by Nikki Sex
At this moment, thoughts of collars, Faery portals, my father, Demon Hunters, and every issue we’ve ever had, seem trivial. Compared to what we now share, the rest of the world seems insignificant.
At the back of my mind, though, I wonder. Stafford, myself, our beasts, and my inner monster—we’re all bonded. Preternaturally joined in power, magic, and energy.
My demon dances within me, he’s never been so happy. The impression he gives is of a satisfied family member—we’re his family. I’m glad he feels he’s come home, but I can’t help but worry.
His over-the-top excitement make me nervous.
Fucking magic.
I just can’t trust it. Ever. You just never know what it might do.
Well, that’s a problem for another day. Meanwhile, this is a memorable start to our ten-day honeymoon. Somehow, I doubt either of us will be leaving this bed, much less this room.
Chapter 6.
Two weeks later…
It’s seven A.M. No need for an alarm clock, not when my mate wakes me every morning by making love. I’m up, dressed in jeans, boots, and a thick red sweater. Having eaten breakfast, we sit on the balcony sipping excellent coffee, admiring our woodland view.
So far, this mating thing seems seamless and natural. It also provides challenges and discoveries—not to mention raw, intensely intimate, utterly uninhibited sex.
Holy shit, the sex!
A soft tap at the door surprises me. I see it also surprises Stafford.
“I thought your pack members mentally communicate with you?” I ask.
“Not anymore.” His mouth quirks. “No one dares disturb me.”
“Still?” I snicker. “But the honeymoon is over.”
With a wry, wicked smile, Stafford arches a brow. “Oh no, it isn’t. We’ve barely gotten started.”
He opens the door of our apartment to let his pack second step inside. As usual, the place smells of sex, but whatcha gonna do? With their keen noses, werewolves probably scent us out in the hallway.
Kalev doesn’t appear to notice anything amiss. Tall, hazel eyes, blond hair, and a full, trimmed beard, he’s a super hottie. I can’t stop comparing him with Jax on the Sons of Anarchy.
“My Lord,” Kalev nods deferentially. He smiles broadly when he sees me. “My Lady.”
“Hey, Kalev.” I’m one of Kalev’s favorite people. He never forgets that Leonidas and I rescued him from torture and death at the hands of Paradox, the Master of Vancouver.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Kalev says, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “I need your assistance on a pack issue. It concerns the, ah,” he hesitates, then quickly adds, “fenced wolves.”
Fenced wolves?
“You guys carry on with your secret pack business,” I say, letting him off the hook. “I have stuff I want to do in the library this morning.” I kiss Stafford goodbye, nod to Kalev, and make an exit.
I’m glad Kalev stopped by this morning. I have a project of my own.
As I stride down the hall, Toby, tail wagging, is there to greet me. Like Stafford’s pack members, my dog’s been keeping a low profile.
Stafford told me Kalev’s mom and dad are in their eighties, his sister and brother—with families of their own—are over fifty. Kalev was the only psychic. He sees his family as often as he can. Not looking a day over thirty, I wonder how he explains his agelessness?
Being a long-lived shifter sounds great, but it can be a burden. Paranormals have the same problems as everyone else, plus a lot more.
With the ever-loyal Wonder Dog by my side, I open the double oaken doors to the Spukani library. The earthy smell of leather, the musty trace of aged paper, and lavender from a vase of flowers assaults my senses.
So many books.
The vast chamber has a second tier, with an open balcony, displaying more texts. Directly in front of me is a reading area, with waist high shelves of dog-eared paperbacks. There are comfy couches, places to rest one’s feet, and so on. Oak tables and chairs are set on the other side of the room, presumably for research.
Wood parquet flooring runs throughout. Thoroughfares are covered with handwoven rugs in sunflower yellows, fertile earth reds, pine tree greens, decorated with animals and totems.
Since becoming Stafford’s mate, my demon is no longer insatiably hungry. Whatever he’s been seeking, he’s found it through the Beast Lord and his pack. Whenever some poor bastard hits his finger with a hammer, or a couple makes love, my demon feeds on that energy.
Adjusting to the background buzz of my mate’s primal power grid isn’t a chore. Christ, he’s saturated in high-octane lycanthrope magic. My demon has never been happier.
Grazing my fingertips absently across the paperbacks, for the millionth time I regard my silver ring with its emerald stone. It was a gift, compliments of a ghost, the murdered Regius Magnmus, once head of the Sorcerers Guild. In the demonic fight with my father, this sentient ring with her feminine aura, singed his wings, shifting the tides of war.
Without her, I doubt we would have won that battle.
Some magic is too powerful for one person to sustain. That’s why sorcerers or witches imbue objects with it. Such objects of power are, not surprisingly, rare and highly valued. But who knew magical objects could become conscious?
I refuse to cover my ring, even though occasionally—not often—she gives Stafford a stinging burn. I think she sears the Beast Lord’s flesh to remind him that she’s there.
The Beast Lord.
My face heats, my pulse picks up. Just the thought of him fires my blood. If I get any hotter these books might combust.
Stafford and I remain two separate people—we’re just intensely, intimately online. With one thought, I know where he is, how he feels. He has the same connection with me. Bizarre and new, yet natural.
I care for Stafford. I’ve always loved him. Yet, whatever I felt for him before was nothing compared to what I feel now.
During our time off, we took long forest walks, and discussed anything and everything. Paranormals lust after energy, Stafford’s no exception. He’s overjoyed with the power upgrade he’s obtained, thanks to demon magic.
Toby and I go straight to an adjoining room with several computers, I drop down in front of one. Switching it on, I type in my password and access, “The Supernatural Library Collection.” It sounds like a fictional book series.
Backed up by a mainframe, the SLC contains magical histories, texts on enchantments, psychic DNA records, endless information on vampires, ghosts, shifters, demons, and so on. Cloaked and highly encrypted, it's not plugged into the worldwide web, for obvious reasons.
Toby puts one feathered paw on my thigh. While the computer is firing up, I embrace him. Patting him vigorously, I rub my face against his soft fur.
“Who’s my best boy?” I ask him.
Tail wagging—hell, whole body wagging—Toby huffs and puffs, making soft doggy sounds. Previously human or not, he loves the attention. Once he’s had enough, Wonder Dog plops down beside me. Giving a big, windy sigh, he rests his head on my feet.
I research the Secwepemc people who inhabited the valley of what has become the city of Kamloops. They were Hawk’s mother’s tribe. I also check into the Hudson’s Bay Company.
I’ve had vivid dreams about “Hawk” a.k.a. Alard LeBlanc—only they don’t seem like mere dreams. With so many details, the memory feels authentic. The visions frighten me, they feel like a premonition of danger.
If my dreams are real, one or more murders were committed on the first of April, 1810. I hope to discover as much as I can about the incidents, especially who died.
More importantly, I want to know who killed them.
During the last three-hundred years, the Secwepemc People survived epidemics, the Gold Rush, the Fur trade, and Residential Schools. The Hudson’s Bay Company (affectionately known as La Baie) was a large reason for change. I finally discover copies of "Le Canadien," a French weekly newspaper published from 1806 to 1810. Its m
otto was: "Nos institutions, notre langue et nos droits" (Our institutions, our language, our rights).
Sitting back, I get comfortable enjoying a cozy read in French. I’m four or five issues in, when I feel it—
Power. So much power…
What the fuck is going on?
Chapter 7.
I jump as an invisible ripple of electric blue heat pulls upon me. Small hairs rise on the back of my neck, I hear the pulse of my blood in my throat.
Stafford is drawing on pack energy, but he’s not only taking magic from his pack, he’s using our power—my demon’s and mine.
Hmm. I didn’t know he could do that.
In a hot liquid rush, magic and power flows from us. Metaphysically, the shining energy signature leaves a visible trail. Like an arrow shot from a bow, it flies straight to the Beast Lord.
I follow.
In spirit form, anchored to the branch of a very high tree, I stare down at him. Stafford’s aware of my presence, but he says nothing.
He’s too focused, busily working magic.
I observe four individual, silver-plated wolf enclosures. Within each are four thin, sickly looking wolves with patchy fur. Wolves hate being trapped. Their pens are designed as compassionately as possible, large and open to the sky.
Hands spread out in front of him, there’s a rifle on the ground by his side. Standing very still, he sweats from the effort. Invisible to those without power, the Beast Lord is pouring a mixture of primal earth and demonic energy into all four beasts.
Disembodied, I watch his healing magic.
“These psychics can’t shift back to human form,” he sends to me. “If they were full wolf, I’d set them free. Regrettably, I can’t do that as it’s not safe. They’re drawn to human populations, but their human side has become utterly blocked. It creates a situation where the beast feels strong human emotions without context.”
“What will happen to them?”
“Eventually, they’ll all go feral, as mad as if moonstruck.”
I glance at the rifle, know it’s loaded with silver bullets. “You have to kill them?”
“They are sick, confused, suffering. In time, they’ll die anyway. A fast, clean death is kindest, but that’s on me. I won’t allow anyone else to carry that burden.”
A tingle of soul-tightening anticipation runs through me, a combination of burning excitement and icy revulsion. Death magic is hot as fuck, an incredible sensation I can’t help but crave.
Logically, I know it’s human to have vices. To drink, smoke, overindulge… but to feed on the deaths of innocents? That goes way beyond a weakness. It’s the moral downside of having an inner demon.
My monster is well-fed, he doesn’t need the power fix. But these are shifters! Death magic! Ghosts crossing over! The power buzz will be incredible.
Classic gluttons, neither of us can resist such temptation. These deaths won’t be my fault. No harm, no foul. Why should such precious, delicious energy go to waste?
It’s not like I’m killing anyone.
Demon-influenced, I imagine devouring the essence of these broken wolves, and sending their souls to another realm. I’d be so aroused and overloaded with death magic, I’d need a calculator to count my orgasms.
Yeah, OK. I’m a sexual deviant. So what? I’m still a good person.
While I can’t prevent my kinky desires, I can control my actions. I prefer to look at the situation like this: These wolves must be humanely put down. When they are, I’ll get a huge magic high.
“Stafford, are you going to shoot them right now?”
“If I must, but everything feels different. I’m stronger. More powerful. Invincible. First, I’ll try to heal them by immersing myself in this new magic. Will your demon help?”
“Maybe.”
“Will you?”
“Of course, all that I can.” He knows my answer, but I tell him anyway. Dark magic works through force. Pure magic will only arise with honest consent. Overriding free will is the path to infinite shades of darkness.
The Beast Lord stands before the wolves, raises his hands. I feel his pull on my psychic abilities, my demon’s power, pack bonds, and the purity of the Magic Lands.
Energy rises, flares.
Using his body as a conduit, he draws everything into himself. I feel the winds of enchantment, taste the dark, sensual aura of raw energy as it swells.
Metaphysically radiant on the shining edge of power, it looks as if he’s performing a conjuring. So much power, but it’s not enough! Stafford doesn’t fight his inner wolf’s desire to take over.
His beast knows what to do. Sharp wolf fangs emerge in his human mouth. Clamping down, he slices a deep cut in his lower lip.
Blood, the perfect magical offering! Brilliant!
The life essence of werewolf seals the deal.
A current of demon magic spills into the Beast Lord, sizzling, electric-blue, and smelling of ozone. Pack magic fills him with gold. I freely offer up all the metaphysical vigor I can.
Entranced, I watch as the damaged wolves change. Not their bodies, no—I see their spirits begin to glow. Self-awareness flows over them like an incoming tide. I feel their bewilderment.
Their surprise.
The beginnings of understanding.
Their human souls—which had been cast into a black well of unconsciousness, return. As the Beast Lord heals them, each one grows a pair of blue-black wings.
More of my inner monster’s flock. So beautiful.
My demon audibly, jubilantly buzzes. The sound is a cross between flies inside my ears, and fingernails on chalkboard. He radiates a bitter taste, it has the stinging bite of pepper.
My inner wolf sneezes.
To my demon, Stafford has just given birth to more of his children. I realize that’s how my inner monster views everyone who wears his wings. The discordant sound and taste is his version of love. He loves his kids.
Hmm. Lucky them?
I cross my fingers and hope so, anyway. I wear my own wonderful set of raven’s wings. To my demon, I’m family, but does he see me as his child, or his mother?
A small group of people are gathered, watching as all four wolves suddenly shift to human form. The moment they do, some observers cheer, some cry, others pat backs or hug each other.
The four silver gates are immediately flung open, blankets are thrown over the naked, skinny, dirty, tangled-haired people. Two are young men, perhaps nineteen or twenty—one black, the other has a pale white complexion. The third, an older Caucasian woman with dark, tangled locks halfway down her back, a long straight nose, and stone-gray eyes. The last is a younger woman, maybe early thirties, with similar features and coloring. They appear to be related. Mother and daughter, perhaps?
“What happened?” the dark man with tight matted curls asks.
“Did the transformation work?” The older woman’s brows knit.
“Where am I?” The younger lady holds her head. “Christ, I feel terrible!”
“Do survivors always wake like this?” I ask.
Stafford looks upward, his wolf eyes gold and fierce as he meets my invisible gaze. Raw emotions flood through our bond: disbelief, relief, astonishment, joy, and awe. Most pleasing, and yet unsettling, is his pride, appreciation and love for me.
“I don’t know. These are the first to have this state reversed. I wait as long as I can, but in the end, they’ve all had to be destroyed.”
“Wow.” I understand the overwhelming passion and veritable flood of tears from big, strong shifters. My own emotions rise, making my inner monster hum with pleasure.
Stafford shoots me a heart-stopping smile. “Thank you, Jan, and thank your demon for me.”
I snort out a laugh. “I will, but I think he’s our demon now.”
Breaking away from the stunned shock in my mate’s gaze, I return to my physical body in the library. Toby, sensing my roiling emotions, rubs against me. I pet him lavishly, clear my throat.
“So, it
seems the Beast Lord did something he’s never done before—so, uh, thanks, buddy,” I say to my demon. “Four weres who were unable to shift were cured. They lived because of you.” My voice sounds as unsteady as I feel.
Toby places a comforting paw on my thigh. Raising his head, his liquid brown eyes meet mine.
Wonder Dog gets it.
My gaze returns to the computer, a name catches my eye. Marie Maisonnat. Wasn’t that the name of Hawk’s love?
I read the obituary section of "Le Canadien," June 1810. It lists the death of the administrator of Fort Thompson, Monsieur Trefflé Maisonnat, and his only child, Marie Maisonnat. Both are reported to have been brutally murdered by an Indian native, la bête sauvage (a savage beast.)
Who killed Marie?
There is nothing more. I found what I was looking for, but it only makes my dreams more disturbing.
It actually happened.
These haven’t been mere dreams, I’ve been seeing real events. Was Alard LeBlanc trapped in the ball of ghosts I freed? Is this his memory? Is he a spirit, invisible on this earthy plane, yet invading my consciousness?
When in a deep sleep, I feel what Hawk feels. I am him. Could an honorable man, someone who spent a lifetime being rejected, murder the one person who accepted him? The person he loved most?
Love can turn to hate. It’s capable of making everyone think, feel, and behave abnormally. But surely, not the man I am in my dreams. Not Hawk. I don’t believe it.
“You’d never lay a violent hand on any woman, especially not Marie,” I say out loud, just in case he can hear me.
There’s no way Hawk murdered the woman he loved. Perhaps now I’ve confirmed this belief, I’ll quit reliving Hawk’s life in my sleep?
Chapter 8.
Change is part of life. People, objects, Earth—everything either evolves, or devolves. Nothing stays the same. The English poet William Blake wrote, “Expect poison from standing water.” He was right.
Wolf packs resist anything new, untested waters are a natural fear. That’s why the Spukani shifters despised me. Tradition demanded the Beast Lord take a werewolf mate, and I was human.
