; Harry, a Were who’s seen three score and more years; and Biggs, the wolf voted least likely to succeed—to form a protective barrier between me and Trowbridge’s pack.

  “Look on the bright side, darling, where there’s life, there’s hope,” she says now when she’s feeling generous.

  But she doesn’t look at me when she says it.

  Days have run together. Fast forward and we’re here—the first night of the Hunter moon, six months and twelve days after I slid my mate through the Gates of Merenwyn. Which was one of the reasons my favorite star and I were having an epic stare-down before I threw in the towel and tried to get some sleep.

  Last night, as I lay alone in my bunk bed, listening to the dead branches of the old maple chafe in the wind, I had a mind-blowing epiphany.

  Ready? See if you can follow my logic: if there really was such a thing as Karma, then how much of a stretch was it to believe that there’s such thing as a benevolent Goddess in the sky? And even more wondrous—what if my Sky Goddess was more powerful than Karma?

  Could there really be such a loving deity? One that waits, invisible and Godly, dying to hear your problems? And better yet—what if she could protect me from Karma’s whims? What if my Goddess was just waiting to hear me wish upon a star?

  On that hazy thought, I drifted off into a dreamless sleep, from which I woke with the sudden, irritating awareness of one additional and painful twist to the previous night’s revelation.

  Hells-bells, if my logic was sound, then my silence over these last six months wasn’t an act of stoic restraint; it was a piece of lame stupidity.

  Crap.

  So here I am. Sitting cross-legged on Lexi’s pirate stone, slapping at late-season mosquitoes, setting myself up for a fall. On the plus side, I’m solo tonight—nobody’s breathing over my shoulder because my would-be protectors believe I’m safe by the fairy pond. The wolves are spooked by it, and the humans don’t know about it. Up in the trailer, Cordelia’s fussing with her wig. Back at his apartment, Biggs is probably reading some wolf-girl’s Facebook timeline. And Harry? Goddess knows what my favorite geezer’s doing. Maybe he’s oiling his gun.

  I’m finally alone. About to pin a wish on a star.

  I wish I may, I wish I might.


  I clear my throat. “Hey, Star. I’m not sure how this wish-fulfillment thing goes, so I’m going to just work my way toward my request, okay?” Cover all the bases first. You’re not above doing a little groveling to smooth the way. “I know that it’s totally my problem that I can’t summon the portal. I accept responsibility all way round on that. And I know if you really want to be pissy, then it’s my own fault that I’m in this position. After all, I was the person who pushed Trowbridge through the Gates of Merenwyn—”

  Gad, am I turning into one of those wimpy women who tune into Dr. Phil?

  “I had no choice,” I say, in a harder tone. “It was either that or watch him die.”

  And I’ll never sit helpless again, watching someone die.

  “Look, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Karma’s already taken a big bite out of me. A Were killed my dad, and the Fae executed my mom. The Fae stole my brother too—by force—and dragged him across the portal into Merenwyn, and then…” Even now, it’s hard to think of it. “They slammed the gates shut. I haven’t seen Lexi since.”

  Unforgivable.

  Lexi’s got to be alive. Trowbridge, too.

  “Maybe it’s time for the tide to turn. Maybe you can tell Karma to back off and throw me a bone.” I blink hard at the tears gathering, and my star—that round blue diamond—blurs into something you’d expect to see hovering over a stable, a donkey, and a pregnant virgin.

  “I’m not asking for the moon…” I feel my lips curve into a weak smile. “So I won’t ask you to return Merry, too.”

  No, I can’t do that. She made it home. She’s safe now.

  My damned throat is so damn raw it hurts to form the words. “So all I’m asking for is…”

  Oh, Goddess. What if Trowbridge is happier there? What if life is better in Merenwyn? Is that why neither of them have returned home?

  I can’t shape the words.

  I can only silently pray.

  Please, Star.

  Give me the wish I wish tonight.

  Chapter One

  Wishing upon a star is a foolish exercise. I’d gone to bed late, after a quiet dinner of two maple-glazed doughnuts and a Kit Kat, followed by a chaser of grape juice.

  “I’m dreaming again,” I said, feeling miserable and happy all at once.

  Because I was, and because it was as good a way as any of saying hello. The alternative was saying “Hello, beautiful,” and that was both obvious and repetitive.

  On his worst day, my guy is a freakin’ work of art.

  I know.

  I’ve seen him on his worst day.

  Robson Trowbridge stood hip-deep in the Pool of Life, caught in the act of raking his long, curling hair off his forehead. I could waste time wondering why each visit begins the same way—his hand lifted to his brow, his bicep flexed, his abdomen muscles ridged like some lucky girl’s washboard—but I won’t. It’s my dream or his dream or our dream, and it never ends well, so it seems fitting that it begins with him hale and hearty, and so insanely sexy that a girl’s heart picks up at the sight of him.

  As mine had.

  Evidently, art appreciation does that to me.

  Blame it on his hair. Except for a few faint silver threads, Trowbridge’s mane is as dark as a lump of coal and enviably thick. Though, at present, it was wet, and mostly, so was he. Beads of the Pool of Life’s water stood out on the slope of my mate’s shoulder—little translucent blips of healing Fae power that paid no heed to gravity—seemingly content to stay there, clinging to his collarbone and the rounded swell of his upper deltoids.

  Therein lies one of the inherent problems about being around Trowbridge.

  He’s so damn beautiful that it’s really hard to think in a straight line around him. For instance, when I saw those little beads of water on his hard shoulder, I didn’t think “baby needs a towel.” Nope. Instead, I imagined myself licking the moisture off.

  Sad, the direction my brain slithers when I’m around my mate.

  To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with the full body flush of sexual desire that nearly levels me when I see him standing there, utterly desirable and absolutely unreachable. I don’t trust it. There was no reason to it, no natural progression from first stirrings of attraction to my current level of “wave my panties over my head” lust.

  I grew up in the same small Ontario town as he. His house was just on the other side of the pond. As a kid, I’d been the uninspired witness to many Trowbridge sightings. But one day, a few months before puberty, I looked at him, and it was like someone had pressed my sexual identity’s switch to on. Bam! Bye-bye, Barbie. Hello, Trowbridge.

  Like my body was preset for him, and him alone.

  Behind my lover, Merenwyn’s forest climbed a series of hills in rolling swells of golden yellow and deep green, providing a scenic foil to Trowbridge’s own particular dark beauty. I studied the tree line until my heart settled down, then said with faux calm, “It’s cold tonight.”

  Gorgeous grimaced and pulled his fingers free from his damp locks. “Why does it always have to be water? I hate water.”

  “You know, you look so real in my dreams. Sometimes I think—”

  “That you’re not dreaming. Well, check the list, Hedi Peacock. Am I wearing any clothing?” Trowbridge ran his hand down his gleaming chest, sliding it along the landscape of all that lovely taut flesh, to disappear under the water. “That’s a definite no. Do you know what happens to skin when it stays in water for a long time? Things get shriveled. Important things, like—” He frowned, his hand busy under the water. “God, they feel like stewed prunes.”

  My mate pulled out his dripping paw, inspected it with a fierce scowl, and gave his hand a savage flick. Droplets of water sprayed—a bullwhip of diamond beads. “Why here? We could have this conversation anywhere else. You know—”

  “I know. Weres can’t swim. You hate water.”

  He wasn’t listening. Instead he was concentrating on dragging his wet mitt across the single dry patch on his pecs—once, twice, and—ah, there we go—three times—before he was satisfied that his hand was dry enough to plant on his narrow hip.

  Now his chest gleamed in the most distracting way.

  “You making any progress on getting these nightmares under control?” he asked.

  “This isn’t my nightmare.”

  “Tinker Bell, if this was one of my dreams, you’d be naked and we’d be in bed. This is one of your nightmares. I’m standing in the middle of some damn millpond that the Fae consider healing and sacred, without a gun, a knife, or an Uzi. You’re under the cherry tree, looking like…”

  He let his gaze casually roam. First to my mouth, where it lingered on my upper full lip, then slowly down the line of my white throat, from there to the hollow that he’d kissed, and finally to my breast, where it rested for a heated moment or two.

  There went his nostrils. Flared as if he could scent me.

  “Don’t stare at me like that,” I whispered, flattening a hand over my stomach.

  “Like what?” His hooded eyes glittered.

  As if your gaze were leaving a trail of heat on my skin. As if I were the sexiest thing you’d ever seen. As if you—

  “You are. You are my fuckin’ catnip,” he said simply. “And I’m getting beyond tired of the whole ‘look but don’t touch’ torture. Come to me, right now. Walk down that hill and meet me in this goddamn pond.”

  Eyes the color of the Mediterranean challenged me. Not the soft warm hue of shoreline shallows—with mellow hints of turquoise and green—no, more like the saltwater just past that, where the sea is deep and filled with unexpected currents.

  Now, they demanded.

  Yes.

  I took an unsteady step toward him and then … found myself wobbling, my balance destroyed. I could not move forward one more inch. My muscles seemed frozen, incapable of the slightest task. No matter how I willed myself, no matter how I struggled.

  With a ragged breath,
I retreated. “I can’t, Trowbridge. She won’t let me join you.”

  “I’ve told you. There is no such thing as Karma. All you need to—”

  “I can’t! I cheated her when I pushed you through the Gates of Merenwyn. This is Karma’s revenge. She brings us together every night, and she won’t let me move.”

  He shook his head once, sharply, in denial. “She doesn’t exist.”

  “She does.”

  Anger momentarily tightened his features. Then he assumed control, taking in a long, slow breath. “Okay. We’ll just talk about the weather for a bit. So, is it fall in Creemore yet? All the trees are yellow here.” His gaze traveled as he spoke. A soft hiss of air escaped his lips. “God, I wish you could see what’s behind you.”

  I can’t. I’m stuck in my head. Just a dreamwalker without a true body, my gaze somehow fastened on you, as if you were the quavering needle on my compass, watching you and knowing that I won’t be able to—

  “Mannus was right about one thing: this slice of heaven has never met a douchebag with a chain saw. Most of it’s virgin forest.” His head swiveled left, then right, his brow furrowed. “That’s the thing about Merenwyn. The land’s whole in this realm. You can taste it—pure and clean—on your tongue. The wind smells—”

  “Sweet,” I whispered. “It’s the magic in the air.”

  “Maybe. Mostly it smells clean without the humans polluting the place. They smell, and they don’t even know it. Their accessories are worse. Their cars, their barbecues, their—”

  “You liked driving.”

  He frowned, as if surprised he’d forgotten that. “Yeah, I did.” Then with a light shrug, he pointed to a hill at least a mile in the distance to his left. “There’s some whitetails up there. Smell them?” I shook my head to remind him—I’m only half Were, my little Fae nose isn’t as keen as yours, Trowbridge—but his eyes had become slits, predator sharp; his concentration turned to fix on the quarry in the forest. “One of the bucks is rubbing his antlers against the bark of a tree. Hear it? He’s telling all the other bastards to keep out of his way. He’s chosen his doe.” He listened for a bit, his face rapt. “There’s so much game up in those hills.”