Only Lycans Need Apply

by Michele Bardsley

  “Probably,” said Larsa. “Unless there comes a time when that burden is lifted from her.”

  “I missed the connection with Amahté,” Phoebe said. “And the sorta-dead thing for Shamhat.”

  “Amahté was powerful,” said Larsa. “Even before he was Turned. He could leave his body and travel into the Underworld. That ability, and being an Ancient, gave him the power to retrieve Shamhat’s soul. But her body needed some serious healage. So everyone believed she’d died. And he went to ground with her. To protect her.”

  “Isn’t three thousand years long enough to heal grievous injuries?” asked Phoebe.

  “Yep,” said Larsa.

  I found myself being pulled toward Phoebe. Into her thoughts. She was thinking about the Consortium . . . about when the vampires came to Broken Heart. There had been talk about an archaeological dig in the Sudan. At the time, we’d been told the Consortium was looking for the source of the Taint. The disease had flared up now and then throughout undead history, but the modern-day version had taken them by surprise.

  “They were looking for Amahté,” she said. “In the Sudan.”

  “Nobody knows where they are. And the Consortium aren’t the only ones looking.”

  “I’m from the Family Shamhat,” said Larsa. “I was the last. Lilith hacked off my mother’s head and nearly severed mine.” She fingered the scar on her neck, one that had never completely healed because she shouldn’t have survived it. “When Amahté pulled back her soul and returned her life, however feeble, it revived me. But none of the others. At least, none that I’ve ever been able to find.” She shrugged. “It took a long time to heal. By the time I was recovered enough to dig out from my grave, more than a hundred years had passed. Everyone believed me dead, and I let them think so. Until my mother is found and awakened, I am the last of my Family line.”

  I guess that was the extent of the information that needed to be conveyed, because I found myself being yanked out of the vision and tossed into the darkness.

  • • •

  When I awoke, I was sagging against the wall, being held up by Drake, whose arms were wrapped around my waist. My hand was still clamped in the hole, and my blood still draining. I felt dizzy, and a little nauseated. I didn’t know if I should feel relieved or disappointed that I hadn’t been wrapped around Drake again.

  I was leaning toward disappointed.

  And feeling like crap.

  Then my hand was released, and I dragged my arm out of the hole.

  “Ow,” I muttered.

  Drake lowered me to the ground and cursed softly as he removed his entire shirt and wrapped it around my mangled hand.

  “These locks are demanding too much blood from you,” he said.

  “We have no choice but to move forward.”

  “Ja,” he said. It was a short, angry burst of a word. He finished securing the shirt and leaned back to study my face. “You are pale.”

  “I feel light-headed.” I used my uninjured arm to grab water from one of the side pockets of my pants. Drake gently took it from me and twisted off the cap. When he gave me the bottle, I drained half of it. He put the lid back on and then tucked it back into the pocket for me.

  “What did you see this time?” he asked.

  “Nothing sexual. Disappointed?”

  His lips split into a quicksilver grin. “Immensely.”

  I managed a laugh and then I told him about the strange room, the people, and the information I’d learned about Larsa, Shamhat, and Amahté.

  He nodded. “Yes. It was revealed not so long ago that the eighth family line still existed. And Larsa was alive. But how does that vision fit in with the others?”

  “To know the beginning,” I said. “So, Jessica and Patrick were the beginning of what became Broken Heart. Patsy and Gabriel were the beginning of a new kind of leadership. And knowing what happened to Shamhat and Amahté is the beginning of . . . well, this. Why we’re here right now.”

  “What are we supposed to do with the information?”

  I liked that he’d used a pronoun: “we.” I think I liked being part of a “we.” It was nice. I looked over my shoulder at the doorway that had been revealed. That last round of blood sacrifice had been intense. “Hey, it’s not a hallway. Do you think we’ve reached our destination?”

  Fat chance, I knew, since my apparent death was part of this gig. Still . . . who was to know anything for sure?

  “Let us find out.” Drake popped up and reached down a hand, which I grasped.

  I wobbled to my feet, took a breath, and turned. We stared at the room beyond, and then looked at each other.

  Torches rimmed the small room. The only object in it was . . . well, a bed. Right in the middle. The smooth, flat stone was covered in a pile of silky furs—which shouldn’t look comfortable or like they’d just been fluffed by servants of the palace. And yet it looked as though it had just been made up, and was waiting for us to . . . what? Take a nap?

  We walked to the bed and studied it. On each corner was a small statue of Bastet, who was part cat, part woman. In her clasped paws were sticks of incense. Their fragrance wafted into the air.

  “We should look for glyphs,” I said. But I had a feeling already of what would be expected of me. Well, of us. “Do you think they sent us here on purpose? I mean, male and female? Would anyone know . . . um, to do that?”

  Drake sent me a strange look. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s a bed,” I said, pointing to the item, “and those effigies are of Bastet. The goddess of sensuality, sexuality, and fertility.”

  Drake moved over to study one of the statues. “I see.”

  I walked to the nearest wall, then took a circuit of the room. Hmm. Nothing but smooth stone and the magical blue-flamed torches. No hieroglyphs. No paintings. No clues.

  “Moira.”

  Drake had crouched down to view something on the edge of the bed. I joined him, and looked at the series of glyphs inscribed there. And it confirmed my suspicion about what was supposed to happen next.

  “‘To know the beginning, is to become the beginning,’” I said. I studied the other images, and hesitated.

  “That is all it says?”

  “No.” I glanced at him. “This next part isn’t a blood sacrifice. If we want to progress, we have to invoke the magic of Bastet.”

  Realization dawned in Drake’s gaze. “You mean we must unlock the next doorway . . . by having sex.”

  “Yes,” I confirmed.

  We both stood up, then because I was still feeling unsteady, I sat on the edge of the bed. The furs felt unexpectedly nice. I couldn’t help but wonder now if the reason the pyramid closed behind Drake was because of this part. Or was it the magic? Had this all been created because of the whole emphasis on love and mates? And wouldn’t that make sense given what we now knew about Shamhat and Amahté? Because, hell, anyone could’ve accessed this chamber. Two girls. Two guys. Two goats. Okay. Maybe not goats. But still.

  “Shamhat and Amahté have never known modern times,” said Drake. “Whoever created this”—he waved his hand to indicate the pyramid—“did so during a time when the world was different.”

  “I’ve studied the lives, the religious practices, the deities of ancient Egypt,” I said. “Believe me, I know quite a bit about the sexual mores of Ancient Egypt. It makes sense that they might have something like a sex rite to unlock the power of the god. Or to wake up two very tired bloodsuckers.”

  Drake gave a short laugh, and then he joined me on the bed. He pushed a lock of hair away from my face, and then grasped my chin, his thumb resting on my upper lip. Butterflies fluttered in my belly.

  “Ah, my beauty,” he said in that smoky voice. “Shall we?”

  Chapter 19

  “Now?” I squeaked, even though I knew it was imperative that we keep moving forward. I mean, time was literally ticking. Drake was appreciating the idea of having sex a little too much. Not that my libido was complaining. Besides, if w
e didn’t . . . um, do the deed, get the next doorway to unlock . . . then both of us were worm food.

  “We cannot go back,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

  I followed his gaze to the doorway and saw that it no longer existed. Whoever created this pyramid wanted to make damn sure the sacrifices kept moving forward. Drake’s slight touch was setting off lust alarms all over my body. I wondered if anyone had attempted to wake Shamhat and Amahté before.

  Somehow I doubted it.

  “You’ve been looking for a while in the Sudan. Looking for them. Why?”

  “To honor a promise made by Ruadan.”

  “Maybe he’s the one who created all of this.”

  “It’s possible,” said Drake in a distracted voice. His gaze was on mine, and he was getting . . . whew, intense. “He does have a flair for the dramatic. But still . . . I don’t believe he hid Shamhat and Amahté. They never meant to be gone for so long. But the vampires lost them. Or so we thought.”

  Drake didn’t seem particularly interested in his words. His eyes were dilating, and I could have sworn they seemed to change entirely, becoming more animal-like.

  I swallowed the knot in my throat.

  “Moira.”

  “Yes?”

  Drake’s voice had a sensual quality that made my nerves prickle. The intent gleam in his jade green eyes warned me, but before I could protest, he lowered his head and pressed warm, soft lips against my mouth.

  Oh, he’d kissed me before.

  But this was more than just a hello kiss. This was an introduction-to-ravishment kiss. My whole body responded to the sensual invitation he offered.

  Drake pulled me closer and deepened the kiss. He tasted like mints, and I wondered vaguely if he’d been chewing that gum Patsy had given him.

  Damn, it had been a long time since I’d been kissed. And I don’t think I’d ever been kissed like this. His tongue flicked the corner of my mouth and a jolt of electricity zapped my very core.

  Then he invaded, his tongue sweeping inside, drawing mine into a sensual mating dance.

  Heat coiled in my belly. Arousal liquefied my protests and fogged my mind. Whatever doubts I had about this situation, about what was being asked of us by two vampires we’d never met and yet somehow owed, dissolved under Drake’s sensual onslaught.

  On some level I knew that what I’d been searching for in the sands all these years, following in the footsteps of my grandfather, trying to honor his work and his legacy . . . that maybe I’d been looking for the wrong things in the wrong places. I was searching through time and civilizations for this feeling, for this . . . Oh, whoa. This man. I wanted this experience, these feelings.

  I wanted Drake.

  He stopped kissing me, his breathing erratic as he pulled back and offered me a lazy grin. Oh, if we only had all the time in the world. How tangled the sheets would be, how sweaty our bodies as we . . . He grinned.

  I guess my thoughts showed on my face.

  I was clinging to Drake’s shoulders, feeling unnerved. My mouth throbbed.

  His face was all sharp angles, softened only by the fullness of his mouth. I considered the leather band that held back his wonderful hair. He guessed at my thoughts, I supposed, because he reached back and loosed his hair.

  I drew my fingers through the fine raven waves. They were gorgeous and felt like silk.

  “Wow,” I murmured.

  He clasped the wrist not wrapped in his T-shirt and tugged me forward. “I want to kiss you again,” he said.

  “If you insist.”

  Desire flared in his eyes, and then he pushed lightly on my shoulders. I took the hint and moved fully onto the furs, lying down.

  Drake did not lie down beside me. Instead, he got between my legs and tugged on the button and then the zipper of my khakis.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to kiss you.”

  “My lips are up here.”

  “There are some down here as well.” He stroked me through the pants, and I gasped.

  “Wait a minute. You don’t have to go to all this trouble.” I stared at him. I felt my skin prickle and my heart turn over in my chest. It wasn’t like I was afraid of sex. Or of Drake. Two people engaged in copulation was an act as old as time, and didn’t necessarily bear the hallmarks of love. I couldn’t remember a time when I thought I was in love. Oh, there were the typical high school crushes, but in my adult life . . . nothing. I wanted men. I liked men. But I was easily bored.

  I didn’t think Drake would ever bore me.

  And that was the part—that he was different, that he could make my heart pound and my blood thicken, that an inexplicable tenderness wound through the heat and dark of my lust—well, that was the scary part. I suddenly wanted to get the whole sex thing over with. I was afraid this moment might mean more if we actually took the time to enjoy each other. And really, did we have the time? “We could just . . . you know, do it.”

  He met my gaze. “No.”

  He took precious minutes to unlace my boots and take them and my socks off. Then he returned and grasped the top of my pants. Before I realized what my body was agreeing to do, I’d lifted my hips and allowed him to shimmy my pants and underwear off.

  Talk about feeling vulnerable! There I was with my lower half exposed to the hungry gaze of a werewolf. And he was fully clothed, which somehow made my capitulation more submissive—and erotic.

  But he wasn’t finished.

  Through my thin shirt, he cupped my breasts, stroking and molding. My nipples puckered, aching to be touched, to be kissed. But Drake tormented me for hours, days, eons, before pushing my shirt up, then reaching around to unsnap the bra. I realized he wasn’t going to take off my shirt or bra, if only because it might bump against the makeshift bandage on my hand.

  His gaze feasted on my flesh. He just . . . looked. And my body responded with a terrible ache, a need so great that I trembled. He made that happen without even touching me. Then, oh, then, he circled one finger around my aureola, teasing my nipple with a flutter of a single fingertip. He moved to my other breast and tormented it just the same.

  For the longest of moments, he did only those featherlight touches. And the only sounds echoing in the chamber were my harsh intakes of breath.

  My stomach quivered.

  I ached for more of his touch, but I didn’t ask. I wanted to beg, really, but I stayed silent. He placed his hands on either side of me, and leaned down, his gaze intent. He captured my gaze, kept it hostage, and continued a slow downward arc to my breasts.

  His lips closed over one hardened peak.

  I made a noise I don’t think I’ve ever made before—a cry of need and a sigh of longing tangled together.

  Then he sucked my nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling against the sensitive flesh.

  A low moan rose from my throat. He cupped my other breast and lightly pinched that nipple while using his tongue to torment the other.

  I clenched the furs with shaking fingers, and I moaned again.

  He released my breasts, his fingers dragging down the sides of my rib cage as his lips kissed inch after inch of my flesh. He took his time, as if we had all the time in the world, and I swear I nearly melted.

  I’d heard women refer to feeling like they were “afire” during lovemaking. I knew what it took to reach orgasm. I mean, pleasure was pleasure, right? And I’d always believed that the term “making love” was for people intent on romanticizing a normal biological function.

  But I’d never felt this way.

  I’d never had a lover who wanted to devour me. Given that he was a werewolf, that phrase had a whole new meaning.

  I was awash in sensations that ebbed and flowed like ocean waves hitting the beach. Wow. I was so overwhelmed with how Drake made me feel, I couldn’t even come up with an original metaphor.

  Drake’s hands coasted to my hips; his mouth pressed on the skin above my pubic bone. He paused there, long enough to drag his finger
s over my thighs, and then he pushed my legs up and settled into a prime position. My feet now rested on his back.

  He layered kisses on the inner edges of my thighs. I was already slick, and my very core trembled as he stroked the flesh with lips and tongue. Just the edges, too. Never the center, where the ache bloomed and need pulsed.

  Bastard.

  I released the furs, my fingers digging into his beautiful hair. He murmured something in German, and the words vibrated against my agitated flesh.

  “Oh, God!”

  He lifted his head, that wicked gleam made brighter with his own desire. Then he said, “You can just call me Drake.”

  I bopped the top of his head. “I’ll call you dead if you don’t—”

  He slipped his tongue inside my swollen flesh, and rendered me speechless. He tasted me fully, and his tongue flicked over my entrance, then back up . . . and down again.

  My erratic breathing hitched even more, and my body, already afire, damn it, seemed to burn even hotter.

  His hot breath ghosted over my clit.

  Then he sucked the sensitive nub into his mouth and flicked it with his tongue.

  I think I blacked out for a second.

  I couldn’t remember sex being like this before. Either Drake was really, really good, or I’d picked some really bad lovers.

  Pleasure spiderwebbed through me, gossamer strings that pulled taut, that felt electric. I could barely stand being in my own skin.

  His tongue started stroking my clit in a rhythm that drove me wild.

  I could feel the rise of an orgasm, that first sweet swell of pleasure, and then Drake . . . stopped. He just fucking stopped.

  “Argh!”

  “Patience, my beauty,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  I was reminded then that he’d received nothing from me, no stroking or touching, unless you counted frantic hair pulling. I had eagerly accepted the gift of his unselfish pursuit of my pleasure.

  “Patience,” I agreed. And I would so pay him back for his torment. We’d see who had patience then. Mwuhahahaha—“Oh,” I said as his tongue slid over my clit, offering me both relief and agitation.