by Jan Delima
Blood pulsed through her veins, the soft pounding in her ears combined with their labored breaths. Her entire body was shaking. She couldn’t talk. She couldn’t breathe.
“Sophie . . . ?” Hope hung heavy in the air, like the first rays of sun after a hard rain, warm and promising. He shuddered, rightly taking her silence as indecision, and pulled back slightly . . . only to return, pressing into her again, and again, a rocking motion that went straight to her core.
“Oh, God,” she groaned, feeling the first pulses of pleasure start to build.
“Are you willing?” He continued to ride her clothed body, his tone both arrogant and pleading, a mixture of confidence and . . . vulnerability? “It’s been so long.”
Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she knew this was wrong—knew regret would follow. “If we do this,” she warned, “it does not mean I’ll stay.”
Her conscience refused to promise him anything beyond the physical, simply because she wasn’t willing to conform to what he really wanted—the complete submission of her will.
A low growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her hands. He tore at her sweatshirt, his movements almost brutal. He was angry, she realized, but not enough to refuse what was offered.
She lifted her arms to help him pull the unwanted item over her head. She wore a white tank top underneath, and felt exposed as his hands ran over the thin material, brushing across her breast to linger, thumbing the sensitive peak until she cried out.
His mouth dropped to her throat; heat and rough kisses teased her sensitive skin. His hand moved lower. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back until it rested against the wall, waiting, breathless . . .
He froze. “What . . . ?” In an instant, his body went from liquid heat to a cage of iron. He lifted his head to look down to her waist and then back up, pinning her beneath his harsh gaze. “What is that . . . ?”
Realization invaded slowly. She pushed against his chest, the cool air a shock against her heated skin as he stepped away. Still dazed, still shaking from pleasure unfulfilled, she leaned back against the wall for support. A frown marred his features as he stared down at the gold serpent wrapped around her waist.
The cold silence that followed helped extinguish the last haze of passion.
“Dylan . . .” she began, finding her voice.
He held up his hand. “Answer me this one question . . .” His eyes met hers, entirely black and fully human, and suddenly she wished for the return of the wolf. “How is it that my human wife has returned to me after all these years wearing a weapon of my world?”
“I . . . I’m not sure,” she stammered, as her hands fell to the serpent. Her suspicion that Matthew had lied to her was fully confirmed in the hard set of Dylan’s jaw, and yet there was a part of her that instinctively wanted to protect her friend.
Matthew had always, always been kind to her.
However, on a matter that concerned a world she knew little about, it was not a difficult decision to give her trust to the only person who had more invested in her son’s welfare other than herself.
“It was a gift,” she said, relying on her most valued asset—honesty. “From my employer. He gave it to me this morning. He told me not to open it until I arrived here.” She held up her hand, showing him the cut on her palm. “I had no idea this was a weapon until I tried to get it off.”
Dylan reached out and grabbed her hand, examining the fresh cuts. “Is that who you were calling earlier?”
“You were watching me on the porch?” Sophie fumed at his narrowed expression. Of course he’d been watching her. There were probably others out there now, still watching. “Yes,” she confirmed, “I was calling Matthew.” Dylan glowered at her. “And you need to direct your anger elsewhere because I’ve done nothing intentionally dishonest. I had no idea Matthew was a part of”—she waved her hand around in a frantic gesture—“of this! Of your world! I’m here for our son. I would do nothing to harm him, or those who would protect him.”
“I’m not angry with you, woman! I’m . . .” Dylan sighed, running his hands over his face. His chest rose and fell on several pronounced breaths that slowly evened out. “Truth be told, I find I’m hard-pressed to hold my anger . . . when I can still taste you on my tongue.” A slight grin tugged at his lips at her annoyed gasp. “What was your Matthew’s explanation when you called?”
“I didn’t speak with him,” she clipped. “His recording’s been changed. I left two messages.”
He searched her face, trying, she supposed, to discern honesty over deceit. He must have come to a satisfactory conclusion because his stance relaxed. “It needs blood.”
Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly . . . “Excuse me?”
Dylan reached out to snag the head of the serpent, but the instant his hand touched metal with aggressive intent it was repelled—and Sophie sucked in her breath as currents of energy screamed through her nerves, pulses of heat from her stomach to her fingertips.
“What the hell was that?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“I don’t know.” Dylan stared down at his hand, flexing his fingers. “I’ve never touched the serpent before.”
“It didn’t like it,” she said, elevating the object to an anthropomorphic status.
“It allows you to touch it.” If it hadn’t been laced with concern, his accusation would have annoyed her.
“I know. I’m wearing the thing,” she pointed out. “I just don’t know how to get it off.”
His lips thinned at her sarcasm. “There should be a latch just between the serpent’s eyes . . . a feeding source. It needs blood to release.”
“You’re serious?” At his glare, she tentatively felt around the serpent’s head, tensed for another shock. When nothing happened, she stroked her thumb between its clear-jeweled eyes, and felt a sharp catch. “I found something. Now what do I do?”
“Feed it your blood.”
Feed it my blood. “Yeah . . . okay,” she coached herself, and then again, “okay,” as if repeating the word would somehow make it so.
Like pulling off a bandage, swift and sure, she impaled her thumb on the protruding latch, and then inhaled a shaking breath as currents once again coursed through her veins, only this time they were warm, comforting, a nurturing sensation, as if nursing a child. “Okay . . . that’s really weird.”
A growl came from Dylan as he reached out.
“Don’t touch me,” she warned, sensing if he did so the warmth would turn to pain.
He pulled back, letting his hand drop to his side, fisted in frustration.
Feeling both awed and repelled, she watched as twin diamonds slowly turned burgundy. The clasp released with a soft click as the serpent opened its mouth and fell from her waist in a tangled heap about her feet.
She stepped over the crumpled metal. “How did you know?”
“I know its owner,” he said in a quiet voice. “What does your Matthew look like?”
Sophie walked over to the counter and found a roll of paper towels, tore off a section, and wrapped it around her throbbing thumb. “Will you go after him?”
“If Matthew is who I think he is, your concern is unwarranted. He would look like he’s in his young twenties. Blond hair. A woman once likened the color of his eyes to that of a robin’s egg.”
“You know him then?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is he a friend of yours?”
Dylan snorted. “Your Matthew has no friends that I’m aware of.”
She had another thought. “Is he your enemy?”
He didn’t answer immediately, giving the question ample consideration. “No. But he isn’t a man who gives gifts without expecting something in return.”
His evasive answers tried her patience. “What are you not telling me?”
“There are things at play here that you have yet to understand.”
“Nothing has changed here, has it?” She bent down to retrieve the serpent from the floor. The weapon had been given to
her and she fully intended to keep it. Dylan watched her gently coil the serpent in her hands, glaring as she went through the motions unaffected. “I’m still being watched . . . and you’re still keeping secrets.”
“Sophie . . .” Dylan stilled her with a hand on her arm as she turned toward the bedroom. “Are you truly ready to know everything? Do you think you can handle the truth?”
She rolled her arm out of his grasp. “Keep me in darkness and the only thing I want to do is run.”
His jaw clenched. “What do you want to know?”
“You can start by telling me who Matthew is to you.”
His lips pressed in a thin line. She turned her back on his silence and walked to the bedroom, cautious as she placed the serpent back in the golden box. Dylan allowed her to go, watching her from the hallway.
He was pacing when she returned, his movements sharp as he stopped to stand in front of her. “I know him as Taliesin.” His tone was blunt, spoken like a challenge, as if he dared her to doubt him. “He is the son of Ceridwen. And he is the reason I exist.”
“Ceridwen?” She tried to keep the skepticism from her voice but failed. “As in the Pagan goddess of Celtic mythology?”
His lips tilted upward, mocking. “You’d be surprised what walks among us that most humans believe to be myth.”
Ah, no, she wouldn’t.
“I believe in God,” Sophie said, compelled by doubt, or perhaps guilt, to profess her faith.
He gave a weary sigh. “As do many of my kind. There are those among us who were alive when the world went dark on the death of your Christian God’s son. There are those among us who feel we are indeed the forsaken children of the underworld.”
“I don’t believe that.” Sophie shook her head. “Joshua is your son. And he is not a child of the underworld. He is everything wonderful and good.”
He smiled at her, as if her conviction had soothed some unseen hurt. “Then use whatever name makes you more comfortable . . . God, Buddha, Mother Earth, Great Spirit, Gici Niwaskw, Brahman . . . Allah. Good and evil, heaven and hell, earth and the otherworld . . . I have come to understand that we are the pawns of a much higher existence. And all that’s different between us and humans is that our kind has been given a greater awareness of the other side.”
Sophie took a deep breath, able to accept that explanation without forsaking her own beliefs. “And you think Matthew is this Taliesin?”
Dylan nodded toward the box that sat on her bureau, its carvings visible through the doorway like a gilded affirmation. “He is the only person I’ve seen wearing that weapon. And it would explain a great deal . . .” His voice trailed off. “I have always wondered why I could never find you.”
“I’m having a difficult time picturing Matthew as this person you speak of.” She had lived next to the man for almost four years, cleaned his house—cooked his dinners. “How is it that you could possibly exist because of him?”
“The first of my kind were given the power to shift into wolves to protect Taliesin, to live by his side, to raise Ceridwen’s son where she could not. She taught them how to see beyond our realm of existence, taught them how to pull power from other living things. They called themselves Gwarchodwyr . . .” Sophie frowned at the word and he translated it into English. “Guardian. At first, the term was meant for Taliesin alone, but now they consider themselves the guardians of our kind.”
“These are the others you spoke of earlier?” She hadn’t forgotten his warning. “The ones that will eliminate any threats to your race?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” she said, not overly thrilled that this fantastical world was beginning to make sense, and that Dylan’s motives were quickly becoming more honorable than confining. “The Guardians that raised Matthew . . . are they still alive?” She went on to explain, “Because he had no visitors that I’m aware of while I worked in his home. He was always alone.”
Dylan nodded as if that information didn’t surprise him. “Some are still alive, but not all, and Taliesin holds little affection for the Gwarchodwyr Unfed . . .”
“Gwarchodwyr Unfed?” She fumbled with the pronunciation. “What does the Unfed stand for?”
Again, he translated, “Guardians, First in Order. They’re the men and women who personally cared for Taliesin as a child. Sometimes we refer to them as the Original Guardians. Or the Originals.” His voice was calm, even patient, like a teacher explaining a lesson to a teenager. “There are only twelve Original Guardians left. Those remaining twelve have formed a council meant to govern our kind. They call themselves the Council of Ceridwen.”
She rubbed her hands over her eyes. “So, the term Guardian doesn’t necessarily refer to an Original Guardian?”
“That’s correct. A Guardian can also be a descendant of an Original who can shift, one who has aligned their beliefs with the Council.”
“You can shift,” she pointed out. “Are you a Guardian?”
“No,” he clipped. “The Council and I don’t share the same beliefs.”
“You say that with disgust in your voice.”
“The Guardians have earned my disgust.”
“How so?”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “That’s a story too long for this short night. Just trust me when I tell you it’s a blessing only twelve Original Guardians remain.”
“Where do they live?”
“Everywhere,” he said bluntly. “But mostly throughout Europe. They convene in Wales . . . they still hold rituals in our homeland.”
“How many Original Guardians were there in the beginning when Matthew was a child?”
He frowned at her continued barrage of questions but answered without complaint. “Forty-eight.”
“And when . . . exactly was the beginning?”
“The Guardians have been around for over two thousand years, give or take a hundred. We didn’t have a written verse at the time, so the actual date is debatable.”
“But they can die?”
“Yes . . . they can die.” He gave her a pointed stare. “There’s not a being that walks this earth that can survive without its head, not even the first of my kind. Why do you think that serpent whip was forged? Why do you think I mount swords on my walls, and not guns?”
She assumed his bluntness was meant to frighten her, maybe even challenge her, but it only fueled protective instincts. “Are these Guardians a threat to Joshua?”
His stance changed, a subtle movement into aggression, reminding her he wasn’t entirely human. “It will be better for our son if he can shift. The Guardians don’t value human life, or others of our kind that can’t shift. They would see them terminated to strengthen our race back to where we were in the beginning.”
She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “You speak of genocide . . . of a demented view of a perfect race.”
“I don’t share their beliefs, Sophie . . . I’m just telling you what they are.”
She took a deep breath and let it out, a moment of contemplation before digging deeper into this secret world. “You told me earlier that a shifter hasn’t been born in over three hundred years. Is that true?”
“Yes, as far as I know. We are losing our connection to the earth, and therefore our power to shift. Many who live in Rhuddin Village came here for protection from the Guardians, for sanctuary. Those who can’t shift are vulnerable; their bodies don’t heal as well. It’s the reason I’m so protective of them. It’s the reason my sister became a doctor.”
She began to understand why he turned a blind eye to their faults. “Why has your kind begun to lose connection to the earth? And why would Joshua have it now after all this time?”
“I wish I had an answer to those questions. Unfortunately, I don’t.” He reached out to cup her chin. She flinched, startled by the gentle touch. He frowned at her reaction but didn’t remove his hand. “And I think that’s enough for tonight. When was the last time you slept?”
She blinked, adjusting
to the changed subject, distracted by the way his thumb caressed the side of her cheek. “I don’t know.” Sleep? What was that? “It’s been a while.”
“You need to rest,” he said, letting his hand drop. “You can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”
“Ah . . . okay.” She felt awkward discussing sleeping arrangements after what had almost happened. “Do you mind leaving in the morning before my mother wakes up?”
His eyes narrowed with annoyance, the first indication he wasn’t pleased about her mother’s presence. “Fine. I have responsibilities in the morning. But I’ll be back before eight.” He frowned then, as if reminded of another unpleasant matter. “There’s one more item I need to discuss with you. Enid is moving to a cottage in the village. Her living quarters will no longer be in my household. Would it offend you if she continues her duties as my cook?”
She cocked her head to one side, confused. “Why are you asking me this?”
His jaw tightened. “Because you are the reason she’s being punished, and because you are my wife.”
He had punished Enid.
“You need to stop calling me that,” she said softly.
“I will call you nothing other than what you are.”
She pressed two fingers into her temple, too tired to continue this argument tonight. “I don’t care if Enid continues as your cook.” His eyes narrowed, obviously displeased by her lack of thought on the subject. She sighed. If he had taken the time to address the woman over a past digression, the least she could do was give his request ample consideration. “Who is her backup cook?”
“We don’t have a backup cook.”
“Who cooks on Enid’s day off?”
“Enid doesn’t take a day off.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” she said. “I suggest you let her keep her position but allow someone else to cover for her on . . . let’s say . . . Mondays. The competition might do Enid some good.”
He took a moment to ponder her suggestion, ending with a sharp nod. “It’s a fair judgment. I will announce the Monday position in the morning.” Then a slow smile touched his lips. “This ought to be interesting.”
