Must Love Lycans

by Michele Bardsley

  Come to think it, neither did love. Emotions didn’t operate with rules. And sometimes, there was no logic to them at all. How many times had I heard patients admit, “I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but . . .”

  Exactly.

  I sat among my father’s effects feeling tired, and truth be told, weepy, too. But it wasn’t grief for him. It was grief for her, for Margaret. She’d been the only mother I’d ever known, and it hurt that she didn’t want me. There was relief, too. Sure. Because I no longer had to worry about what she thought about me, or what I could do to earn her approval. Maybe one day I’d feel better about everything. I’d be able to let go. Maybe.

  “Did you find anything about your birth mother?” asked Damian.

  Jeff stirred from the pile of papers he’d flopped down on a half hour ago, then jumped to his feet, tail wagging. Then he trotted over to the werewolf and yipped. Damian scooped him up, and bent down to kiss me.

  “I got nada. Any luck tracking down the chalice?”

  “Nein,” he said. “Only three days until the Solstice.”

  “I know.” My heart gave a tug. Three days for a new life to begin, or for the old life to be over. Permanently. “You think we can get these boxes to my sister?”

  “If you like. What if she returns them to Margaret?”

  “Her choice,” I said philosophically. “But I think she and my brother should know about this stuff. And it’ll mean more to them.”

  “All right, Liebling,” he said. “I’ll help you.”

  Damian was an efficient packer, and we worked in a comfortable silence. At least until Jeff grabbed one of my father’s leather journals and dragged it off. By the time I’d convinced the dog we were not playing a rousing game of tug-of-war—or should I say, he got bored, let go, and ran over to see why Damian was laughing so hard—the journal had been chewed thoroughly.

  “Shit.” I wiped the drool off on my jeans, and then opened it to the back to inspect the damage. The decorative paper had been ripped and poking out from it was the corner of something. I tore it all the way, and a narrow strip of photos fell out.

  I picked it up, and gasped. Five squares of black-andwhite photos revealed Bert, a pretty girl with dark hair and darker eyes, and between them an infant. In the first photo, they kissed each other while holding the baby. Then they kissed the baby. The next two photos were silly faces, me in the center of the fun, and in the last one I was crying, my mouth caught forever in a wide-open wail.

  “Kelsey.”

  “He loved her. Us.” I showed him the photos. “I wonder where they took these.”

  “Carnival, maybe,” he said. “Hard to say.” He studied the photographs. “It looks as though they were happy.”

  “But he was married,” I said. “He had no right to go off and seek happiness with someone else—not unless he had the balls to tell Margaret good-bye.”

  “Do not judge him, Kelsey,” he said softly. “We don’t know his reasons, or his motives. And your mo—Margaret has proven unreliable.”

  “He didn’t beg her for mercy,” I said, suddenly sure. “He wanted a divorce. They’d raised their children, hadn’t they? He was miserable. And she was . . . well, her. Maybe my real mother isn’t dead.”

  He handed me back the strip. “Kelsey, if she were alive, your father would not have stayed with Margaret.”

  He was right. It was only five tiny photos commemorating the days or weeks before everything changed. No doubt my mother had died, and Bert had done the only thing he could for me, asked his wife to help him raise me. I wanted to believe that he thought he’d be around to protect me, and to one day tell me about my mother. I supposed if he’d gone off and tried to raise me alone, I would’ve ended up an orphan. Would foster care have brought me any better of a life?

  I searched through the journal once more, but there were no other hidden photos or messages. I tossed the book into the final box, and Damian taped it up.

  I would never know the story of my parents. And they wouldn’t know mine. It wasn’t the kind of information or closure I wanted, but life didn’t always tie up nicely. I had to live with the unanswerable questions, and it sucked.

  But at least I had a consolation prize.

  I smiled at the photos, and decided to believe my mother and father had been reaching for happiness.

  That’s all we can do—reach for the stars and hope.

  “Your castle is too big. It would take an army and a year to search this whole place thoroughly,” I griped as Damian and I headed downstairs. Jeff was too little to tackle the wide stone steps, so Damian, who was a big ol’ sucker, carried him tucked under one muscled arm. We’d spent the last few hours combing through rooms that seemed to hold everything except a silver engraved cup.

  “Mother would not have left the chalice where Morrigu could find it easily.”

  “You think Morrigu snuck in here and searched for it?”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. My mother’s clever. I believe she either made the chalice part of the bargain, or acquired it as an insurance measure.”

  “That makes sense.” We reached the end of the staircase, and I waited for Damian to take the lead. I knew the general direction of the dining room, but I had yet to figure out the labyrinth of hallways and staircases. I needed a personal GPS (which was currently Damian). “I know we have only two days left,” I said. “But I would love to do something fun. Something that’s awesome and frivolous.”

  “Ah. I believe I have just the thing,” he said. “But first, dinner.”

  Damian took my hand and tugged me along. As she had every meal, Hilda waited by the massive table, food plated and wine poured. She was a big woman with apple cheeks, sparkling blue eyes, and a penchant for fussing. She wore dresses that featured colorful flowers, which she covered with a crisp, white apron. Her graying blond hair was always neatly braided, a yellow ribbon tied at the end. I loved that ribbon. It was whimsical.

  “Jeff! Mein kleiner Frechdachs,” she said in a thick accent as she plucked the pug from Damian. “I take him to kitchen.” She flapped her free hand at me. “Ach! Too skinny, Frau. Eat, eat!”

  Damian and I settled down to dine and to converse, and I thought about how nice it was to be here, with him, doing something so normal. These moments offered an easy comfort, like donning a favorite coat, or tucking under a cashmere blanket.

  Several times, he reached across the table to squeeze my hand, or just to hold it for a few moments. I’d noticed that the closer it got to the Solstice, the more we sought to solidify the connection between us. We were both afraid about what might happen. Even if I survived the transition, would Damian still want me for his mate? I knew he loved me, though we had not verbalized it other than that one intense moment.

  I supposed that was an issue we’d explore after the Solstice.

  Damian went to reclaim Jeff, and I stacked the plates and put the soiled napkins on top. The last time I’d tried to help Hilda with the dishes, she’d acted so affronted that I never asked again. Still, I did what I could at the dinner table—and she pretended not to notice.

  “Ach!” protested a soft voice. A waif of a girl, wearing a blue dress with a starched apron, scurried across the dining room. She looked over her shoulder, and then turned her cornflower eyes on me. I realized she was the only one of the staff, other than Hilda and her husband, whom I’d ever seen.

  “My name’s Kelsey,” I said.

  “Eleonore,” she said. She gave a tiny curtsy. “You go, Frau. I clean.”

  “Okay,” I said. Looked like Hilda was making sure I stopped helping altogether. I offered the girl a smile, which she returned shyly. Then Damian returned, and he took my hand, leading me out in the hallway.

  I have no idea how we got there, but we entered a room that appeared to be filled with every game imaginable—from pinball to pool. Farther back, in the corner, was a sixty-inch television. Positioned in front of it was a Rock Band kit—at least I thought so. It looked a lot di
fferent than the ones I’d seen displayed in the stores.

  “Rock Band Three,” said Damian.

  I shook my head. “I’ve never seen this version.” The drum kit, guitars, and keyboard were wrapped in metal.

  “Jessica and Patrick were the first ones to try out this game,” he said. “Jess’s enthusiasm broke several drums. So Patrick started a small company that upgrades gaming materials for parakind. Those two have parties all the time.” He picked up a guitar and put the strap over his shoulder. “Have you ever played?”

  “No,” I said, eyeing the drums. I sat on the stool and picked up the sticks. “You’ll have to help me figure it out.”

  “I’ve never played, either,” he said.

  “But you said Jessica and Patrick had parties.” I glanced up at him and saw his expression. “You never went to one?”

  “It seemed trivial to spend my time playing a video game when so much needed doing.” He used the guitar’s frets to maneuver through Xbox 360 menu.

  “But you still wanted to.”

  “It looked fun,” he admitted. He gestured around. “My brothers outfitted this place. They are much better at letting out their inner children.”

  “Well, everyone needs to let loose. Even you.”

  He grinned.

  We spent almost ten minutes arguing about what we should name our virtual band. Jeff interjected his opinion with a series of barks and yips, and then he flopped on to his back and went to sleep.

  I suggested Jefferson Pugship followed by Belly Scratchers, which earned eye rolls from Damian. He countered with Butt Sniffers and spent a good minute being amused by his own guy humor. Then, because he obviously never wanted to have sex with me again, he offered up Sixty-Nine and the Tongue Lashers.

  “How about The Werewolf Sleeps Alone?” I asked archly.

  “Suggestion rescinded.”

  Eventually we settled on Lycan Therapy.

  We rocked into the wee hours of the night, choosing songs, switching instruments, and teasing each other mercilessly. Damian got the hang of the drums much faster than I did, but I totally whooped him on the keyboard. Neither one of us had much voice talent, but man, we had enthusiasm. (Huey Lewis and the News, eat your heart out.)

  All in all, Lycan Therapy kicked serious ass.

  “I know where it is.”

  “Whaaat?” I rolled onto my side and blinked sleepily up at Damian. He stood next to the bed, dressed and looking incredibly chipper. “Your morning perfection burns me.” I made hissing noises and covered my eyes.

  “Tomorrow’s the Solstice,” he said.

  “Noted.” I collapsed back onto the covers. My tired mind flipped back to his first sentence. I jolted up. “You know where the chalice is?”

  “In the temple.”

  “There’s a temple in your castle?”

  “No, there’s a temple near my castle.” He leaned over the bed and kissed me. “It’s the perfect place. Morrigu cannot enter religious ground not dedicated to her unless she’s invited. That’s why she needs us to get it.”

  “How is she going to perform the magical ick potion if she can’t go inside the temple?”

  “After my parents return, Mother will grant her access.”

  “You seem sure.”

  “We are following our destiny,” he said. He kissed me again. “We are meant to be together, Schätzchen.”

  With that lovely thought as motivation, I got out of bed and got ready.

  Within an hour, we were on our way to the temple. I figured we would be bundled into a car and drive to another castlelike structure. But the castle and the temple were actually connected by tunnels through the mountainside.

  So, once again, I found myself following Damian through another mystifying set of twisty hallways, stairways, and finally, we entered a wide tunnel lit by torches.

  “I feel like I’ve fallen into the medieval era,” I said.

  “We have rarely used this passage,” said Damian, glancing around at the soot-stained rock. “Perhaps we should consider updating with electricity.”

  “Put it on the to-do list,” I said.

  From the crook of Damian’s arm, Jeff barked his agreement.

  It was a good fifteen-minute walk to the temple. The tunnel dumped us into a cellar, which was filled with crates and barrels. It smelled musty, and it was dark. Luckily, Junior Explorer Lycan brought a big flashlight, and with it, he was able to guide us up a set of ancient wooden steps.

  We reached a solid, heavy door, which swung open easily.

  “This is the only temple left that honors Aufanie,” said Damian. Since the empty kitchen we’d entered was well lit, he clicked off the flashlight. The place wasn’t as updated as the castle’s, though it was just as clean and tidy—and it had the same kind of huge hearth (but without the cauldron). “There used to be many all throughout Germany. She was worshiped by many peoples, not just the lycans.”

  “People stopped believing in the gods and goddesses.”

  “Mostly,” said Damian. “A mere thousand years ago, many humans still used magic and married into paranormal clans. But as advances were made in science and technology, the humans stopped following the old ways. They hunted us, ignored us, hated us . . . Finally all the creatures who’d once lived in harmony with mankind went into hiding.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “It is survival.”

  “Prince Damian?” The woman gliding toward us wore in a long red dress trimmed in gold, her feet shod in matching gold slippers. The pendant swinging from her neck was a large teardrop ruby. She wore her dark hair as long as Damian’s, her darks eyes glinting with wariness. She stopped before us and curtsied deeply to Damian.

  “Maria,” he said. “It’s nice to see you.”

  “And you as well.” She rose gracefully, and cast me a curious look.

  “This is Kelsey Morningstone,” he said. He smiled at me. “Maria is an old friend.”

  I shook her hand briefly, and introductions done, she turned back to Damian. I had my psychic shields up, but I had the distinct impression she was displeased with my presence. Was it that I was obviously not a lycan? Or that I had claimed a man she wanted?

  “We were surprised to learn you had returned. As I recall, you swore to never step foot in this place again.”

  “Things change,” he said, gripping my hand tightly. “People change.”

  “They must,” she agreed. “When you called asking about the chalice, we were hopeful that you were embracing the new prophecies.”

  “I’m working on it,” he said. “The chalice?”

  “The high priestess is its guardian,” she said. “I’ll take you to her.” She gave me another veiled look—somewhat hostile, if you asked me—then turned with a swish of skirts and led the way.

  We climbed staircases—three different sets—before reaching a narrow arched doorway set inside a curved wall. Obviously it was the entrance to a tower

  “Through here,” she said. “She’s waiting for you.” She placed a hand on his forearm, her gaze searching his for a long, uneasy moment, and then she left.

  Jeff barked and wiggled out of Damian’s grip, so I took him, letting him lick my cheek before securing him.

  “She likes you,” I said as Damian opened the door.

  “Who?”

  “Oh, please. Maria. Did you guys date or something?”

  He flushed.

  “You did?” I asked, jaw dropping.

  “I was much younger.”

  “How much younger?”

  “Two or three hundred years ago,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  Conversation over, we peered up into the tower, and I looked forlornly at the winding stairs.

  “Crap,” I muttered.

  Damian chuckled, and then he led the way.

  When we reached the top, we found the door open. Inside was a richly appointed chamber lit by flickering candles. A single square window sat too high to offer much natural light
. On one side of the room was an altar. In its middle was the gleaming silver statue of a tall woman, her hand resting on the nape of a wolf. Aufanie and Tark. The statue was surrounded by lit white votives, and on either side were cones of incense, thin trails of fragrant smoke rising into the air.

  “Damian, Crown Prince of Lycans,” said a raspy voice.

  We turned to the other side of the room. Sitting in an oversized red velvet wingback was a woman—at least in form. She wore a more elaborate version of Maria’s dress, except hers was black and gold, and she wore a black veil that completely covered her face.

  Damian studied her with a frown. “You are the high priestess?”

  “I am.” She rose and executed a graceful curtsy. “Your Highness.”

  Damian had been unable to stop staring at her, his expression confused. “Alaya?” he choked out.

  She inclined her head.

  He grabbed her into a fierce hug. “We though you lost! Why did you never contact us?”

  “We all have our destinies,” she said, her odd voice rife with emotion. “And our sacrifices.”

  He pulled back from her. “Darrius searched for you. For weeks we all combed every inch of the village and the mountains looking for you and other survivors. We found none.”

  “I’m sorry he suffered, that you all suffered,” she said quietly. “We were separated after the first explosion, and he followed you to protect Anna. The second explosion was practically under my feet. Maria and another priestess found me. Somehow they got me to the temple and cared for me. It took a long time for me to heal, and even when I regained my full strength, I was left scarred. Too scarred, Damian.”

  “You do a disservice to my brother,” said Damian harshly, “if you believe that matters. He sees you with his heart.”

  “I freed him.”

  “You freed yourself.”

  She pulled out of his embrace. “It does not matter, Damian.”

  “It will,” he said softly. “We are coming home to rebuild the pack.”

  “I know. You must promise not to tell him about me.”