by C. A. Storm
“Oj, min sønn!” The booming voice seemed to echo across the entire valley. Bard cringed instinctively before he turned to face his father, who bore down on him quite literally like a Viking of old.
Roar Ulvfang was a very big man. While he stood a few inches shorter than his sons, barely topping six feet, he was at least twice as broad as any of them, including Bard—who had the powerful upper body developed from his blacksmithing work—and it was all muscle, despite his apparent age. He was one of those men built was large and solid, thickly built like a tree. He may no longer have a six-pack, but his full kegger was rock solid!
A long mane of bone white hair was pulled back into a single thick braid, while his beard would make Gandalf and ZZ Top weep with envy, for it was a mass of thin braids braided together into a thick braid, secured with platinum rings carved with runes and snarling wolves heads, and still reached clear down to his waist. Roar's face was craggy, all sharp lines and harsh plateaus, giving him the look of an extremely fit, and still attractive, human in his sixties; perhaps a little passed his prime, but still ridiculously healthy.
Sadly—for his family, at least—in the last few years, since his “retirement,” Roar had taken to wearing Hawaiian shirts, Bermuda shorts, and OluKai sandals, which he went to Honolulu every year to purchase. Although he claimed it was to celebrate his anniversary with his beloved mate, Karin, everyone knew it was so that Roar could go shopping.
Today’s ensemble? A deep burgundy, silk Hawaiian shirt with white-print orchids, which only seemed to emphasize his powerful arms and barrel of a chest, a pair of bright white Bermuda shorts, which proudly displayed muscular, hairy calves, and on his large, wide feet, a pair black leather sandals that strained to contain them. With the same pale skin possessed by most Scandinavians, and rocking his winter lack-of-tan, he looked like the unholy spawn of The Rock and Sir Ian McKellen. Some called the ancient wolf shifter ‘Roidrage Santa on Holiday’ behind his back, because even at Roar's advanced age, none dared to say it to his face. Not even his sons.
Personally, Bard blamed his brother's business partner, Clayton, for Roar's rapid descent into fashion madness. Who could have known introducing Roar and Karin to Clayton's parents in Oahu would result in such an utter and complete ability to embarrass both sets of kids?
Sigh.
Roar’s heavy hand came crashing down on Bard’s broad shoulder, and only the fact Bard had braced himself, knowing it was coming, that kept the younger wolf from staggering.
“You have finally arrived! Your sisters have been busy since dawn,” Roar said in his typical tone of voice, just shy of a booming shout. Roar more than lived up to his name, even in Norse, it meant fighter of praise. Despite having lived in the Americas for centuries, since long before they were even called the Americas, Roar’s speech still held that distinctly melodic Nordic lilt.
“Yeah, well, they’re unholy demon-spawn, and you probably let them visit Allie at Café Au Faé, didn’t you?” Bard asked pointedly, not even bothering to look over to see his father’s guilty expression—the man could no more hide his emotions than he could modulate his tone. Reaching into the truck, he grunted as he pulled out one of the long wooden crates. Passing it over to his father, who easily shrugged the heavy crate over one shoulder, Bard arched a brow at his father’s expression. “What?”
“You will nei tell your mama, ja?” From that particular tone? Yeah, Roar had been explicitly forbidden by their mother to make sure the girls didn’t drink too many mochas.
“Nei, pappa,” Bard laughed, shaking his head ruefully as he pulled out another crate. “Your secret is safe with me…as long as you help me unload the truck.”
“Ja, ja, min sønn!” Roar agreed, energetically nodding his head as he once more easily hefted another crate onto his other shoulder, making carrying a couple hundred pounds on those wide shoulders look deceptively easy.
“You always were my favorite,” he added in a confidential voice, what was probably meant to be a whisper, as a wide grin split his bearded face. “Just don’t tell your søsken!”
Grabbing out his oversized rucksack, his seabag, and another crate, Bard flashed his father a conspiratorial grin, “I know, pappa, I know.”
Shutting the trunk, Bard shrugged on both his bags and, unwilling to let his much older father completely show him up, hefted the crate over his own shoulder as he led the way into the Village and towards his smithy.
Even though it wasn’t even seven yet, the Village was already buzzing with workers, making sure all the paths were cleaned and cleared of snow, buildings were in proper repair, and the greenery was all preened and trimmed.
With it being Easter Sunday, those who weren’t pagan, heathen, agnostic, or some combination thereof, were celebrating the holiday. Alas, considering many Uncannies—particularly the elder and longer-lived ones, such as the Sidhe and Fae—were incontestably heathens, and many Faire-goers tended towards heathenism as well, there was a surprising number of vendors and performers also present, getting ready for the opening in two weeks.
Roar kept up a steady stream of chatter as they moved through the Seelie-side of the Faire, towards the large forge and cottage where Bard ran his smithy on the weekends. During the week, Bard usually kept busy working on custom motorcycles, and worked on his sculptures and art during the Winter, when he was snowed in, but during the weekends at the Faire, he specialized in forging weapons. He was particularly known for his historically accurate Norse-inspired weapons, from hammers and spearheads through full swords, but his unique take on well-known fantasy weapons had become popular in the last few years. Particularly since he was comfortable with the written and spoken forms of Sindarin, Quenya, Klingon, and had even recently mastered Dothraki.
Finally getting to his forge, Bard led his father to the side of the building, where he unloaded his crate and dropped his bags. “Here pappa,” he turned to assist, half-grinning at his father’s pained expression.
They were heavier than you thought, you old wolf. Bard helped pull down the crates, lowering them to the ground, both men trying to stifle the groans of effort as they relieved themselves of the burden.
Rotating his shoulders, trying to look casual, Roar straightened and admitted with a rueful grin, “Perhaps I am not so young anymore.”
“Considering how ancient and decrepit you are?” Bard teased as he likewise stretched out his sore shoulders. “I’m just glad sorry there wasn’t any pretty ladies around to witness our display of manliness.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” a low, sultry voice purred with the sweetest accent Bard had ever heard. “But if only you had announced you would be performing, I would have been sure to appreciate all that sheer manliness appropriately.”
Both men spun towards the voice. Standing in the doorway of the cottage across from his smithy, where the glassmaker used to have his shop and hold live demonstrations, was a vision that stole Bard’s breath away.
She was tall and she had curves to make Botticelli’s Venus sob with envy. Her long, wavy hair spilled in a cascade of gleaming caramel and rich honey that rivaled her voice in lushness. Vivid turquoise eyes danced with amusement, gazing at them with an intensity, and appreciation, that had both men instinctively drawing up to their full heights and puffing out their chests. She was wearing…something, but Bard couldn’t tear his gaze away from those eyes of hers. They were familiar, somehow. Within his mind, his sullen, withdrawn wolf was suddenly at full, complete attention.
Inhaling deeply, man and wolf drew in her scent, easily separating it from the thousands of familiar scents around them.
Magnolias and wintergreen, a fresh, delicately floral scent that was purely feminine, and drew him like the scent of a hearth-fire on a cold winter’s night. Her scent coiled around him, permeating his being and igniting his blood in a pulsing inferno that caused his cock to surge to life and weep with anticipation as his wolf howled in triumph.
Found her! FOUND HER! Mine! MINE! MINE!
; Freya's glorious breasts, she's my mate! Bard, and his wolf, damn near exploded with excitement, anticipation, eagerness, and an instant and undeniable arousal. In a word, he was completely sexcited!
Then his dad had to go and ruin everything.
"Heksa! Witch!"
Yep, dear old pappa had a hate-on for witches, and apparently Bard's mate was a witch!
Bloody hell.
Chapter 9
Again.
It was the same danged dream, again.
Once more, Harper had found herself naked, freezing in a long, frozen hall.
Once more, she had run towards the light in the distance only to find herself trapped behind a solid wall of ice.
Once more, she had slammed her fists against the wall, trying to break through to what she knew, but didn't really know, lay on the other side.
Once more, the wall had cracked, revealing just a glimpse of brilliantly glowing blue eyes.
And once more, that disturbingly low, bestial voice had growled, "Found you," just before she woke up!
What really disturbed Harper, though, was the effect the dream had on her body, particularly her libido. Why did those eyes cause her nipples to draw tight in anticipation? Why did that growling, bestial voice make her core clench with such intense need? And why was the crotch of her panties completely drenched—and not by sweat—by the time she decided to just get out of bed?
Always an early riser anyways, Harper nevertheless groaned in frustration when she saw it wasn't even five-in-the-morning. It was going to take her a little longer to adjust to the time zone differences between the East Coast and the Rockies. Since she knew it was pointless to try and get back to sleep at this point, not when she was this frustrated, she forced herself out of the warm cocoon of her bed and got her day started.
It took Harper a little while to properly warm-up before she began her daily yoga routine, since she had skipped the last few days while traveling, and her sore muscles protested after their little vacation. With her headphones on, however, Harper lost herself in the original Broadway cast recording of Wicked, as she moved her body through her sun salutations.
While Harper was what many would indeed consider a "bigger" woman, she was comfortable with her body. She usually ate properly, dressed to compliment her figure in clothes that fit properly and emphasized her figure, and regularly did yoga to stay in shape. Even if it was a larger shape than society currently deemed pleasing. Been there, done that, and thankfully had mostly gotten over the eating disorders and psychological damage struggling to be the size 6 her grandmother had insisted upon.
Nope. Never again. While the Llewellyn women tended to be petite and willowy, the Morgan family came from "peasant stock," as Grandmother Llewellyn disdainfully sniffed. The Morgan women tended more towards being tall, big-boned, healthy as horses, strong as oxen, and stubborn as a jackass.
After finishing her morning yoga, Harper took a long, hot shower, luxuriating in the steamy heat soaking into her muscles until the water growing tepid forced her out of the shower. Putting her hair up in a towel, she wrapped a bath sheet around herself, tucked her feet into her pink bunny slippers—don't judge, they were comfortable—and padded towards the kitchen.
Stretching languidly, Harper walked into the tiny kitchenette of the little studio of her cottage. Yes, her cottage. That was going to take a bit of getting used to. Her condo in Atlanta had been downtown, close to work, and it had been expensive and professionally decorated. Everything in its proper place, a proper place for every thing. As an attorney, and particularly as a Llewellyn, she had had an image to project, one that had to come as second nature to her as breathing, because the one thing her grandparents could not deal with was being "embarrassed."
Years of etiquette, of enunciation to help soften her Georgia accent without eliminating it entirely, since a "proper Southern Lady" retained her accent, but did not sound like some backwoods redneck fresh off the set of Deliverance. And yes, Deliverance took place in Georgia, so it was brought up far more often than Harper liked to remember.
As she opened the fridge, pulling out some yogurt and orange juice, Harper ruminated over the previous night's dinner. It had been quite entertaining. She had finally been introduced to Clara, face-to-face, and the two women had gotten along quite well. Rik had been charming, Samantha had been Sam, and Bertie had come out of the kitchen often to check on them as they ate the most incredible beef Wellingtons Harper had ever had the pleasure to devour.
Even now, her mouth watered remembering not only the Wellingtons, perfectly paired with roasted vegetables, an absolutely luscious serving of mashed potatoes, and a rich, dark gravy that tied everything together. The perfect finale, however, was what Bertie called his "Rocky Mountain Gâteau."
It was three layers of decadent, dark chocolate sponge cake, soaked in a cherry brandy, with a layer of fudge and a layer of honey-caramel, covered with an absolutely obscene amount of fresh whipped cream laced with flecks of bittersweet chocolate, then topped with chocolate-covered cherries and surrounded by chocolate bark along the sides. It. Was. Amazing.
Sam had pouted at both Bertie and Rik telling her she could only have a single bite, given there was alcohol in the cake, and the obscene amount of chocolate, but she had settled down when Bertie had brought her out a miniature honey-and-lavender cheesecake with candied rose petals that left her groaning. The nearly orgasmic sounds Sam had been making swiftly led Rik to politely excusing the both of them, then sweeping the giggling, protesting red head up into his arms and making a beeline for the exit.
Eyeing the slice of the gâteau she had brought home, Harper glanced at the orange juice and yogurt in her hands. Shrugging, she put it back, grabbed the milk and the cake.
"Breakfast of champions," Harper said aloud. She had done her yoga that morning, she deserved a reward! Besides, it totally had both fruit and eggs in it, and she was drinking milk. See? Healthy! Okay, she wasn't buying that either, but that cake was addictive!
Sitting at the small island that divided the kitchenette from the main room, Harper hummed to herself as she caught up on personal emails, completely ignored her business emails, and updated her Facebook status, while she polished off her milk and cake. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was approaching seven.
Quickly rinsing off her dishes, she headed back into the bathroom so she could finish her morning routine. Another facial cleanse, toner and serum, moisturizer with SPF protection, but she decided to forgo the full routine. A little blush, lip gloss, and a quick brush of eye shadow and mascara, and she was ready for her day, which would consist of unloading the rest of her stuff, starting to set-up her supplies and materials, and figure out what she'd need to get everything up and operational in the next two weeks.
Filled with a giddy anticipation she couldn't remember feeling in a long time, Harper opened her luggage and considered her options. Frowning slightly, she made a mental note to go shopping for more casual clothing, as she realized she didn't really have much she could comfortably do any physical labor in, much less anything she could wear while puttering around making glass.
First things first, head into town and get some jeans and t-shirts!
With a strange sense of reluctance at putting on clothes more representative of the life she had left behind, she cheered herself up with the thought of actually getting casual clothes. Finally settling on a pair of simple, tailored dove gray slacks and a button-down silk blouse in a pale, blushing pink, Harper also pulled out her pair of gray Manolo Blahnik tweed flats.
Pulling off the terry cloth towel, she dressed in one of her favorite, most comfortable, lingerie sets, a pale champagne-colored cami-bra and pair of modified boy-shorts that enhanced her curves and kept them under some semblance of control. They weren't extravagant, unlike most of her clothes, but while most of her wardrobe was high end and functional, it was her lingerie that she let more of her true self come out.
Sadly, it had been a long, long time since she
had gotten to wear any of her more daring, intimate pieces, but she had packed some of her favorites nevertheless! One could never tell when you needed to bring out the big guns, and Harper liked to be prepared!
Dressed, and with her thick mane tamed into a chignon at her nape, Harper gave herself a satisfied nod in the mirror. Lifting her hand to her neck, she eyed the exposed expanse for a moment as she debated jewelry, but after a rueful glance at her now bare left wrist, decided against.
Grabbing her things, she folded her coat over her arm as she bounced down stairs. Sparing the empty display space, she allowed a small, happy grin free.
I'm really doing it. First steps towards my life on my terms taken!
Cheerfully humming under her breath, she set the alarm, swung open the door, stepped outside, and had to brace herself.
It was freaking freezing!
Instantly glad for the padding of her cami-bra, Harper quickly shrugged into her long, heavy overcoat. Man, times like these, I actually appreciate being on the fluffy side.
Getting used to the chilly Rocky Mountain air was going to be a work in progress, for sure. It was already a little passed dawn, the sky was already a crystal blue, but in the shadow cast by Shadow Mountain—oh, so appropriately named—the sun had yet to make its appearance. The otherwise balmy Spring kept lulling her into a false sense of security. Tricky weather!
As she stood framed in the doorway of her cottage, pulling on the gloves she fished out of her coat, she gaped as she witnessed a wide man wearing little more than a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts casually walking by as it if wasn't a bazillion-degrees-below-zero outside.
She couldn't get a look at his face, since he had two long, heavy looking crates resting on either inhumanly wide shoulder. Likewise, she couldn't get a good look at the guy walking beside him, because although he was apparently at least half-a-foot taller, he was likewise carrying a single crate perched on his t-shirt clad shoulder. His short-sleeved t-shirt clad shoulder, that revealed a rather impressively muscular forearm.
