The Thing About Weres: A Mystwalker Novel Page 14

  For a second, everything in me tensed, ready to pull back a fist and hit him, because there was a savage ache inside my breast and I wanted him to hurt as much as I, and then—thank you, Goddess—my wits registered the tremble of his fingers. And with that, my heart started slamming inside my chest—fast, like an ocean-skimming bird that’s finally found land.

  This is not the touch of a detached man.

  Silently, his knuckles brushed the contour of my upper lip in a way that was familiar and unsettling. His gaze was fixed on my mouth as if it were something he yearned to possess.

  Damn him.

  For half a year, I’d watched him die over and over again. For 196 days I’d hated myself for my inability to bring him home. Never had I felt so incompetent, so guilty, so tightly caught in the grip of Karma’s curse. I’d rethought every moment of that terrible night and wondered how I could have changed the outcome.

  Spring had melted away. Summer had flared and died.

  And I had longed for him.

  “Trowbridge?” I whispered.

  His brows pulled together again—but this time the way a hard man does when he’s trying to hold back his emotions. So very briefly, the shutters rose. For a heartbeat, I saw yearning in his eyes. The awful type. The sort of pain that had been given enough time to erode from an intense burn into a worn, chronic ache. Past grief, past resentment, past bargaining. Resigned. Unwilling to believe or hope.

  “Life keeps kicking us in the ass, doesn’t it?” he murmured, shaking his head. “Don’t run, Hedi. Whatever you think you understand tonight—I can explain. Just promise me you’ll wait. Give me time to tell you things you need to know. All the other stuff, we’ll figure out, somehow.” A rueful smile. “We’ve come this far.”

  Oh Trowbridge.

  The shutters slammed shut, and his expression became hard again. “The Fae is known as the Black Mage’s Shadow,” he said. “He has no morals, no ethics. He is responsible for the near genocide of a race of Weres. He’ll lie and charm and steal to get what he wants. He will try to play to your emotions. Don’t listen. He will ask you to help him escape. Don’t do it. He has to stay here—I’ll leave you some guards. Say nothing, agree to nothing, do nothing he asks—” He sent an angry look up at the moon. “I wish I had more time. Promise me. No matter what is revealed tonight, promise you won’t leave with him.”

  “Why would I—”

  Another pressure of fingers sent a shudder of sensation straight down my spine. “Lives depend on you. Vow to me that you won’t do anything to ease his escape. He must not be allowed to reopen the gates. Your word. I want you to give me your word.”

  And there it was. The one thing guaranteed to super-glue Hedi’s heels to the ground. Give me your word. No other man would ask me for it and actually believe I could be held accountable to it.

  Redemption.

  “You have it,” I said, feeling tears well.

  He rubbed a talon-tipped thumb along the line of my jaw. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he said roughly, his eyes soft. “Go to my house, Tink, and wait, okay?”

  His hand drifted to the back of my head, a prelude to the soft kiss he placed, just beneath my ear, right where my skin was tenderest, and my blood surged.

  Kiss me. Make us whole.

  My One True Thing whispered, “Don’t get mad.” Then he swiped Ralph right off my neck. Snatched him off me, that fast. Before I could splutter, “You thieving swine!,” he’d turned, and placed the Royal Amulet around the little brown wolf from Merenwyn.

  Chapter Ten

  “Hedi—stop,” Trowbridge said, capturing my fist in his. “I can’t go face the pack with a Fae amulet dangling from my neck, and I can’t leave the Royal Amulet in your care.”

  Unspeakable fury. “I have taken care of that—”

  “The Shadow will try to charm it off you,” he said grimly. “He knows the words to summon the portal and with the amulet—”

  “I am not some—”

  “I have no time!” he said through his teeth.

  Which was true, because Ralph was done. Totally fed up with being jerked around. He began to slowly shorten his noose—taking more time than required, because His Royal Nastiness was all about the big statement, and he not only wanted to choke something, he wanted the mortals who insulted him to note his intent.

  Quickly Trowbridge inserted his mitt inside the narrowing gap. “Can this amulet understand language?”

  “Yes,” I snapped.

  “The Fae wants to take you to the Black Mage,” Trowbridge said to Ralph, talking fast. “It’s probably the true reason he lured me back through the gates.”

  Lured? True reason?

  “The wolf you’re trying to choke is a Raha’ell.” That seemed to mean something to the Royal Amulet, because he loosened his choke hold enough to let Anu, beast of Merenwyn and general ass-licker, heave a grateful pant. “You know their reputation,” Trowbridge continued. “If I tell it to protect you, it will, with its life.”

  Bowler-hat inquired in a bored voice, “Do you really think I need an amulet to open the Safe Passage?”

  To which Trowbridge said, “Yeah, I do.”

  Ralph chose fur over Fae. His chain lengthened in a blur of gold, until he swung, all princely and brightly jeweled, from the neck of the little brown wolf.

  “Traitor,” I mouthed.

  Another wolf crept out of the woods, and then, behind that one, more.

  Trowbridge gave me one last regretful look, then he stood. His fingers fumbled with the rough twine ties—seriously, twine?—of his trousers, as he strolled to the dead center of the old cow pasture. Once there, he turned to face me and, one more time, to impart something to me with his eyes.

  I did the same.

  He exhaled, and shook his head in reproof. Then, “Just wait for me.”

  What the hell did he think I’d been doing?

  He dropped the twine, and his trousers slipped down his lean legs to puddle at his bare feet. With typical Were lack of respect for modesty, he coolly stepped out of them, and stood, proud, naked, and tall. A wolf whined as he tilted up his jaw to the moon’s silver glow. He made a noise between a grunt and a hum—the same happy mmph he moaned when my hands found the right spot on his body—then fell to his knees in a slow, controlled glide.

  But as soon as cartilage met turf, he began to change.

  From man to wolf.

  From that which I almost recognized to that to which I’d never been formally introduced.

  It takes—I know, I’ve timed it—anywhere between five to fifteen minutes for a Were to shed his mortal hide. It took Bridge less than a breathless forty-five seconds.

  When it was done, his wolf lay on its side for another ten seconds, panting lightly, then it rolled to its feet. It was, in the monochrome of night, all shades of white and gray. Its face was lean and angular, with darkly rimmed tilted eyes set in a white mask. Its legs were long, ending in ludicrously large fat paws.

  By any bitch’s standard, Trowbridge-the-wolf was a handsome fellow.

  The gray wolf stepped away from the remnants of his change, and performed an all-body shake, before he turned—just a little bit—to slant a sideways glance toward the woods.

  “Stay very still.” The Fae peeled off his backpack. “Everything depends on the next five minutes.”

  I spared Bowler Boy a look of pure annoyance, then turned back to watch the show.

  Not a dog whine was wrested from the wolves casting judgment from the forest. Indifferent to them and patently uncaring of the Danvers coterie, Trowbridge spent a minute or two investigating the shoes and clothing dotting the landscape. When he reached the pile that Fatso had hurriedly abandoned, he lifted his leg.

  I flinched as the Fae retrieved a stiletto from his boot. Silver. Long. Cold-blooded killer, I thought uneasily. And then I wondered, just how valued was I, if my mate had no qualms about leaving me unprotected?

  Those are the type of questions that mak
e my stomach hurt.

  I will not show fear. But part of me kept my peripheral vision on Bowler-hat, while the other prodded my Fae. Are you with me? I silently asked. Or are you still enamored of the Fae that left you tethered to a tree?

  I felt the promise of her revenge warm my belly.

  Trowbridge wandered over to where Cordelia and the boys were finishing their transformation—a difficult process for all three because the transitions were complicated by their need to heal—but he didn’t greet them, probably because the change was a private thing. The hair bristled on his back and shoulders as he spent some time sorting out the scents still clinging to their chains. With a huff of disgust, he stalked away from them, stiff-legged.

  Then, a short run to work out the kinks. Past the Danvers wolf. A turn to chase something I couldn’t see—a moth perhaps—before his cantering pursuit softened into a lazy lope along the edge of the forest. His head whipped between the scents trapped in the grasses and those that rode a current of Were-fragrant air. With supreme indifference to watchers in the shadows, he trotted to the center of the field. There he stood, almost as if saying, “Take a good long look, boys. I’m back.”

  The Danvers wolf’s lip curled to display fang. He stalked toward Trowbridge’s gray wolf, hostility evident in his raised tail.

  Trowbridge’s ears flicked slightly forward, but that was the extent of his show. His wolf stood steady, confident. No growl. Just a confident display of dominance. Topped, of course, by the unearthly Trowbridge light growing from the power of all those comets spinning faster and faster around his dark pupils. The black wolf froze. Then Trowbridge did what he had bade me never to do.

  He flared for the wolves.

  Trowbridge light, blue and electric, shone from his eyes.

  Alpha strong.

  Alpha pure.

  The Danvers male fought it, of course—he was after all a sodding Danvers. Papa George growled, and lifted his lip, and bristled like an outraged porcupine, but he was facing a searchlight of blue.

  Some part of him—deep in his black heart—wanted to fall on his belly, to bow to this other wolf. Maybe even needed it, too.

  It’s imprinted in their DNA—either lead or follow.

  Trowbridge’s stand was an utterly strange and wonderful display of power and confidence. Dominance through magic, will, and birthright. There was no anger in it, no obvious urge to hurt or frighten.

  In three pitiful seconds, the challenger went from a hackles-raised stalk to an ingratiating cringe. Body lowered, ears back, tail doing a hopeful wag, he approached his Alpha.

  Hopeful. That I’d never seen. When I’d fixed the Danvers wolf with my light, he’d been resentful under my power, biding time for the moment of his release.

  Trowbridge’s wolf stood easy as the black wolf licked his Alpha’s mouth, calm as the others cautiously approached. He let out a bark, which meant what? Welcome? All’s right with the world? Immediately, the sharp stink of their anxiety eased, and another layer of scent overlaid the one melting away … happy excitement. Relief as if the six months before had all been a bad dream. Their joy was heartfelt—finally, a leader—punctuated by happy yips, much tail wagging, and some oddly touching gambols of pure happiness.

  During it all, their Alpha stood steady and calm, head high, mouth slightly open, accepting his due.

  A few canine heads turned my way.

  Trowbridge’s wolf growled a low warning to the rabble, before he loped over to me. Tail up, jaws open in a grin. Before I had a chance to hold him off, he claimed me with a paw. His massive face came in for a nuzzle. A long tongue licking away the tear that had dried on my jaw. I don’t know why it softened me. His tongue was rough, and he’d been around fish at some point in his recent history. But it did. I felt … like he was breaking ground for me, letting me in, and each pungent dog kiss amounted to a public declaration, This is my mate.

  Still, I mumbled, “I’m not a dog.”

  But his fur was thick and each strand glistened, silver-tipped under the benevolent moon. And my wolf … oh my wolf. She was up on all four feet and she was trembling. My Fae rolled her eyes as I threaded my fingers through his dense pelt.

  Trowbridge-the-wolf made a noise that I took as one of deep approval.

  I leaned my head against his throat to better hear its rumble.

  A moment of welling peacefulness, broken in two, when from our left, the little brown wolf uttered a yip—a canine’s “Hey!”—as it began running in our direction. One hundred sixty-four amber eyes turned toward the interloper.

  I’m getting really tired of that dog.

  One of the bulkier wolves broke from the group and began to slink toward the outsider, his hackles raised. Trowbridge’s wolf pivoted—his claw raking my thigh—to let loose another fearsome growl.

  Everybody froze.

  Except for the little brown wolf barreling toward its Alpha, all happy, happy, anxious to play with the big dogs. Theoretically, it should have turned into a meal-on-paws right then and there. I lifted my head to watch the inevitable bloodbath. Creemore Weres don’t like—

  The pack parted for it like the Red Sea.

  Unchallenged, the little wolf careened forward, ears pricked forward.

  Ooof. It barreled into us—an eighty-pound cannonball—and I went sprawling. I pushed my hair off my face in time to watch Trowbridge’s wolf engage in a regrettably brief show of fang and fur. Just when I was hoping it’d set itself up for a well-deserved ass-whipping. Happiness unquenched by its Alpha’s reproof, it folded, right down to its belly, mouth open in a grin, limbs acquiescent under his heavy paw. Then, sweetly whimpering, it licked the rim of his black lips. It even dared to teeth him slightly, before ducking down, and glancing mischievously at the Alpha with its head turned at an angle.

  It did it again. Just in case I didn’t get it.

  I’m slow, but not that slow.

  Nor was my inner-bitch. Her tail stiffened into a fat broom of aggression as my eyes narrowed to slits. Together, in absolute harmony of thought, we watched Anu’s performance.

  Lick, lick. Tail wag. Followed by a sly glance in my direction.

  Blame the healing potion; it had made me a little fuzzy headed. Blame my expectations; they’d rendered me reality resistant. Consequently, I’d missed a few important details about that little brown wolf. Vital stuff like, IT was much smaller and lighter than the male beside it. IT had dainty paws and an elegant clever little face.

  IT was female.

  She darted forward and shoulder-bumped him again.

  Trowbridge’s wolf rumbled a light growl at the female’s daring, nothing much to the rebuke, in terms of stuff I’d witnessed among wolves. Really, for a canine, it amounted to nothing more than the equivalent of a lazy “shh.” But for me—the girl who’d waited six long months for her man—it was the hold-the-presses, here-it-comes, all-time shitty “shh” of incoming heartache.

  Trowbridge’s wolf barked. He lifted his snout up to the freakin’ moon and irritation welled in me. Was he avoiding the accusation in my eyes? Turning his head to worship that freakin’ silver orb over our heads?

  The little bitch made a noise—not quite a bark, but something more … intimate … that stiffened my spine. Her scent—oh crap, I wasn’t getting a scent from her.

  Just Trowbridge’s.

  Only mates smell like each other. My mate bond to Trowbridge didn’t stick?

  My eyes darted back to his, probing for an answer, but he’d gone dog on me. A wave of his personal scent hit my nose. Sharper than I remembered. It used to have a warm earth undertone. But still, woods and Trowbridge and fur, and … something else. Oh Goddess, it wasn’t part of her essence, was it? It was on my skin, at my throat.

  I looked past him to the little brown she-wolf.

  She found Trowbridge’s scent on Fatso’s cowboy boots, gave a happy woof, and squatted.

  “Who’s the bitch?” I said through lips that suddenly felt numb.

  *
* *

  I could feel the wolves’ anticipation, hoping perhaps that I’d do something more than sit there on my butt, curiously frozen as what was left of my fragmented heart splintered beyond all recognition. Some of them watched with calculation, some with an obvious impatience to get all this mate business dealt with—after all, there was a moon shining down from the star-dappled sky. But worse (and I was not sure why it felt more horrible) I was aware of another set of eyes studying me from under the brim of a bowler hat. I could feel the Shadow’s gaze—burning and insistent—on my turned head, as heavy as the weight of a hand resting on the nape of my neck.

  It felt odd and somehow familiar.

  Somehow sympathetic.

  I almost turned toward it, but Trowbridge’s gray wolf issued an inarticulate noise from the back of his throat, which apparently meant something to every other living thing in that pasture, but little to me. What was it? Dog shorthand for a command of “sit”?

  Oh hell no.

  “Stay there!” yelled Bowler-hat as I lurched unsteadily to my feet.

  Six months, I’d waited. Thinking he was waiting, too.

  My retreat was a blind blunder in the wrong direction, and then … thud. A heavy paw hit me between the shoulder blades, and down I went. I rolled away, once, twice—okay, three times—and the gray wolf followed my rotations with his paw—jab, jab, like I was a delicate salmon treat flopping on the riverbank.

  “Stop that!” I shrieked, striking out in fury. I was flailing, legs kicking out, arms thrashing, and when my fist connected with his black nose I felt savage satisfaction. It felt good, but not enough. Not nearly enough. Before I could do it again—his wolf reacted, so feral and fast that my brain didn’t have a chance to form the thought “oh, shit” before I found myself underneath one hundred and ninety pounds of fur and muscle, trapped between the brackets of his legs.

  I stared up into a full set of canine teeth. Very sharp, slightly curving teeth. Pink gums. Black lips set in a grimace.

  Tears burned my eyes.