by Maria Lima
“What was that … loudspeakers … feedback, probably …”
“Keira, what is it?” Adam repeated, his hands tightening on my shoulders. The cool of his energy sank into me, calming my reaction.
“You don’t feel it?” I muttered, still holding myself close.
Adam frowned. “I feel nothing else unusual. His power is still the same. Enticing, but just power.”
“I think it’s a territory thing,” Tucker said, stepping behind me. “You and Adam are both rulers of this region, but Rio Seco—the Wild Moon—is your base.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“There is much to be said for a physical base. It’s part of your power, part of the Earth magicks. Did you never wonder why you chose to stay here, sis?” Tucker asked, his voice lower than a whisper. I had no idea if werewolves could hear as well as we could. Evidently, neither did my brother. What he was saying was for our ears alone, so he kept it subvocal, a trick he’d taught me years ago.
I shook my head slightly, still keeping a steady eye on the wer, who, to his credit, remained silent. At least he knew better than to interfere right now.
“No.” My answer was curt, mostly because despite Adam’s help, I still fought the instant anger, the feeling of wanting to push out the interloper, banish him and his kind away—far, far away. If another galaxy was available, well then, that might just do.
“There’s power at the lake, I’ve often felt it. I once told Minerva that I thought ley lines intersected under the lake, close to the Wild Moon. Can’t prove it, but I’d bet every single one of my twelve-hundred-plus years on it. Sis, you became adult in Rio Seco. Your blood spilled there. Before that, when you were only a child, we—our family—established our own blood ties to the land.” Tucker regarded Marcus, who stood stock-still, his expression still friendly. “Gigi did a blood ritual at lakeside, near the old family cabin. Our immediate family, Dad, Rhys, Ianto, and the rest of our brothers marked our territory with our scent and our blood.”
“Surely it’s gone by now,” I said, seemingly as puzzled as the others. “Since none of that was reinforced after y’all left—”
“Ordinarily, I’d say that would be the case,” Tucker agreed. “I think what happened this spring cemented the ties.” He spoke in vague terms I had no problem deciphering. “You’re bound by blood and death, sis. Rio Seco and the immediate area is yours.”
Okay, I could live with this. After all, that’s what I was bred for—literally. I just hadn’t expected it to be quite as … whatever. Was I going to feel this challenge with every other group leader I encountered? If that was the case, I was definitely going to call Gigi or my aunts to figure out how to handle this. I couldn’t be going all over rabid during the upcoming reception.
I reclenched my fists, having relaxed them a little. Adam’s hand closed over mine in support, his other arm coming around my waist, palm flat on my belly. Concentrating with every ounce of determination and pure-ass stubbornness I had, I swallowed hard, forcing my reaction down and back, pushed it until it sat behind a mental solid rock wall. By no stretch of anyone’s imagination could it be said that the feeling was gone, just held at bay, its pressure thrumming against my shields like they were an about-to-break dam. Letting go of this now would be worse than levees breaking; wild magick rushing without control in a crowd of humans. Calm yourself, Keira. Calm. This is a meeting, nothing more. No threat here. As I relaxed, Adam let go and stepped back down, giving me space.
“Marcus.” I started forward, my hand automatically reaching out for the standard “glad to meet you” handshake. With a speed just under that of light (or so it seemed), Tucker grabbed my wrist, his body supporting me from behind as I nearly stumbled.
“Probably not a good idea, sis,” he said sotto voce, the warning evident.
Touching the Fenrir, oh yeah, brilliant, Keira. I mentally bitch-slapped myself. A few minutes ago I’d barely stopped myself from launching at the guy to challenge him, and that was my reaction to his energy only. Now I wanted a handshake? Egad. I’d been schooled in the polite human tricks like shaking hands so long, a few months’ clan training wasn’t going to instantly change my automatic responses.
“Marcus,” I repeated as I clasped both hands in front of me and steadied my stance. Tucker stepped back and remained on guard. “Thank you for the invitation.” I nodded my head at him, as close as I planned to get to a formal greeting in public.
“M’lady Kelly.” The Fenrir echoed my own nod. “Welcome to you and to yours.”
“Fenrir.” Adam gave his own greeting, vampire neutral and polite.
“M’lord Walker.”
“Might I also introduce you to my brother, Levon.” Marcus motioned to the stocky man. “He is my Loki, my second.” Indicating the other man, he continued, “Jacob, a new addition to our pack.”
“Please call me Lev,” Levon beamed, his smile lighting up his rather stolid face. The blond wer just nodded, keeping his aura of bodyguard intact.
“My own second, Nicholas.” Adam gestured to Niko, then to Tucker. “Keira’s brother and second, Tucker Kelly.”
Everyone nodded to one another. I held back a guffaw. Here we were at a high school football game: two vampires, three werewolves, two Kellys. A few more of us and we’d have enough for a pickup baseball team. I couldn’t help imagining the silliness of this—vampires doing something as mundane as playing sports.
My brother and Niko, now that the formalities were over, stepped aside a bit but remained close.
“You don’t resemble much like what I’d pictured,” remarked Tucker. “Not much of the Norseman about you.” My brother, of all of us, should know, being a Viking himself. Marcus’s hair wasn’t the only thing that denied a Norse heritage; there have been plenty of dark-haired Vikings. His bone structure and olive skin placed him somewhere within shouting distance of olive groves and sunlit seas, Mediterranean instead of the icy gray waters of the North.
“Not Viking, nor Norseman of any kind, Cousin Wolf. My people came to the U.S. after our own version of the Holocaust drove us out of our homeland—it was the inspiration for the little man who liked to call himself ‘Wolf.’” Marcus grimaced, his words angry. “He was no wolf, just a twisted, evil soul that used the slaughter, the genocide of my people to start his own unforgivable bloodbath.”
I understood. He wasn’t talking about the wolves at this point but this pack’s cultural roots. His last name twigged. Why hadn’t I caught that earlier?
“Armenian,” I said softly.
“Yes. Though we follow the traditions of the North”—he nodded to Tucker—“as is common among our kind.” Now he meant werewolf, not his other blood heritage.
“Ashkarian, I should’ve known,” I said.
Marcus shrugged. “A name, taken and used. A distant relative, Diran Ashkar, came to the United States in 1920. We took his name and combined with our Armenian roots, we all became Ashkarian, even those born of other cultures.” He studied each of us—me first, a long, slow perusal, empty of sexuality, simply a learning. Adam next, then Tucker and Niko. “Of all of you, the only Irish one, based on appearance alone, is this Viking … and I know that is not the case.”
I echoed the man’s shrug with one of my own. “Kelly is a name. Like yours, taken as a way to unite us. Too long ago to really know why or how or when.” I paused a moment, wondering how much information to deliver, what was appropriate. This wasn’t Adam’s protocol, nor Tucker’s. This was for me alone. “Kellys come in all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities,” I continued, figuring this was fairly common information among the supernaturals. “My branch, the one that has ruled for many centuries, happens to call the Welsh hills home. The ways of the Celts rubbed off—or, we rubbed off on them. But no matter, Kelly we became and Kelly we are for sake of simplicity.”
Marcus didn’t bother to hide his own amusement. “Areithi Cymraeg, ’na?”
Startled, I laughed in delight and replied, “Cymraeg yw fy
iaith Gyntaf. You speak Welsh?”
“I like languages,” he explained. “Scholar of the spoken word, mostly. Not the dead ones. I used to teach at the University of Texas, San Antonio.” That was it, I realized. His looks spoke of scholar, not warrior wolf. I could see him hunched over dusty tomes in a library more easily than hunting in a field. Was that why his power surprised me so much? He was the Fenrir, the alpha of the alphas, the leader of a pack. Everything I knew about wers fit in a large coffee mug, but I knew this: “leader” to them meant highest in power and status—scholar or not.
“You speak well for an ‘Englishman.’” I couldn’t help but use the Welsh term for outsider, though this man’s heritage was as far from Cymru and the Hollow Hills as I was from humanborn.
“As do you,” Marcus replied.
“It’s my milk language,” I explained. “English was my second learning.”
The Fenrir’s eyebrows raised, his expression turned quizzical. “You really aren’t from around here.” His voice held a question that I’d never even considered.
Tucker’s belly laugh rolled over us. “Oh, Marcus, have you forgotten? Or perhaps you didn’t know this of the Kellys? Not a one of us was born here, not even on this continent. For many, this is still the New World.”
“But I thought …” Marcus’s frown clearly indicated that he was puzzled about me.
“I was born in the Welsh hills, Fenrir,” I explained gently. “I am both of the Kelly Clan and the Seelie Sidhe Court.” Marcus’s eyes widened as he began to understand.
“You, also,” he said to Adam. “Not just what you seem on the surface, Nightwalker.” A statement, not a question.
“Not just,” Adam agreed, his tone as bland as plain grits. “But we diverge from our purpose here, talking to you about why you invited us.” Adam made the words smooth, without any sort of sting of reprisal. “We are happy to explain that which may be explained,” he continued, “however, I do not believe this is the time or the place.” With a slight wave, he motioned to the ever-growing crowd, the noise that I hadn’t heard in a while. Oh well, hell. I closed my eyes for a second and concentrated, breaking the silence bubble that I’d somehow unconsciously erected. The babble rushed to fill the void, voices chattering, band music playing while the crowd grew ever more excited as the kickoff drew near.
“Umm, oops,” I said. “Sorry, still not used to this.”
Tucker grinned and poked me in the side. “That’s some good subliminal gut reaction, sis. Brava.” I poked him back and said nothing.
“Now what?” Tucker turned to Marcus Ashkarian.
“We sit and enjoy the game. My young nephew Gregor is one of the players, you know.”
“Number twenty-two,” I returned. “Shall we, gentlemen?” I motioned to the bleacher seats just to the left of Marcus, on the same level. I wasn’t about to sit with him at my back. He seemed harmless enough, but I still couldn’t shake the uneasiness I’d felt at first. There was something hanging around, some sort of underlying tension. Niko and Tucker split, Niko to sit behind us, Tucker in front.
I leaned forward to Tucker as we were moving toward our seats and mentioned it.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I feel it, too. Can’t pin it down.”
Adam, on my other side, stepped close, his mouth against my ear. “I have no knowledge of the hearing abilities of the Fenrir,” he said. “But I can tell you I still feel nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Really?” I whispered back as I settled myself on the metal bench and immediately stood up again as the skin on the back of my thighs touched the seat. “Fuck, ouch,” I exclaimed. “Damn it, what ever possessed me to forget something to sit on?” It had been years since the last time I’d been in a football stadium, but I could’ve planned a bit better. Marcus stood and with a small flourish, pulled a thick towel out of a tote bag at his feet.
“M’lady,” he said and, with a bow and accompanying grin, spread the towel on the hot metal. “You’d best sit on this.”
I nodded my thanks. “Appreciate the gesture, Marcus,” I said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a game.”
“Yes, it has,” he said, and handed a second towel to Tucker. Niko shook his head as he was offered a third.
I gave Marcus a puzzled look. What would he know about my football-going experiences? He said nothing and just went back to watching the cheerleaders below.
Adam frowned and sat next to me, sharing my towel. “Has he met you before?” he asked me, still keeping his voice very low.
“Not as far as I know,” I said. “I’d recognize him. The power signature isn’t anything I could forget.”
Adam settled and took my hand. I stifled my amused reaction. Possessive much? Oh yeah, and that was just fine by me. I turned my attention to the field below, ready to endure the game.
CHAPTER EIGHT
NOT TEN MINUTES LATER, another bout of energy shot through me. This time the feeling was not just disturbing, it was one of utter loathing and absolute hatred. “What the—” Still not a soul near us; at least five or six people-widths between us and the nearest humans on all four sides. What the hell was going on? Who was it coming from? No one could touch me or even get near me. To penetrate the distance and the dense shields I had up would take more than merely solid dislike. This was true, unadulterated, rage-filled hostility. The kind that ended up with a victim dragged behind a pickup truck or stripped naked and bound to a fence to die of exposure. I heard no words, saw no images other than a deep, roiling darkness of anger and misery. I wanted to jump into a hot shower and scrub my mind clean of this sick taint.
“Adam,” I whispered, touching him on the arm, hoping to convey my sense of urgency.
“What is it, what’s wrong?” He signaled to the boys with a quick tilt of his head. They both began to check out our surroundings. “Who are we looking for?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s weak, I know, but just a moment ago there was this flash of—” I tightened my grip on his hand and projected the emotion in a brief burst, the only way I knew how to describe it. Words weren’t adequate.
He recoiled and wiped his hands on his tropical-weight gabardine slacks. “Who was that?”
“That’s just it,” I said. “I don’t know. No one was close enough to me to touch me, not even close enough for me to accidentally catch a scent.”
“Human?” Tucker said quietly.
“I think.” I rubbed my forehead. A headache threatened. “Didn’t feel like one of us.”
“How about one of them?” Niko indicated the three wer, all of whom watched us with anxiety written across their faces.
“No, didn’t taste of wolf. I’m sure of it.”
“Any pattern you might recognize?” Adam asked.
“Nothing, just overwhelming hatred.” I checked around once more, trying to determine if anyone was staring at us or even scrutinizing someone else in the crowd or on the field with an other-than-appropriate expression on his or her face. Nothing. I spotted the sheriff strolling behind the cheerleaders, the girls huddled together discussing something. Coach Miller stood on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, studying the lineup. A new play was about to start. A second coach stood a few paces to his right, leaning over one of the helmeted players. A nod and a pat to the boy’s back and a quick motion for a switch. The seated player stood, fastened his helmet, and entered the game, passing another boy returning to the bench. Neither seemed angry or upset. After all, this was an exhibition game and all competitiveness aside, it appeared as if the coaches were doing their best to rotate players in and out, probably to study their abilities, their techniques. The final varsity starting lineup wouldn’t be chosen until right before the start of the school year, if memory served me. Not that there were a great many players to choose from. White Rock might have a larger population, but the pickings were still mighty slim for a football team.
I relaxed a little as nothing more turned up. “Maybe I just tuned in to a r
eally bad marriage,” I said, trying to keep it light.
“Did you get a sense of the direction, the intended recipient of the hatred?” Adam asked.
“Not really. Just the intensity. I wouldn’t want to be the target of that.” I shivered a little, as the feeling washed over me again, this time just a clear memory, not the actual emotion itself. “I can’t imagine who could elicit that kind of sheer abhorrence.”
“I could.” Marcus slid closer to Adam and me. “Sorry for eavesdropping, Keira, but I saw your face. I heard what you said.”
“No apology necessary, Mark,” I replied. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you.” His face was grim; no trace of amusement lightened his expression now.
“It’s a racial memory thing,” he said. “We wolves have a little of it, passed down in tales, in history and emotions from our forebears. Your expression, the hatred you described, we felt in the early part of the last century. Hatred for existing. For being Christian in a Muslim country. Hatred felt by others in a later war for being of another culture … and, now, in this land sometimes.”
“Here, in White Rock?” Adam frowned. “There are hate crimes here?”
“Of a sort,” Marcus replied. “Not the likes of which you’d hear about on the evening news, no Matthew Shepards or lynchings. Just sidelong looks, muttered words said too low to hear, people getting ignored in a restaurant.”
“Your people?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” he said. “I’ve heard a few folks think we’re some sort of weird religious cult. I think sometimes we disappoint them when our women show up in town and they’re not wearing long dresses and aprons. They can’t pin us down because we’re law-abiding, taxpaying citizens who keep to ourselves and don’t stand out.”
“Then why the anger?” I asked. “Do you think this was directed at you?”
