Must Love Lycans

by Michele Bardsley

  “You think Aufanie sent it?”

  He tensed. “Perhaps.”

  “Why do you hate her so much, Damian?”

  He let my hand go, and I flattened it against his spectacular abs. I was trying to resist the buzzing need in my body, which insisted I stop talking and start grooving. Damian rolled on top of me and nuzzled my neck.

  “We’re not gonna talk about it, are we?”

  “Nien.”

  He started doing some very interesting things with his hands, all designed to distract me, of course, and I let him.

  I was an official werewolf slut.

  When I awoke, I was alone. Panic seized me for all of a minute, until I realized that Damian had left on the bedside lamp and the door to the bedroom was wide open, allowing the hallway light to spill inside.

  After I killed Robert, I hadn’t had a single full night’s rest—at least not until I had gotten the job at the Dante Clinic. I’d been so reassured by the security that I’d been able to relax enough to take a sleeping pill. When I lived alone in my tiny, crappy apartment, I hadn’t dared to take even a Tylenol PM. I couldn’t dampen my alertness. Between the nightmares and panic attacks, I never slept more than a couple hours at a time.

  And now, with Damian, I felt secure, too. But I was still dealing badly with being alone for any length of time. I felt like a wimp, and even though I knew, not only from a human perspective, but also from a therapist perspective, that my feelings and actions were normal responses to the trauma I’d suffered—I couldn’t quiet the voice that whispered incessantly about my cowardice. I had killed Robert. I had survived. And I was still hostage to the terror he’d invoked.

  I sat up, and before I had shoved off the bedcovers, Damian appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in a T-shirt that molded to his sculpted chest and a pair of faded, tight jeans. He wore black boots, too. His hair had been tied back, making his gorgeous face look even gorgeous-er. Damn, the man was sexy.

  He held a cup of coffee in one hand and a cupcake in the other. “Breakfast?”

  “Is it the cupcake?” I asked. “Or you?”

  “Ravenous creature,” he said, chuckling. “As much as I want to be your breakfast, we are expecting a guest.”

  “Oh.” My disappointment was keen. “In the next five minutes?”

  “Five minutes will not be enough time,” he said, putting the mug onto the nightstand and offering me the chocolate cupcake.

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “Hmm.” He considered me for a moment, then sighed deeply. “No. However, I reserve the right to rechallenge you at a later time.”

  I grinned. As I licked off the frosting—much to Damian’s consternation—I felt the faint edges of his anticipation and impatience. I frowned up at him. “What are you expecting?”

  His brows winged upward. Then he shook his head. “Ah. Your superpower is tingling, ja?”

  “Ja,” I said.

  “My brothers may have tracked down Dante. I am waiting to see if they’ve been successful in . . . ah, acquiring him.”

  I almost dropped my cupcake. Instead, I put it on the nightstand next to the coffee cup. “You went after Jarred?”

  He peeled back his lips and gave a little growl. “I do not like your familiarity with the man.”

  “Jealousy suggests insecurity,” I said. “And you are not insecure.”

  “It is not insecurity,” he said, obviously affronted. “He hurt you. He lied to you. And he wanted to mate with you. You are mine. I cannot tolerate . . .” He trailed off, apparently trying to find the right word. Then he gazed at me and said, “Competition.”

  “If I only want you,” I pointed out gently, “then how can anyone else be competition?”

  He blinked at me. “That’s very a logical approach. But werewolves do not use logic when it comes to their mates.”

  I stopped short of saying that I wasn’t his mate, not officially. But I didn’t want to put that out there between us, not when the clock was ticking down on my life. We were for each other, as he’d once said, and that had to be enough.

  “When did you decide to go after Jarred?”

  “The moment we got back to Broken Heart. A team was dispatched immediately to the clinic, but it was cleared out. Dante, his staff, and all the patients had disappeared. My brothers have been tracking him since.”

  “So the whole time that I’ve been in quarantine with you . . . your brothers have been trying to find Dante.”

  He looked at me questioningly, studying my expression. “Is this something I should’ve discussed with you?” he asked.

  He sounded genuinely curious, and his honest inquiry checked my growing irritation. Was it really my concern if anyone from Broken Heart wanted to chase down Dante? I hadn’t been the only one affected by the man’s manipulations and lies. I wasn’t as angry at him, but I did have to wonder about his motives. What was the point of his clinic? Why had he chosen those patients? And how had he found me—the woman with changeling DNA?

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Probably not.”

  “Yet you are upset that I did not tell you we were trying to bring him in.”

  “If you’re worried that I care about him, then—” I stopped, surprised to realize that I did care about Jarred. I’d never been able to read his emotions, but up until the night he’d admitted he wanted to seduce me, he’d done nothing but offer kindnesses I could never repay. I couldn’t discount the job, the money, or the security—yes, all payment for his grand hope we would be together. But I knew that Jarred was a wounded creature, in search of something—or someone—that he might never find. He’d mistaken me for his answer. I pitied him. And now that I could examine what had happened, I realized he’d given me the serum to save me. Although it could be argued the gesture was selfish. After all, he’d wanted me, and he was beyond pissed off that Damian had gotten to me first.

  “You do care about him,” said Damian stiffly.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “But he made his bed. He’ll have to lie in it. I don’t want to save him. Or plead his case. He’s an attractive man, but I’m not attracted to him.” I put my hand on Damian’s arm. “And if you dare say that I only like you because you bit me, I’ll . . . I’ll . . . punch you in the head.”

  “I tremble at the thought,” he said dryly. He picked up my hand and turned it, kissing my wrist. It seemed to be his signature make-Kelsey-melt gesture, and it worked every time. “I will try to control myself better.”

  “Well,” I said. “Not too much.”

  He laughed. “Come, Schätzchen. Brigid will be here soon. You must shower and dress.”

  “I’m showering alone, aren’t I?”

  “To my great regret.”

  “Fine,” I groused. “But I’m eating my cupcake first.”

  A half hour later, I was showered, dressed, and tucked onto the couch in the living room to await our guest. Damian joined me, and put his arm around my shoulders. I snuggled close.

  “Who is Brigid?” I asked.

  “Patrick and Lorcan’s grandmother,” he said. “The mother of Ruadan.”

  “Our rescue vampires.”

  “Ja. She is a revered goddess of healing. You will like her.”

  “Goddess. A real goddess? And she’s just coming over like a regular person?”

  Damian chuckled. “There is nothing regular about Brigid. She has a soft spot for Broken Heart and its residents. She is immortal, one of the beings, like Aufanie, who was worshiped in ancient times.”

  “Wow.” Nerves plucked at my guts. Technically, I’d already met a real goddess and god, but that had been too surreal, and it was not the same as one popping by in real time. Hello, I’m Brigid, your local goddess, here’s a welcome-to-the-paranormal-world gift basket.

  “You think she can work some magic on me and fix the DNA issues?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s worth a try.”

  I felt a shift in the air, a tingling sensation, and th
ere was a pop of gold sparkles. Damian was on his feet, pulling me up with him, before the glitter had faded to reveal a very tall, very beautiful redhead with the strangest tattoos I’d ever seen. She wore a long green dress that matched the shade of her eyes. Her hair was streamers of red curls that reached her hips. And she wasn’t wearing shoes.

  “Damian,” she said in an Irish-tinged voice. She stepped forward and bussed his cheek. Then she turned to me. “And you must be Kelsey. Oh, you’re lovely, you are.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” I wasn’t sure if I should curtsy or something. I could feel the power emanating from the woman. It wasn’t emotions—like all the immortals I’d met thus far, her feelings were inaccessible. No, this was raw, pulsating power.

  Brigid took my hand and squeezed. “Shall we take a look, then?”

  Damian moved away so the goddess could sit with me on the couch. Her dress revealed impressive cleavage and left her arms bare. The swirling gold symbols on her skin shifted into different shapes—none of which I recognized. I was utterly fascinated, and it took all my self-control not to poke her.

  “It’s my draíocht,” explained Brigid. “Magic. The symbols change to accommodate the needs of the one to be healed.” She took both my hands into hers and closed her eyes. I felt my whole body prickle, as though I had a bad case of static electricity. I glanced at Damian, who’d remained standing and watched us with worried eyes.

  “Aiteacht,” she murmured. She opened her eyes and shook her head slightly. “This is a wrong that I cannot right.” Her gaze was sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”

  “So it’s not like you’re a genie who can grant wishes, right?”

  “I have limitations. All power must have its checks and balances, and your problem does not fall within my domain. You are Aufanie’s child now.”

  “Tell her about your dream,” said Damian tightly. “Tell her about the symbols and the raven chalice.” His gaze had gone hard. Ah, he was invoking Statue Man. Well, I was upset, too, though it hardly helped to rail against fate. Maybe I’d fall apart later. Or have a cupcake. And sex with Damian.

  “You dreamed about a raven chalice?” asked Brigid in surprise.“ ’Tis one of my mother’s tokens.”

  “And she would be . . .”

  “The Morrigu,” said Brigid.

  “We’re talking an Ireland connection?” I knew bupkus about the Celtic pantheon. The psychiatric community preferred to use Greek tragedies as analogies. (I’m looking at you, Oedipus. You, too, Electra.)

  “The crow queen. The Goddess of Battle and Discord. She likes to stirs things up, she does. Everyone has a purpose, Kelsey, but not everyone’s purpose is nice.”

  “Chaos needs order and that kind of thing.”

  She nodded. “Your dream was an augury, to be sure. Show me the other symbols.”

  Damian retrieved pencil and paper for me, and I drew the two images Robert had carved into flesh. The third one belonged to Damian. I looked up at him, a silent question in my eyes. He nodded, so I drew the tattoo as well. Brigid studied them for a long moment. “These two are alchemist’s symbols.” She pointed to the three-pronged one. “This one means silver. And its astrological meaning is moon. And this,” she said as she tapped the other one, “represents antimony. It symbolizes the wildness of nature and it’s also associated with the wolf.” She gazed up at me, smiling. “And you know this one, do you not? It’s a very old symbol used by the Germanic peoples. If you turn it vertical, it’s called Donnerkeil .”

  “Thunderbolt,” said Damian.

  “But used horizontally, as it is here, it is Wolfsangel. The wolf’s hook.” She glanced at Damian. “It means werewolf.”

  “The Wehrmacht stole many lycanthrope symbols,” said Damian. “Including mine.”

  His voice was flat and emotionless, and I ached for him, for the losses he’d suffered. Though I wasn’t a math genius, it wasn’t difficult to add it all up. Sixty years ago, Damian lived in Germany, in the very country that started World War II. Oh, crap. What had happened to Damian’s village? Who had attacked the werewolves? And who had killed his pregnant wife? Were they also the ones who had taken his sister and then killed her?

  “What about Morrigu?” asked Damian.

  “Ah, yes. Perhaps we should call her in for a consultation.” Brigid settled herself against the couch and closed her eyes. Within moments, the air felt electrified. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end . . . then bang! A gray mist roiled up from out of nowhere, and when it dissipated, a tall, willowy woman stood on the other side of the coffee table. She wore a hooded green robe and held within her bejeweled grasp a gnarled, polished wood staff. At its top sat a gleaming silver crow.

  She pulled back her hood. Her ink black hair hung in long, silken ringlets around a pale, unlined face. A thin silver crown nestled on her head, a single red stone glittering from its middle. Her dark eyes fastened on me, and for a scary moment, I could see rivers of blood bisecting a muddy landscape, the cries and grunts of soldiers as they fought with swords and pikes, and above it all, the screech of crows. Then she turned away from me and inclined her head toward Brigid. “Daughter.” Her gaze flicked toward Damian. “Child of Aufanie.”

  Damian offered a curt, courtly bow, but it didn’t take my empath abilities to see he didn’t like being addressed that way. And though I couldn’t read Morrigu at all, I could see she found amusement in both the term and in Damian’s irritation. Queen of Chaos, all right. Sheesh.

  “So,” she said, her gaze once again swinging toward me. “You are the one who will save the lycans.” She cocked her head in a birdlike manner, looking very much like a raven. “Hmm. You’re dyin’. If you breathe your last before the Winter Solstice, you won’t fulfill your prophecy.”

  “I can tell you’re all broken up about it,” I said.

  She smirked. “Ask me your question.”

  I explained about the symbols, showing her the paper on which I’d drawn them. Then I told her about the part of my dream that featured the silver chalice with its raven engraving—and how Robert had filled it with my blood. “What does it all mean?”

  Morrigu pursed her lips as she stared at me, obviously trying to decide how much information, if any, she wanted to share. “You’ve been given instructions about how to save yourself. Aufanie can’t contact you anymore, can she? Seems you’re more lycan than human already.”

  That also meant my DNA was going to go postal soon, too. Not a happy thought.

  “She told me about the bargain,” I said. “And how she can’t talk to the lycans.” I considered the implications of that chalice, and made an intuitive leap. “What did she promise you in return for Tark’s life?”

  Morrigu chuckled. “I won’t deny my part.” She shook her head. “Aufanie’s always been too softhearted. Always looking for a cause, that one. Do you know how werewolves came to be?”

  Damian opened his mouth, but Morrigu pounded the staff on the floor. “Don’t repeat that drivel the temple priestesses spout. Neither Aufanie nor Tark created the full-bloods or the Roma. Zeus did.”

  We stared at her. I was fascinated, as was Brigid, but Damian looked as though someone had just stuck a knife in his heart. I wanted to leap off the couch and comfort him. But he must’ve sensed my intention because he gave me a look that basically said: Please, don’t. So I stayed put. And if I was hurt by that rejection, I tamped it down. I was a tough werewolf now, damn it.

  “In ancient Arcadia, there was a village called Lycosoura. Fools got it into their heads to worship Zeus as a wolf. Called themselves the Cult of Zeus Lycaeus and every nine years, they hosted a festival. When Zeus heard there were orgies, he couldn’t resist a visit.” Morrigu rolled her eyes. “He’s the horniest bastard you’ll ever meet.”

  “Mother,” said Brigid in a choked voice.

  “Well, he is,” said Morrigu tartly. “So he disguised himself and joined some Romani who’d been summoned as entertainers. Spent the whole da
y and evening drinking and feasting and whoring.

  “Midnight came, and everyone gathered in the town square and drew lots. Zeus, who was drunk and oversexed, believed he was playin’ a game. He lost the draw. He was taken to the makings of a bonfire and tied up as the sacrifice. Not only did they plan to kill him, in his own honor”—and here, Morrigu snickered—“but they wanted to cook and eat him, too.” She paused, as though considering the perks of humans eating humans (or gods disguised as humans). If she said, “What’s the big deal? Humans taste like chicken,” I would hurl—on her and her fancy robe. But she shrugged and continued the story. “Everyone started dancin’ around and howlin’. Zeus was so furious that he took his god form and started throwin’ around those fancy lightning bolts of his. Then he cursed the whole town. Turned everyone into lycanthropes. Not even his Romani friends escaped his wrath, but they received a lesser punishment, only turning into wolves on full-moon nights.”

  “Donnerkeil,” said Brigid. “Thunderbolt.”

  Morrigu nodded. “Tark was the one who turned the symbol sideways and gave it a new meaning.”

  I saw Brigid looked at Damian, her expression seven kinds of worry. “Did you know any of this?” she asked.

  He shook his head. His hands were fisted at his sides. He kept his emotions buried, but I could feel the whispers of his shock. He’d never heard this story before. Everything he’d known about his origins was a lie. I opened up my ability and reached out to him, wrapping him in empathy. He visibly relaxed, and sent me a grateful look.

  “If Zeus is the reason lycans exist, then why is Aufanie our goddess?” asked Damian hoarsely.

  “Once Zeus spent his ire, he forgot about the creatures. They roamed everywhere, hunting whatever, or whoever, they could find. Over the years, humans killed many of them. Then Tark was born. He became the first alpha. He banded the full-bloods together, led them all to Schwarzwald. To Aufanie’s territory.”

  “What about the Roma?” I asked. What? I didn’t like stories with loose ends.

  “They had smaller populations, and like their human ancestors, they preferred travelin’ to settling down. They became mercenaries, hired by villages to hunt and kill vampires, and other creatures who menaced humans.”