by Elle Thorne
Rochelle, because she couldn’t bring herself to call her “mother.”
“Mémé, can we go already?” The sooner they went, the sooner they’d get it over with and Leandra could return home to Mémé’s cabin in the swamp and take off the shoes that hurt her feet and the dress that restricted her breathing with its high collar.
“We’re going, ma belle. Relax.”
Leandra harrumphed.
To which her grandmother responded with a playful smack.
“Mémé!” Leandra whirled around. “I’m too old for spankings.”
“You’ll never be too old for spanking, ma chère.”
* * *
Mémé’s grip on Leandra’s hand was tight. She squeezed Leandra’s fingers like a cottonmouth taking a frog hostage in the bayou.
Maybe it’s because she knows I’m half a heartbeat away from running out of here.
“Here” was the coffee shop they met Rochelle at, on those rare occasions when Rochelle could make time to meet them. It was almost always just after dusk, and Rochelle invariably kept her face in the shadows. Every so often, candlelight would flicker just right and Leandra would get a glimpse of her mother’s pale ethereal beauty.
Leandra plopped into the plush chair in the back of the coffee shop, a private room that was reserved for them when they met with Rochelle. She wondered what the room was used for when they weren’t in it. Was it for private assignations? Her mind liked to wander to all sorts of subterfuge, political or amorous. She knew her grandmother would chastise her for her thoughts, but Leandra couldn’t help her vivid imagination.
Mémé snapped her fingers, indicating for Leandra to sit up. “You’re growing into a young lady, stop acting like a street urchin that’s never been taught manners, chère.”
“Yes ma’am,” Leandra uttered reluctantly and pulled her spine straight.
She felt her mother enter the building. She felt her every time. Was it because of their bond? Was it because of the witch blood they shared, even though Rochelle refused to lay claim to the craft of witchery? Or was it something else, some strange preternatural sense that Mémé hadn’t explained to her yet? Mémé had begun some of Leandra’s sorcery training, but they’d not gotten very far yet. Mémé said next year would be the year they’d start in earnest.
Sure enough, Leandra’s senses were spot on. A figure appeared in the doorway, pushing aside the curtains that afforded some privacy.
Tall, willowy, with cream colored skin, attired in the latest fashion, with nails buffed to a high gloss, and hair gleaming, Rochelle Mathieu, mother to Leandra, stood in the doorway.
“Mère.” Rochelle used the French word for mother.
Leandra fought the sneer that wanted to appear on her face at the airs Rochelle put on.
“Rocky.” Mémé used the childhood nickname for Rochelle. She took Rochelle’s fingers between her own weathered hands. “You look wonderful, chère. Like life is agreeing with you.”
Rochelle’s caustic gaze traveled up and down Leandra. “I wish we could say the same for Leandra. She looks like a field hand.”
“Those days are long gone,” Leandra reminded the woman who’d given birth to her.
“I’m older than you think.” Rochelle’s tone was haughty, her brow arched high in an unlined, creamy forehead. “So those days are still fresh in my mind.”
Her eyes narrowed as she stared at Leandra, taking in her hair—which Leandra was sure had become disheveled in the New Orleans humidity, taking in the scuff marks on the shoes that were borrowed—because Leandra would rather be barefooted on any given day.
Rochelle held up a bag made of satin material, and fished a tiny jar out. “Here.” She handed the jar to Mémé. “Apply this to her skin every night. The smell isn’t great, but she’ll lose that horrible shading. It will lighten her skin to a beautiful cream color.” Rochelle ran the back of her hand along her own cheek, as if this would be the result.
Leandra cocked her head, studied the woman who’d given birth to her, but couldn’t seem to like her the way she was. “I’m not—”
Mémé’s hand fell heavily on Leandra’s shoulder. “Hush, chère.”
“But—”
“Shall we have sweets?” Mémé interrupted Leandra, giving her a look of warning.
“I have early dinner plans. Unforeseen.” Rochelle’s countenance wasn’t apologetic.
Chapter Two
Island of Syros, Greece
Theodoros jumped from rock to rock on the jetty on Syros, the Greek island he lived on with his mother. His agility was something she’d urged him to hide.
As were his other shifter skills.
“Don’t let them ever see you as a lion, agape mou.” My love. These were the words of caution his mother had preached at him every day since he could remember. Well, every day since the day he’d shifted in front of a stranger when they’d gone to the mainland.
His mother had taken him to Athens, and when a man had stepped too close to her, Theo’s protective instincts had stepped in and he’d begun to morph into his lion.
His mother had thrown her shawl over him and carried little Theo far away from the horrified, stuttering man before he could bring any attention to the little boy who’d grown whiskers and fangs.
Later, she’d held him on a park bench, fed him Greek cookies and told him he was to never, ever let anyone see him do anything that normal little boys couldn't do.
A preteen now, he found it easier to control his urges, easier to control his lion, and easier to control his lion shifter skills. Sure he could run faster, jump higher, longer, and out wrestle other boys his age, but now he knew how to control these things.
So to all eyes on the island of Syros, he was just an average little boy, son of a widow woman.
His mother told him his father was a god, he was born of a god and that he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. If he were ever asked, he was simply to respond that his father had been a fisherman who’d been lost at sea.
He jumped to the final boulder at the end of the jetty and studied the blueness of the ocean.
One day I’ll go further than this island. One day I’ll see more of the world.
And one day he’d take care of his mother. She toiled in the homes of the wealthy on the island, working hard to provide for herself and her son. She had no social life, no pleasures, no love.
All she had was Theo. Everything she did centered around Theo and his needs.
Yes, for sure, one day this boy would take care of the woman who’d dedicated her life to him.
He looked out over the sea. Why else would he have the skills he had? Was his father Poseidon? What about Zeus?
A part of him mocked his own ideas. How could his father be a Greek god? Another part of Theo wondered how he could take the form of a lion if his father wasn’t a god.
The crisp blueness of the ocean burned bright. The fishing boats dotted the horizon. Theo dug deep into his pocket, pulling out the bread and feta his mother had stuffed into plastic wrap. He took fishing line and a hook out. Sure his mother meant for him to eat the feta and bread, but part of it would be bait for the fish near the rocks. Taking a pinch of bread and feta, he rolled it into a tiny ball, then pierced it with the hook.
His mother would be happy to see some fresh fish this afternoon. She’d make their favorite fish soup with fresh lemons.
He dropped the hook into the water.
Hours later, it was almost sundown and Theo had a handful of fish on a line to take home.
He shoved his line and hook in his pocket, wiped his hands on this pants, then dropped to one knee to take the fish from the water where they were strung on a line.
Rising and turning swiftly, he almost ran into a mountain of a man.
He looked up at the man, surrounded by a halo of the setting sun.
Dark haired and tan, the man’s black eyes gleamed. A smile crept to his face then spread to his lips, revealing even white teeth.
A sli
ght shiver ran down Theo’s spine as he recognized the look of a predator in the man’s smile and his eyes.
“Theodoros.” The man’s smile grew larger.
Theo paused. No one called him that. Everyone called him Theo. Even his mother. She only called him Theodoros when he was in trouble. And those times were rare.
He gazed at the man warily, not answering his question. Theo’s mother had warned him not to talk to strangers. He wasn’t going to break her rules.
“Theodoros Ioannis Ricoletti.” The man’s smile grew more broad.
Young Theo couldn’t control his temper and broke his mother’s rule. “That’s not my name. My name is Theodoros Ioannis Adamantides.”
“Adamantides is your mother’s last name,” the man stated.
“So?”
“Your father is Marco Ricoletti.”
“I’ve never heard that name,” Theo scoffed.
“Because your mother took you from your father’s home before you were even born. She tried to keep you a secret.”
Lies.
But then again, was it? His mother never said anything about Theo’s father, other than he was a god. Theo knew deep down, that wasn’t true. He also knew his mother was holding something back.
“No,” he denied the man’s statement, though he had no clue if it were true or not.
“No?” The man’s grin was predatory, white teeth glistening in the sunset.
A slight crunching sound, and the sound of sinew tearing accosted Theo’s senses.
He knew that sound. Knew it only too well from when he’d occasionally snuck an opportunity to shift after his mother went to bed.
The man’s face grew broader, his mouth opened wider than a yawn, to reveal the lion’s canines that were erupting.
And just as quickly, before his shift could be complete, and before he shifted enough for anyone on the shore to see, the man became completely human.
“You’ve never seen one of our kind, I suppose.” The man’s tone had compassion.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Theo blustered.
He lowered himself and looked Theo in the eyes. In the depth of the man’s dark gaze, a golden glow erupted.
“Of course you do. You don’t want to know.”
Theo shook his head, adamantly, with the fierce conviction of youth. He stepped around the man and began his jumping from boulder to boulder, careful not to slip while from one hand, the catch of fish dripped. He deliberately made it a point not to look back, not to show his fear or his vulnerability to this man.
Theo’s vulnerability was new to him. He’d always felt safe with the knowledge that he could hold his own because, if worse came to worse, he could always shift into his lion, and take care of himself regardless of circumstance. But this lion shifter man, he would be a larger lion. And Theo recognized that his own lion wouldn’t be able to take the man’s lion. This was the first time fear gripped him. Of course, not that Theo would easily give into the temptation to shift. He wouldn’t. There was no way he’d disobey his mother if it could be avoided.
He glanced down the distance of the jetty. At the very start of it, at the almost deserted docks, stood a handful of men.
All of them were large.
All of them had a predator’s confident stance.
Shifters. All.
Now he couldn’t help the glance back at the man.
“Those are yours?” Theo nodded toward the waiting team.
The man nodded. “I’d like you to go with me.”
“Go where?”
“Home.”
“Your home?”
“Your home, too.”
Theo froze in his tracks. He gave the man his hardest glare. “Explain.”
“I’m Marco Ricoletti.”
Theo tried to absorb the man’s revelation.
He’s my father.
He studied the man with the Italian name. “No.” He shook his head. “That’s not true.”
“You know it is.”
Deep down Theo did. He let out a long, ragged breath. “I can’t go to your home.” He knew the man’s home couldn’t be on Syros. Wherever this man lived, it wasn’t on this island. And it wasn’t where his mother would be.
“I’ve scoured the earth looking for you. Your mother had no right to take you away. No right to keep my son from me.”
Confusion swirled in Theo’s mind like a tornado’s funnel. This grown up stuff was more than he could wrap his head around.
“You’re coming with me.” The man’s quiet assurance brooked no argument.
And yet, Theo couldn’t comply. “I can’t.”
“For the sake of your mother’s life you’d be better off coming. I can leave word with her that you’ll be staying with me.”
“No.” The word was released with his lion’s snarl. Theo’s lion pushed against his mind, pressing for a shift, pushing for the opportunity to react to this man’s arrogance. “Do not threaten my mother.”
Marco Ricoletti released a low chuckle. “You’re a fierce one.”
Theo heard the sound a fraction of a second too late. Before he could react, half a dozen pairs of hands had placed a hood over his head.
A slight pinch in his arm was the last thing he felt.
Almost a Decade Ago
Chapter Three
Milan, Italy
Theo had never been able to call him father, even though he’d been in Milan for years, living in the same home as Marco.
Marco had told him, originally, that he’d made arrangements with his mother to join them in Italy. They lived in a villa that was larger than several homes put together.
Not believing Marco was taking steps to bring his mother to him, Theo had asked daily to see her. Marco repeatedly told him that one day he would. That day didn’t come soon enough for the impatient youth.
So he ran away.
Marco found him and brought him back.
He ran away again.
And again.
And again.
And each time, using his tracking skills to find Theo, Marco brought him back.
“Why do you keep bringing me back?” A distraught young Theo had yelled at Marco in desperation.
“I lost Cristiano, my first son. I won’t lose you, too.”
Finally, one day, not even six months after he’d seen his mother for the last time, Marco brought her to Milan and set her up in a house on the property.
And that was how they’d lived the next few years. Marco staying in the villa, his mother in the little house nearby.
Then, a few years later, much too young to have it happen, Theo’s mother died. Marco had paid for a beautiful casket and service, and had her buried in the mountains a few miles north, on old Ricoletti family property. While there, Marco showed Theo his own father’s and mother’s grave.
“There will be a place for me. And one day for you.”
Theo never said a word. He never told his father that he’d never stay here, never be buried here.
But the next day, still in his teens, he left a note for his father and hopped on a bus.
He’d spent years with the man who’d sired him. Marco had provided everything a man could want in terms of education. Fine arts, martial arts, education, and shifter skills. And though Theo had no problem with his father, the powerful, wealthy lion shifter, Italy was not Theo’s home.
Nor was Greece.
Theo felt homeless, anchorless.
He struck out for America.
Chapter Four
Black Glade Bayou, Louisiana
Leandra didn’t own a black dress to wear to the funeral. She found one to wear in the back of Mémé’s closet. The irony of having to borrow one of Mémé’s black dresses to wear to Mémé’s funeral didn’t sit well with Leandra.
But it’s not like I’m going to go to town to buy one.
No. Leandra wouldn’t go to town to get a dress. She didn’t go to town at all. Mémé was the one who went to to
wn for supplies.
Who’s going to do that now?
Leandra shrugged, though she was having a conversation with herself, inside her own mind. She’d find anything she needed for sustenance in the swamp.
She tugged on the dress, it was far too uncomfortable, tight on her hips, tight on her breasts.
She cursed her curviness.
Then again, there was so much about herself that Leandra had cursed over the years. The dark skin that displeased her mother. The curly, unruly hair that she refused to do much with.
Brush your hair, you look like a street urchin, Mémé had said countless times before she passed.
I should brush it, if only for Mémé’s funeral.
It would make her grandmother happy, wherever she was watching from.
Leandra picked up her grandmother’s brush, but didn’t move the shawl that covered the mirror’s reflective surface.
Leandra never did use the skin bleaching cream Rochelle gave to Mémé. The stench of the cream made her nose crinkle. She’d tossed the open jars, one by one, into the bayou.
She’d also refused to ever see Rochelle again. And Mémé had given up trying to force Leandra to leave the bayou to see her mother.
They’d pursued her education in sorcery. Mémé had become the mother Leandra had never had, and she’d never said a word when Leandra draped her shawls over the two mirrors in the cabin. But she did take the shawls down.
They’d hardly discussed Rochelle after Leandra became a teen, and Leandra remained the wild child witch that lived in the swamp with her Mémé, learning the skills of the Black Glade Coven and staying away from vampires because vampires could kill a fledgling witch.
Leandra met Tante Lucia once, when she’d returned to New Orleans and joined Leandra, Rochelle, and Mémé at the café at dusk.
Tante Lucia had sat in one corner of the room, studying Rochelle with a gaze that sparked with ill-concealed anger.
