by Jane Ederlyn
“I don’t want to hurt you.” She was growing certain the smelly creatures didn’t have the intelligence to answer or comprehend, but her patience was pitching into frustration as risk of their exposure increased.
When he charged again, Marie bent into a crouch. His dilated eyes, rimmed in gold and sprinkled with veins, barely blinked as he barreled into her. She raised and locked her arms. Using the beast’s own momentum, she sent him spiraling into the wall alongside the now inert body of his likeness.
He staggered to his feet and she swung her leg, landing a blow that sent him reeling back. Blood oozed from his mouth and leg, leaving a trail over cement and sawdust as he feebly crawled away.
She couldn’t let him escape. She preferred not to kill, but he was primitive and feral. What if he hurt someone? Or worse. If discovered, he could potentially expose the existence of supernaturals.
He managed to rise, whining as he straightened.
She sensed another supernatural and glanced to the north side of the lot. What had she walked into? And why hadn’t she been warned?
A passing cloud shielded the full moon, funneling its light into black and white shadows that outlined a form. It was as similar as it was different; half-man, half-wolf, but regal and substantial. Wolfman. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it? She sighed and tensed for another assault, but he barely gave her a glance, looking beyond her instead. The wounded creature she’d attacked yipped and escaped into the building on all fours.
With an odd nod, the werewolf raced after him. Marie considered going after both of them but decided against it. This was not the time or place for any of this. She should get Abby home and consult the local vampires tomorrow.
A hot breath burned the top of her shoulder. She froze, realizing too late she had misread the werewolf signaling behind her. How could she have been so careless? She pushed all thoughts of Abby away and mentally prepared to fight.
He towered over her, at least seven feet tall. She was a petite five feet two inches with maybe another four in heels. Despite the differential between them, what disturbed her was his stealth and agility. He had crept up behind her without her sensing him.
As he breathed, he edged closer and closer until their bodies touched and the heat emitting from his body seared through her like brushfire.
A wave of desire, fanned by the heat of his skin, coursed through her with such momentum she swayed toward him. She was dimly aware of the sheer insanity of her predicament. One minute she was fighting a lesser of his kind and the next she swelled with desire for this werewolf. What was happening to her?
He leaned into her and nudged her neck.
She couldn’t move, could only stand there and suffer the exquisite heat of their bodies molded together.
He growled, and she closed her eyes, absorbing his scent. Unlike what she had just fought, he smelled like the earth scorched by sunlight. He was exciting, and images of a blazing hearth and tangled limbs came to mind. She wanted him and the realization was as surprising as it was embarrassing.
She tilted her face up and was immediately lost in the gold depths of his eyes, more human than beast. Different. Time and place disappeared into nothingness.
He reached for her finally, and the movement snapped their connection.
“State your business,” she hissed. Her hands closed into fists.
He sniffed.
“Enough, dog.” She struck him, jolting him backward. He was quicker and bigger than the others but still no match for her. Or was he? She dismissed the errant thought. He was just an animal and she was a Princess of the Blood with the essence of an ancient master running through her.
Catching him by the mane, she flipped him forward. The huge blond and silver-haired thing landed hard in front of her but immediately recovered, jumping up into an offensive position. He growled but didn’t attack. He backed away as upright as a human, with hind claws that clanked on the gravel.
His neck stretched and the aura around him thickened and sizzled. After a couple of pops, he shifted from wolf mixture into full naked human.
She gaped.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She looked away from his magnificent well-endowed physique to scrutinize his face. It was equally gorgeous. “You are loup garou.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve heard that.”
Even after shrinking six inches, as bones reorganized, he was still mammoth, and his eyes changed from sun-drenched gold to brilliant blue. Her gaze slipped again, traveling across his wide shoulders, chiseled chest, and abdomen, before stopping at his powerful thighs and the manhood between.
Warmth surged through her, unexpected and surprising. She wanted to be closer and had to shake her head against the pull. Why was she so drawn to him?
“Do you like what you see?” He smirked.
Embarrassment flamed her cheeks and she tore her gaze away. She felt . . . She didn’t know how she felt. Young.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“It is not your concern.” She inhaled deeply and exhaled, needing to shake off the spell of desire, and took a confrontational step forward. She would learn more about him and what was going on, one way or another. “Do you want to finish this?”
To her amazement, he laughed, a rich throaty rumble that sent shivers of renewed awareness down her back.
“Serious? I don’t fight women.”
“I am not your typical woman.”
“Oh, I realize that.”
“What business do you have here?”
A sharp, high whistle filled the night.
He looked toward the sound and back at her. “Meet me later and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Finish this now, dog.”
“I’m not a pet,” he said through clenched teeth.
Simultaneously they turned their heads as a fair man in a hooded jacket approached. He held out clothes for the man in front of her.
He turned back to her. “I have to go. We have rogue werewolves to catch.”
“Rogues are dangerous. Is that what they were?”
“Tomorrow night. The Fontainebleau Hotel lobby.”
Her eyebrow arched. “The boardwalk behind the Fontainebleau,” she corrected.
He stuffed one leg into black denims.
She would not get caught looking at his man parts again. She turned and focused on the other man. With the hood over his head, she couldn’t read his features. But he fidgeted, looking uncomfortable and wouldn’t make eye contact with her.
The sound of a zipper drew her attention back to the first werewolf.
“Agreed.” His muscles rippled as he pulled on a black T-shirt and tucked it into jeans that accented his powerful build.
“What? Oh . . . yes . . . tomorrow,” she said, irritated with herself for stammering. She never stammered.
He nodded once and sprinted across the lot. Before clearing the fence, he paused. “I’m looking forward to it, beautiful.” Then he was gone.
It took a minute for Marie to digest what had transpired. This wolfman disturbed her, yet she needed information and neither the two rogues nor the three werewolves were the mysterious man she’d originally spotted inside the hotel.
She took a last look around. Despite the clashes, the construction litter looked much the same.
Her cross brushed against her skin, safe, but she inspected the rest of her outfit. Unbelievably, her mirrored Christian Louboutin booties were un-scuffed and every ruffle of her Valentino skirt was intact. The same could not be said for her jacket. Blood and saliva spotted the delicate gray silk and a sleeve was torn, frayed beyond repair. Pity, she’d loved the peplum. She discarded it into the trash, wiped the blood from her cheek, and walked back to the hotel to collect Abby.
Her fangs were barely retracted. It was the best she could hope for when she still sensed danger in the air. However, it wasn’t her teeth she was worried about. She could cover her mouth, as she often did when speaking with humans, but her eyes must be glowing and she could do nothing about the eerie chartreuse.
After a quick scan of the lobby, she appeared behind Abby.
“Bonsoir.”
Abby flinched. “You’re back.”
“Oui. Who is your friend?”
“This is John Anderson,” Abby said, words partially scrambled in the rush to introduce.
“Good evening.”
The gentleman who’d been watching Abby, stood and extended his hand in greeting.
Marie stepped closer, taking an indiscriminate whiff but did not sense animal in him. He was just a human admirer. She was as pleased as she was relieved.
“My drink.” Marie dodged his handshake by reaching for her untouched martini. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, John.” She said his name with slow deliberateness as she inspected him. “À votre santé.” Raising her glass to her mouth, she appeared to drink.
“Cheers,” he replied, his gaze darting to Abby who smiled and took a sip of her wine.
“Parlez-vous Francais?” Marie asked.
“Un peu,” he added.
“You speak more than a little, I think,” Marie speculated. “But you have no accent.”
He shrugged. “I took it in school.”
“John’s an oral surgeon.” Abby said with raised eyebrows.
“Really? How interesting.”
“Are you sisters?” John asked.
“We are family, yes. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, John, but we must cut this evening short.”
“You’re leaving? Both of you?”
He exuded interest and surprisingly so did Abby. It was a shame she had to interrupt, but it couldn’t be helped. “We will see you again?” Marie asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I hope so.”
“Come, Abigail.” The run-in with the werewolf nibbled at her and she was uncharacteristically frazzled. She snatched Abby’s hand and pulled her through the crowd. Halfway to the door, she stopped abruptly, sensing John at their heels. “You are leaving as well?”
“It’s late, and now that Abby is leaving, I don’t have a reason to stay.”
“Do you like art?” Abby spurted.
“Sure.” He shrugged.
“There’s a private exhibition at ArtCenter South Florida on Lincoln Road, the day after tomorrow. Will you come, if you can, that is? I’ll leave your name at the door.” Abby glanced at Marie, silently asking for her assent.
“Do join us,” Marie added. “At sunset.”
He met Abby’s eyes. “I’ll be there.”
Marie navigated through the winding, tree-lined driveway of their secluded, waterfront estate and into their garage.
The ride had been silent. Now that they were home, Marie expected a deluge of questions. But Abby didn’t say anything. She exited the car, keyed in the house’s security combination, and only then asked, “Are you coming in?”
Definitely preoccupied. Marie shook her head. “I’m going for a walk.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Not this time. It has been a long night for you. Go to bed.”
Abby walked over to Marie and embraced her in a bear hug. “Okay then. Sweet dreams.”
“Bonne nuit, ma chérie.”
Marie made sure Abby was in the house before setting off to smell and inspect every inch of the property. When satisfied that no one had trespassed, she relaxed and strolled over to the bay. The night was sultry, the humidity syrupy and hot on her skin. Tonight, even the bay breeze was warm as it caressed her face. She closed her eyes and relished the sun’s lingering presence in the grass, in the air, and in everything around her, even now long past sundown.
She could stay here all night, but the moon was dipping in the star-filled sky. Sunrise was coming, the cycle beginning anew, and she wanted a bath before sleep.
Darkness poured through the house. Her vision was as good at night as it was in the day. But Abby hated the dark. If the lights were off, then she must be sleeping. She stopped to check on her. Although soft snores travelled through the door, she quietly cracked it open. Abby’s expression was warm and angelic in the glow of the nightlight. Pacified, Marie closed the door and leaned into it, grateful for her granddaughter.
She crossed to her suite, kicked off her shoes, and dropped her clothes. The pieces pooled at her feet. She stepped over the mound and padded to the adjoining bathroom. While she waited for the oversized tub to fill, she poured lavender gel into the water and untangled her hair. Finally, when steam rose in soft swirls of scented smoke, she put the brush down and tested the water. Too hot for humans, but perfect for her. She clipped her hair off her shoulders, and slipped into the water with a soft moan of pleasure. It warmed her skin immediately.
Her thoughts drifted as the bath current stroked her breasts. It had been a long time since her body ached for a man, making what happened earlier that much more troubling. She wanted the werewolf. But that was impossible. Her lip stung and she realized she’d bitten it.
Light pink and even lighter shades of blue danced off the gilded edges of her dressing mirror. Daylight would break soon. She watched the play of colors for as long as she could before getting out. Carelessly drying off, she stepped into an ivory silk nightgown and pressed the switch to lower the electric shutters. The outside panels descended with a hum, each section locking into place. Then she closed all but one of the heavy damask drapes surrounding her bed and slipped between the sheets. With a flick of her wrist, the final drape whooshed shut, closing her off from the world in a sumptuous cocoon.
Summer was almost over and autumn would appear close on its heel, as would all the good and bad memories that hung on October like a French fog. She squeezed her eyes shut, but images blazed and ebbed—memories of Mathieu, her husband, tugging on a curl and pulling her closer.
Chapter III
France, 1788
“We have been at Versailles too long. Are you worried Marcel has forgotten us?” Mathieu asked.
Marie tore her gaze from the carriage window, with its passing expanse of endless trees, and met her husband’s eyes in a caress. “Of course not.”
He glanced at her wringing hands. “Then what is worrying you?”
She buried her hands in her skirts. “I am sure it is nothing.”
He pushed aside silk pillows and wool blankets, closing the space between them until their limbs touched. Cupping her chin, he tilted her face up for a kiss.
She glanced across the carriage at her sister-in-law.
“Still sleeping,” he assured her. Eyes sparkling with mischief, he kissed her lightly and hovered over her as they savored the warmth of each other’s breath.
Marie wove a hand into his thick hair, urging him to deepen their kiss. When he did, a shudder of longing rippled through her.
Marguerite woke with a groan, startling them apart.
Embarrassment flushed Marie’s cheeks.
Mathieu cleared his throat. “Are you feeling better, dear sister?”
“No. Are we almost home?” She frowned as she rubbed her protruding belly.
“We are slowing. We must be nearing the main gate now.” With a chuckle, he captured his wife’s hand and squeezed.
The horses neighed and the carriage bumped to a stop.
Pistol fire exploded.
“Your Grace—” The coachman screeched.
The horses screamed and reared, tilting the cab. When it abruptly stilled, the women fell into each other. Mathieu helped them back into their seats as another gunshot
rang out.
“Pierre? Laurent?” he shouted, but neither the coachman nor footman responded. The carriage shook from side to side and something thudded against the back.
Marie edged aside the curtain and had to blink to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. She glanced at her husband. His jaw was clenched and his body rigid. “I see lights moving out there.” When she turned back to the window, an ashen face with bulging, glowing eyes stared at her. She cringed and her heartbeat ricocheted and pounded in her ears.
“What is it?” Mathieu demanded.
She pointed at the window, hand shaking and unable to speak.
“I should not have let Leon go ahead with my horse.”
Marie searched his eyes and nodded, understanding. Something was wrong—very wrong. Due to the unrest spreading across the countryside, they traveled armed and with an extra servant. But Marguerite’s condition had slowed them and Mathieu had sent his man ahead, to alert the house of their approach. This close to home they hadn’t expected trouble. But the face she spied was not a masked highwayman or a hungry peasant. It was the face of nightmares.
Marguerite braced herself, and by the look of her, the jostling re-ignited her queasiness.
The carriage quaked and trunks clattered to the ground. Something landed above them and someone hissed. The scream that followed haunted like liquid fear. Then there was only silence. Nothing could be heard as a sinister hush settled on the air.
Mathieu eased the door open and leaned out to investigate. Half convinced she’d imagined the face and wanting to see everything Mathieu did, Marie scooted to the window. The embroidered lilies and dangling tassels of the curtain tickled her palm. Outside, a greedy Harvest Moon overpowered the sky, casting shards of illumination like a splintered mirror.
A scream welled up in her throat and only iron self-control allowed her to smother it. A man—if she could call him that—in dirty rags lay on top of Laurent with his mouth on the prone servant’s neck. He looked up, noticing Mathieu, and hissed, revealing sharp pointy teeth dripping with blood.
