by Tamar Sloan
I head up the stairs, knowing I need to sleep.
But probably won’t.
33
Eden
I arrive at Noah’s house with the first light of dawn. Sleep was elusive as peace of mind. A silent, solemn car trip brought me to his house. There’s no music appropriate for a day like this.
Noah is already sitting underneath Grandfather Douglas. I wonder how long he’s been there.
The dawn light is a soft glow, his silhouette an outline as he leans back against the rough trunk, legs bent up, forearms resting against his knees, blue eyes gazing toward a sky that is being slowly suffused with light. Idle clouds linger—a glowing apricot beneath, dove grey above—waiting, knowing it’s just a matter of time before it all changes.
The opalescent colors outline his solitary form. I see his shoulders lift and fall, a deep breath filling his chest. As I approach, his head falls back as he lifts his arm. I slide in, curling up beside him.
“I wish this didn’t have to happen.”
“Believe me, if I could find a way out, I would have kicked that door down by now.”
“How’s your mom?”
“She looks like she’s aged fifty years over the past week.”
My side, pressed against his, feels the flash of heat—the anger that has been brewing beneath the surface since Kurt made the ultimatum. I squeeze that warm, strong hand.
A light comes on in the lounge room, spilling pale color onto the front garden. A second later Mitch’s bedroom window goes from black to yellow. They’re all waking up. Nobody would have slept well last night.
These will be my last few moments alone with Noah.
I turn, to find him gazing down on me—blue eyes mirroring the soft heavens behind him.
Capturing me, mesmerizing me.
I meet him halfway, this kiss a gentle brushing of lips. My fingers come to rest on his jaw as his tender mouth connects with mine. He presses closer, increasing the pressure; I pull down, amplifying the sensation. Warmth spikes and blossoms. My senses, heightened by the tension of the past three days, glory in every movement and every feeling. It’s all a dizzying mix of flushed cheeks, heated sandalwood, yearning mouths, caught breaths, delving fingers, and pounding hearts. Subtly underscored with a hint of desperation. It takes my breath away.
With his forehead against mine, our panting breaths mingling and mixing, Noah pulls back a little.
“Eden…”
There’s a depth of emotion in those electric blue eyes that once again leaves me breathless, wordless.
“I want to tell you I love you.”
I feel my chest swelling and my eyes pricking.
“But what I feel for you is so much bigger…deeper…stronger…than that one little word.” He stretches an arm out, as if he’s trying to encompass his feelings.
My hand comes up to cup his cheek. My heart sits in my throat; all I’m feeling must show in my eyes. “I know. What I feel is far more, so much more.”
His shuddering breath flows over my lips, and he’s kissing me again—the depth, strength, and breadth of his feelings flowing from his mouth. I’m cocooned, caressed, cherished by them. I push up on my knees, wanting him to know they are living and breathing within me too. Wanting to convey my adoration and devotion for this courageous, patient, beautiful boy who’s putting his life on the line.
Telling him that, despite the threat hanging over our heads, although the relationship with my mother is more fractured than it has ever been, and even though the future is so unpredictable and uncertain and unknown…
These have been the best three days of my life.
Doors open and feet thump from within the house. We pull away again—breaths uneven, gazes steady.
Ben and Joe arrive, their Phelan truck a deep, dark red. We all head into the house to have breakfast. Beth, looking so tense, pinched…diminished, pulls out a frying pan. “I’ll do eggs and toast.”
Joe gently grasps her, leading her to a stool by the kitchen bench. “I’ll cook, love.”
I’d say Joe has offered to cook to take the strain off Beth’s shoulders, but also because I doubt anyone’s stomachs could handle the smell of burnt egg this morning. Tara and I barely touch the beautifully cooked meal.
After some last minute training and a meal of hearty sandwiches, again prepared by Joe, and it’s time for them to leave. Time had felt like it was crawling, dragging us to this moment. It felt like it passed in a heartbeat.
I’m not sure how, but we find ourselves under Grandfather Douglas again, pulling aside for a last moment of privacy. We stand there, arms around each other, my head against his chest. A powerful urge surges through my arms, telling me to never let him go.
Noah’s warm fingers slip under my chin, lifting my face to meet his. A tide of emotion is ebbing and flowing in those eyes. Pulling me in, letting me go.
There are no words.
Until Noah finds one. “More.”
Effectively, efficiently condensing everything we feel and mean to each other.
“More,” I echo in a whisper.
Please let us have more.
I don’t cry. I know he can already feel my pain. He doesn’t need to see it too.
And then he is gone.
34
Noah
I don’t think I ever would have been prepared for this. But I’d say two days of training with Grandpa Ben and Uncle Joe, with Mitch as my sparring partner, would define ‘totally and inadequately prepared’. Two years of missed Alpha training and the title is complete.
Now I stand at the edge of the Glade, the Phelan pack spread out behind me—Mom to my right, Mitch to my left, and Tara beside him. Everyone is tense. I think of Mom having to watch this while her mate is in hospital. I think of Mitch, knowing how hard it would be for me to see him in this position. And Tara, although she’s bonded with this pack, her family of origin on the other side.
Now anger is no longer simmering. It’s a burning, heated blaze coiling through my muscles. Kurt has been the cause, the root of all these troubles. It’s time to dig up the mass that is poisoning everything around him.
I hope I’m the one that can do it.
I have to be the one to do it.
My senses are on high alert. The Glade is quiet, any animals in the vicinity long gone. This many Weres are just too great a threat. The hint of metallic scent in the air shows our wolves are moving restlessly beneath our human veneer. I can practically taste the tension in the air. And through all this I can feel Eden’s fear. It’s so powerful, so strong, making me think she’s close. But I push it aside; we agreed she’d stay in town, and I need to stay focused.
Because Kurt has just stepped from the trees on the other side of the Glade.
He’s shirtless, as tradition dictates. His massive chest, covered with the same bristly red hair as his beard, is bloated and pushed out, his Channon tattoo black and prominent. My shirt remains on. Most people know my tattoo; the one that has now changed, was never complete, so I decided not to rob them of this assumption until I figured out what in the world it means. I bristle, because it makes me look like a novice.
He struts to the center of the Glade, and I meet him there.
His arms spread out—a welcome or a challenge. “Noah Phelan.” His voice booms. “In recompense for overruling, for humiliating an Alpha, I challenge you to a Claiming.”
I take a deep breath but it doesn’t slow my thumping heart. I want to give this one last try. “Kurt. Let’s settle this in a less…archaic form. No one wins if someone gets hurt.”
His eyes light up. “You’re refusing?”
“No. I’m trying to avoid bloodshed.”
Hazel eyes harden, and I can see his biceps flex as his hands clench. “Coward. Do you accept or not?”
Resignation pulls everything down as I surrender to the inevitable.
“This is wrong, Kurt.” Grandpa has stepped up beside me, arms crossed, grey eyebrows pulled low. Surprise, s
hock, and confusion spear through me. I manage to keep my eyebrows where they are.
“He’s right.” Uncle Joe is now on my other side.
Mitch steps up too with his arms crossed. Then Tara is there on his right. Mom comes to stand beside my grandfather, and her hand slips in his—a sign of strength and solidarity.
The core Phelan pack, lined up before him, inflames Kurt. His mustached lip curls, a glint of teeth showing. The fact that his daughter is amongst them would just be tinder for the flames.
“A Claiming is between Alphas only.” He snarls.
“This should never have come to that,” Grandpa calls loudly.
“Would the Phelans defy tradition, and obstruct my right to retribution?”
The Channon crowd behind Kurt shift and growl.
“A Claiming is a primitive and violent form of retribution.” Grandpa’s tone shows exactly what he thinks of the term ‘retribution’.
Kurt’s anger has him leaning forward, as if it’s a strain to hold himself back. “Do you forget your roots? We are Weres! Ultimate predators—animals that have the strength, the power, and the right to decide life or death.”
I shake my head. But it’s Uncle Joe’s voice that carries over the Glade. “We’ve come a long way from that.” A murmur of assent rumbles through my pack, gaining momentum as it moves through the ranks.
Pride has my chest filling, despite the tightness that grips my ribs. This is my father’s legacy—the knowledge that Weres are more than this. That we stand for integrity, equality, and honor.
“You’ve gone soft.” Contempt twists Kurt’s mouth, lacing his voice with disgust. “Phelans do not deserve to stand alongside the Channons.”
The Channons shout their agreement, thrusting their fists up, punching through the metallic veil that hangs over the Glade. Then they are changing. Humans morphing to Weres like a Mexican wave. From one side of the Glade to the other, pale skin becomes grey, red, brown fur. Upright forms becomes four-legged masses of muscle. Frowns become snarling muzzles.
Behind me the threat is changing the Phelan pack. In the flash of an eye, my own family stands as a mass of predatory animals behind me—ready to protect what we stand for. Ready to protect me.
Oh no.
This just stepped up to something much bigger and much more dangerous.
Kurt remains human before me, his barrel chest filled with satisfaction. He wants this. He dips his head slowly, his burning eyes looking up from beneath thick brows.
My stomach sinks as my shoulders straighten. There cannot be any more blood spilled than necessary. “I accept. But this is between you and me only.” My voice carries through the clearing, and rumbles carry through the two packs. Beneath it all, I hear Mom’s quiet whine.
A small smile twists Kurt’s mouth. “Very well.”
35
Eden
“You can’t be there, Eden.”
Noah had been so intense when he’d said those words three days ago. I remember his handsome face pulled taut with concern, his blue eyes serious, arms wrapped around me tightly; he’d voiced what I already knew. As a fragile human, I’m nothing but a liability. The cowardly part of me had been relieved, the part that still wants to run away from all of this. Pretend it isn’t happening.
But in the end I knew I couldn’t stay away.
Not knowing was unbearable. Intolerable.
With my mind whirling about how I could be close, but not a distraction, I’d driven off after they’d all left, for the second time in a few short weeks driving like a maniac. I’d parked off the highway, creeping the sporty sedan through the trees. My black tires crawled over the leaf litter, and I cringed when a branch scraped down the white paint. When I couldn’t go any farther because the trees were too close together, I parked it amongst the shadowy conifers.
Now, my nervous legs stride through the forest, rough bark brushing my arms and pine needles sticking to my shirt. I skirt the Glade, heading for higher ground, my heart thumping and my breath rasping in my throat. And it’s not because of the sloping terrain. For three days there has been one word that can instantly spike my pulse, one word that is never far away. A Claiming.
Kurt claiming his right to restitution.
Claiming his lost pride.
By claiming a life.
Images of Noah training flash through my mind—him leaping at Mitch with their teeth snapping and mouths snarling. Black versus white. The duality of yin and yang crashing together—twisting, blending, then separating, pulling apart, and pushing away. Breathing heavily, weighing the other’s strengths and weaknesses, preparing to do it all over again and again. And again.
The intimidating show of power had left me awed, and scared. And that was only a practice. Not a drop of blood had been spilled.
For the first time, since I arrived in Jacksonville, the tranquil calm doesn’t soothe me. I start to notice the untamed wildness around me. A kaleidoscope of colors assails my sensitive eyes. Rustling, nervous, unnamed sounds hit my skittish ears. Scents that I can’t distinguish are filling my lungs. Today this natural world feels unpredictable. Outside of my control. Oblivious to my most heartfelt wish.
Please let Noah be okay.
A small clearing, a bare ledge of rock a short way up the mountain catches my eye. It’s a place where I could be close and watch, but away from the danger that two fighting Weres could pose. The size of the parking lot outside the Inn, the clearing’s uneven ground is all whites and greys. Trees frame it on either side, the mountain making up the back wall, looking like a colossal seat for a giant. A throne overlooking the arena.
I walk across the unforgiving rock, my hiking boots crunching over the sharp shards that have been cleaved by erosion and frost. At the edge, where the rock falls away to the trees below, I stop. The Glade sits like a stadium—an emerald clearing framed by trees—my silent, fellow witnesses. The sun is shining down, lighting the stage. I have a clear, unobstructed view of the train wreck that time is bringing inevitably closer.
Because there will be no winners.
For Noah to win he must kill another.
Or die.
Fear peaks through my body again, scorching my mouth dry and cramping my stomach. Restless, I begin to pace. I’ve only taken two steps when movement catches my attention, bringing me back to the bare, rocky patch. People are entering the Glade. My lungs struggle to suck in air as the two families filter through on each side—the Channons below me, the Phelans before me. About twenty-five on each side.
Kurt steps forward, chest naked, and Noah is there, his shirt still on. I briefly wonder at his choice. They’re talking, and even from here, my human eyes can see Kurt is angry. He’s rigid, tense, hard. Determined. They talk, the passing of time stretching my nerves taut. My head pulls back when I see Ben step up beside Noah, followed by Joe, Mitch, Tara, and Beth.
I don’t think this is normal. What is going on?
I hear more talking with the odd voice wafting up, but the words are indecipherable. I think I hear Grandpa Ben and maybe Kurt’s angry tones. I don’t know why, but dread is sinking heavily in my stomach.
Then the Channons are changing. My heart is in my throat, my eyes like giant saucers; I see the Phelans transform too.
Please. No.
Fifty odd Werewolves are facing off with yards between them. What was going to be a deadly duel is about to become a blood bath. Hot bile is searing up my throat. It contrasts against the shivers racking my body. My arms wrap around my waist.
Kurt transforms, and a split second later, Noah does too.
No. No. No. Beth. Tara. Mitch. Grandpa Ben. Uncle Joe. How do I watch this?
Call them.
The whispered words brush through my mind.
I whip around, swinging my head frantically from side to side. But no one is there. A gentle breeze brushes my hair across my face, and I impatiently throw it over my shoulder. I turn back, my gaze drawn to the horrible sight being played out before me.
<
br /> Call them.
This time the whisper is more insistent. An urgent exhale compels me to do something…but what?
Who is in my head? And what are they trying to tell me?
This time I turn and spend precious seconds scanning the empty clearing—the tree line. And I see him—a tall man is stepping from between the trees, grey flowing robes rippling in the breeze. Steady steps bring him closer.
I see the long mahogany hair and the evergreen eyes tilted up at the corners.
He says it again. Call them. Without moving his lips.
Shock has frozen my entire body. Now is not the time to be trying to absorb features I’d never thought I’d see.
I drag my gaze away to look back down on the Glade. The wolves are fanning out, taking up offensive positions, Kurt and Noah at the front and the others waiting to see who will make the first move. It’s only a matter of time before Kurt snaps.
I turn back, to find him beside me. He’s looking at me like I should know what he’s talking about. Call who?
An idea morphs in my mind. Something that might just tip the balance.
“But how?”
He nods, a small smile curling up the corners of his mouth. He comes to stand beside me. He’s taller than I am, his hair longer; his fair skin makes it impossible to tell how old he is. Woven gold threads circle his head—a fragile, intricate crown. He raises his arms, tipping his head back; his eyes drift closed.
I take a deep breath, dragging in calming, soothing air. I pull the air deep down, everything opening up. Flowing around, making room for the dark mas of fear wedged in my stomach.
I copy the crowned, robed man. My arms lift open, and I feel the sun kissing my face and my skin. Behind closed eyes, the words form. My desperate plea moves through my mind, pushing out to the trees—a desperate frantic prayer.
Please come…
Please come.
“Look,” a melodic masculine voice says beside me.
My eyes open and fall to the Glade.
