Azelda paid her no attention. She pressed her hands together and continued. “They were a kind family, with humans and with other creatures of the night. There was one rule the leaders placed upon the entire pack. They would not cross the boundaries of revealing their identity to anyone, for any reason. Doing so would put the family, with generations to follow, in jeopardy.”
The witch’s voice swirled inside Bronte’s head. She opened her mouth but words were lost. Enjoyment settled over her body and through her limbs. She’d never known such satisfying love as if every worry and concern had been lifted from her mind. Her vision blurred as she focused on Azelda’s wrinkled face. The old woman’s features transformed into a beautiful young woman with pale blue eyes. “What did you give me, Azelda?” She wasn’t sure if she actually said the words. The fog consumed her.
“Born of the pack was a mighty young wolf. He was a true leader and his capabilities were astounding. As human he was clever and as a wolf he was powerful. He caught the eye of many, for his good looks, charm and ability. He was fixated on becoming something great as a wolf and as human. He’d been with many lovers, but no one had turned his heart until the one day he met a lovely, young lady. She had indescribable beauty and charm too. Her pale features and kind heart were irresistible, even to a wolf. At first, the wolf found her a challenge. She resisted his charisma and had feistiness unlike any woman he’d ever met. Eventually, the woman grew weak against the wolf and fell in love. The wolf had also fallen, although he knew the threat this placed on his family.”
“Love. Such a splendid thing,” Bronte said. She laughed so hard that she cried. It took her a few minutes to control the fit of humor. “Man, did you give me drugs? I’m high as a kite.”
Azelda sniffed loudly. “Just sit there and relax and listen, girly.”
“Okay,” Bronte responded. The lizard smiled and she waved at him.
“Once the clan heard of the atrocity, they talked to the wolf, hoping he’d see how the love between him and a human could never work. They’re not meant to intermingle. However, the young man had a stubborn streak and believed that his love would carry them through any obstacle. Unfortunately, love had blinded him. He didn’t take into consideration the consequences, because with every action comes a price.” The witch’s voice trailed off, as if she needed to regain her thoughts.
“That’s very true,” Bronte said.
“The love stricken lad revealed his secret to the beautiful lass, because he didn’t wish to keep anything from her. She swore she’d never breathe a word to anyone, and she was sincere.”
Azelda pushed her body from the chair, reached for the beaker of serum and poured it into her palm. She came to Bronte’s side and drizzled the liquid over her head. The liquid seeped into her scalp—tingly and hot. She squirmed but she was a prisoner to paralysis. Her brain was functioning, but her body refused to respond.
The witch returned the glass onto the table and sat back down. “The young lady kept her word, but little did she know that her father suspected his daughter was in a dangerous situation. The daughter snuck out one night to meet her wolf. The father followed her deep into the woods,” Azelda continued. Her voice sounded like it came from a tunnel. Bronte’s vision blurred again and she fell through a haze. She could see the woods. It was dark and the night air was cool against her skin. She wrapped her arms around her waist for protection as she looked around her surroundings. The moon became bright and cast a silver glow.
And then she saw it—
Wolves and humans scattered the area, many were on the ground while another group stood high upon a cliff, howling. It was an amazing sight of beautiful lean bodies in human form and others with thick grey and brown fur and yellow eyes.
Movement to her left drew her attention. Among the clan was a lovely woman. Her blonde hair hung like gleaming satin. She was perched upon a rock, her long dress hung to her ankles and her feet were bare. Her bright smile and eyes glistened in the moonlight. Beside her sat a man, his back was to Bronte. The woman looked up at him and a joyful smile curved her lips. He bent, kissed her on the forehead and Bronte knew they were lovers. Wolves and humans may not belong together as partners, but the tenderness the two shared couldn’t be denied. It brought tears to Bronte.
The wolves’ wailing became louder. Bronte watched, mesmerized, as the animals seem to pay reverence to the night. The howling sounded like beautiful music.
“Nooooo!” The word split the air, followed by a loud scream. The whistling stopped as silence defeated the pack. Bronte searched for the man and woman, wondering what had happened, and then she saw the motionless body sprawled on the rocks near the woods. A pool of blood surrounded the figure. Bronte looked up high onto the cliff where the wolves and humans stood at the edge peering down. The beautiful young woman was now kneeling next to the dead man. “Daddy! Daddy!” the woman wailed.
Bronte’s breath held. Tears fell to her cheeks as realization became heavy inside of her. The woman’s father!
The wolves stood staring. The woman’s cry was the only sound heard. The brawny wolf, the one who’d been sitting next to the woman, knelt next to her. His naked torso glistened in the pale light and his hair matched the dark night. Bronte could see his profile and her heart skipped a beat. Roark!
“What happened?” Roark stood tall, his shoulders broad and his back straight. His eyes turned a glossy yellow. He bellowed up to the wolves who were peering down from the rock’s overhang. They stood vacant as the eerie calm remained. “Come now, my love.” Roark urged the woman.
Moments passed in tortured seconds, until the woman finally stood, her sobbing moans faded. The quiet was deafening as she lifted her chin to look at Roark. Her dewy skin and red eyes stood out as proof of her heartache. “You!” she whispered. “You all!” She lifted her hand and sliced it through the air. “You’re beasts. How could you?” Roark was the target of her last words.
He reached out to touch her, but she stepped back. Fury lit her eyes and they glowed like fire through the shadows. “Don’t touch me,” she said through a moan. With the last words, she ran and disappeared into the night.
Bronte watched in horror.
Azelda’s voice penetrated the hazy surroundings and Bronte attempted to ignore them. She rushed to Roark’s side and tears streamed from his eyes as his shoulders slumped. “Roark!” she yelled. “Roark!” she screamed. He didn’t hear her, nor did he realize she was there.
As quick as she’d been drawn into the woods, she was jerked back through the fuzzy tunnel to Azelda’s shack. “The pack knew they’d be hunted once the word was out,”
the witch said through the blur. “They were a peaceful tribe. The death of the human was the fault of one. A deceitful one.”
“Who? What happened Azelda?” Bronte asked.
“In her rage over the death of her father, she called upon my help. She swore vengeance upon those who took her father’s life, cursing the clan for one-hundred years.” Azelda coughed and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Nothing good results from anger—or comes without a price. The lovely woman learned the hard way. Her wolf came, but it was too late. The curse had begun.”
Bronte waited, wanting more knowledge, but nothing. “Please tell me more, Azelda!”
“The pale-haired lass lives deep within your heart. You are chosen to conceive because of a promise made,” Azelda said in a hushed tone. “Understanding will come when you are willing to accept it.”
An acrid smell pierced her senses as an oozing sensation floated over her. She tried speaking, but nothing came. Blackness overcame her.
Chapter 6
“CAN I GET you anything, Mr. Roark?”
Roark lifted his throbbing head. Miss Deveraux stood in the open doorway to his bedroom. “What’s that?” he asked. He’d been lost in writing in his journal and hadn’t heard her approach, which was very unlike him.
“I asked if there’s anything I can get you.”
�
�No thank you, Miss Deveraux.”
She glanced at Bronte’s sleeping body. “I’ve never seen one sleep this long under the medicine. Two days.” She shook her head. “And you sir, you haven’t left her side. You need your rest too.”
“She’ll be fine, and I’m ok,” he said. “I don’t want her to wake up and be frightened.”
“You’re a true gentleman.”
“Some would beg to differ, Miss Deveraux.” He heard her leave but kept his eyes on Bronte. She’d fallen into a deep sleep at Azelda’s. He’d carried her home in his arms on Seed Demon and laid her in his bed. He knew the potion that the witch had used would put Bronte out for a while, at least until her body had time to recover from the shock. Sometimes remembering history exhausted the emotions.
He was curious what she remembered. If she was ready, she’d know everything.
Laying the journal down on his lap, he shifted in the large leather chair, resting his head back on the cushioned headrest. He couldn’t seem to remove his gaze from Bronte. She was lovely and looked peaceful. Her long hair was spread out across the pillow, and looked like black velvet against the red blanket he’d covered her with. He half expected her to wake up cursing a string of four letter words. She was certainly a feisty one, he’d give her that. She had the soul of a fighter.
Glancing down at the worn book, he’d written in it almost every day and his heart was heavy. He’d just finished writing what he’d witnessed at Azelda’s. As he’d watched the witch cast her magical spell on Bronte, he’d wanted to drag her away from the shack. The witch couldn’t be trusted, but for now, only she knew what transpired one-hundred years ago. Roark hoped Bronte remembered everything, even the answers he didn’t know. She’d only accept as much as her heart would allow her in such a short time, and apparently she’d shut down before the entire story could be told. He wished he could tell her the truth, but she wouldn’t believe him. If she blocked him out, their future would be hopeless. He grew weaker each day and he still wasn’t sure if he could save his family.
He opened the book and flipped through pages until he came to the entry he wanted. The curse. It was written in his words as told to him by the witch. He was growing sick of the hex hanging over his head like a dark and deathly cloud. The poison rushed through his veins, making him frailer with each breath. His body was failing him.
Something slipped from the pages and fell at his feet. He picked it up and held the neatly folded letter, yellowed with time, in his hand. He didn’t need to read it because he’d read the scrawled writing so many times that he’d memorized every word, every letter, every pattern of character, like it was etched into his mind, branded like an incurable disease. He believed he could still smell her scent lingering on the paper.
The rustling of sheets brought his attention to the bed. He quickly pushed the letter back into the journal and stuck it in his desk.
Bronte rolled but didn’t open her eyes. He’d hoped she would come to. Not only was the clock ticking, but he found that he missed her, which was far more dangerous than the threat of time.
It irked him knowing that his livelihood, the livelihood of his heritage, rested in her hands. She wanted no part of this. In her defense, he guessed she had every right to hate him. If only she knew the link that bound them…
Maybe he should just take the risk and tell her of the past. Would she understand then?
Shaking his head, he tore his fingers through his hair in frustration. She must come to the reality of the situation on her own, seeing for herself that they were chosen for one another, to reproduce. He’d waited many years, a lifetime it’d seemed, for this treasured moment. Now he had to make things right. He had to plant his seed, a child, before his heritage died because of his mistake—because of their mistake. She was the one, he was certain. He ran his hungry gaze over her. Her hair was darker, her eyes lighter, skin paler and her body thinner…but it was her.
One thing he knew, he’d never make the emotional sacrifice twice.
But was it in his control?
Bronte’s moan pulled his mind from his dreary thoughts. He stood up and crossed the room to the side of the bed, sitting at her hip. His heart skipped a beat as her eyes fluttered, and then her lids flew open. A frantic expression washed over her face, but when her gaze connected with his, she seemed to relax—some. She brought her hands up and pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I have a headache.” Her voice was scruffy.
“I thought you would.” He reached for the glass on the nightstand and held it out for her.
She sat up and stared at the glass of green liquid, her pert nose wrinkled. “What the hell is that? And why are you handing it to me?”
“This is beet root and fresh herbs mixed with a touch of scotch. And it’s obvious why I’m handing it to you.”
“I’ve made a conscious choice in life to never drink or eat anything that looks like it’s been regurgitated by a dog.”
“It’s not that bad,” he said.
“Then you drink it.”
“But I don’t have a headache. And I wasn’t drugged by an old witch.” He should have known she wouldn’t have lost her stubborn streak.
Her eyes opened wider and her hands dropped to her lap. “So it wasn’t a dream?” One corner of her mouth slipped downward.
He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. However, you’ve been asleep for two days so I’m sure you’ve had enough time to dream.” He took her left hand and placed the glass against her palm. “Trust me, this stuff will work wonders inside of your body, but spilling it will only attract bugs, creatures and other non-human beings. It’s a bitch to get it off your skin.”
Her eyes slanted. “Are you being serious?”
“Deadly serious.” He sighed. “And your headache will last until you cure it. So come now. Drink it like a good girl.”
She snarled in disapproval, but she didn’t argue this time and brought the glass to her lips. One long drink and she pushed it back at him. “I can’t. It’s horrid. Like ass.”
He lifted a brow. “Like ass?”
“It’s an expression.”
“Well, then. Bottom’s up.” He couldn’t keep from laughing.
She eyed him in irritation. “Not funny.”
“Ahh, not in the slightest?” he asked. She shook her head. He felt a bit sorry for her. “Alright then. I can’t have the lady drinking ass.” He pulled open the nightstand drawer and grabbed a small white bottle. He popped the lid, shook out two tablets and handed them to her.
She took them. “What are these?”
He read the bottle, “Pain and fever reducer. Acetaminophen.”
“This will work?” Relief spread over her features.
“Yes, it will,” he answered. “I guess. I prefer the green stuff.”
The pills were almost to her mouth when she stopped mid-air. “Wait. Are you telling me that you were forcing me to drink that nasty green slime when I can take two pills and it has the same effect?”
“Not entirely the same effect. The nutrient-packed, green slime will make you healthier and stronger, as well as cutting the pain. It’s a natural supplement from the earth and—”
“Stop right there.” Her jaw angled. “And the part about spilling it on your skin and being a magnet for creatures? Was that a lie too?”
He shrugged. “No, that’s not a lie. This is a delicacy.”
“And how would you know that creatures like this stuff?”
“Shall we test the theory?”
“I’m not up for testing today. I’ve stepped out of my normal existence into the twilight zone.” She swallowed the pills and grabbed the bottle of water from the nightstand. “This is plain water right?
“Clean, clear water. Another delicacy.”
She downed half of the container in one gulp and recapped it. “The witch wasn’t a dream. So that means the story, of the wolf and his lover, is true?” Her mouth dropped. “Wait…you’re the woman’s lover.”
He
nodded. “I’m afraid it’s very true.”
“Where is she?” Wrinkles appeared between her eyes.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “What did you see?”
“You…and her. In the woods. Some kind of ritual…the wolves howling.” A stricken expression took the place of shock. “Oh no! The woman’s father. He fell from the cliff.” Her eyes glistened.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“She ran from you. She blamed you…and your family. And—” She jumped up on her knees so fast that the bottle of water fell onto the floor. She grabbed the sheets and jerked them to her chest, as if in protection. “You! You’re a wolf…no…not possible! Or is it?”
Although fear mangled her features, relief spread over him. “Very possible.”
“That’s how you read my thoughts, or should I say sense what I’m thinking. And the sudden disappearing and the appearing act?” Her hand came up and pressed her forehead.
“The headache back?” She nodded. “Green slime?” She nodded again. He handed her the glass and while she held her nose, she downed every sip.
“That was instant relief,” she said.
“Works every time,” he said.
“What’s in it that has the numbing affect?”
“Don’t ask.”
She dropped onto her bottom and leaned against the headboard. “What does all of this mean, Roark?”
“The woman, Jillian and I, fell in love. Because of our selfish desires, lives were lost and hearts were broken.” He stood up and walked to the windowsill, staring out onto the land. It was calm and serene, for now. A dark cloud blanketed he sky and a storm brewed. He could feel it in his bones.
“But she said the clan is cursed for one hundred years and there is a price. I feel there’s much more information that I’m missing.”
He shrugged. “The mind can only accept so much at one time. Maybe that’s all that you chose to hear.”
“I wouldn’t have believed Azelda’s story unless I was there, as if I was transported back into time to the moment where the woman’s father was killed. My heart broke at the sight…”
Wicked Pleasures Page 8
