by Cecy Robson
“Oh, my God, Misha,” she rasps.
She hurries forward only to be intercepted by a white wolf with patches of silver and black peppering his back.
“I’m not arguing with you,” Celia snarls at him. “I’m telling you, you need to get out of my way.”
The wolf changes, leaving an immense male looming over her, his dark skin slick with sweat. “Aric won’t like this,” he practically barks at her. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“My mate will understand,” Celia tells him.
I’m not entirely sure that’s true. At the very least, Aric might snap someone in half. I just hope that someone isn’t me.
Celia whips around when Agnes lurches forward, her nails out and her fangs exposed. “I told you to stand down,” Celia snaps.
“The master is in trouble,” Hank shouts, storming to Agnes’s side. “If these mongrels keep you from helping him, truce or not, they’re not leaving here alive.”
I’m ready for Hank’s head to come to a rolling stop at my feet. But instead of using brute force, sympathy splays along my sister’s beautiful face. He’s scared, but she is, too.
“Hank, trust me,” she says, speaking quietly.
I’m glad she’s calm. I’m not. Not with the way the wolves form a ring around her, their haunches tightening as the vamps close in, and not when whatever humanity Celia returned to Misha drifts further away.
I push my way toward Celia, only to be wrenched back by Hank.
“Taran, stay where you are,” Celia tells me.
And maybe less blood will splatter on your cute clothes, she doesn’t add.
The wolf, the naked one who stands over her frowns. “Aric will understand,” she repeats.
He sniffs, trying to uncover her lies. But Celia isn’t lying.
Whatever he scents in her makes him nod in the direction of the wolves. “Let her pass,” he orders.
“Hank,” Celia states, not that she needs to say more.
“You heard her,” Hank commands. “Stand down.”
The vamps withdraw, giving Celia enough space to easily step through.
I race after her.
Okay. Maybe more like stumble and stagger after her, trying to avoid the multitude of skulls fading in and out at my feet.
Misha’s memory left me drained and disturbed. My energy isn’t anywhere near where I need it to be, making me vulnerable despite that vulnerable is the last thing I need to be.
Misha slumps to his knees at Celia’s approach. Like me, he’s exhausted, and struggling, and . . . inhuman.
“Celia,” I say, my eyes rounding. “I think his soul is gone.”
“No,” she says.
I try to grab her, but she slips from my grasp. “I’m serious,” I stammer. “I don’t feel it.”
“I do,” she answers quietly.
She lowers herself in front of him. I more or less flop, trying not to curse when my knee crashes against a rock buried beneath the soil.
If I’m being honest, I can’t exactly feel Misha’s soul. What I do feel is all the wrath and strength that comes with it. It’s different then, his entire form void of anything close to human.
I’m re-thinking allowing Celia to save the day and am pretty damn sure we’re about to die. “This isn’t a good idea,” I tell her. “He could hurt you. The vamps need to hold him or something.”
“No,” Celia replies, keeping her voice gentle. “I don’t want anyone to touch him.”
“Celia,” I beg.
Her hand snaps over my wrist when I try to inch forward. “Taran, I told you to stay put,” she reminds me.
She tilts her head, her compassion almost palpable as she takes in Misha’s beaten-down form. Very carefully, she releases my hand. “Misha, it’s Celia,” she tells him, her voice sweet, tranquil, and surprisingly absent of fear. “Can you hear me?”
Misha lifts his head. I almost sigh with relief until his seething stare latches onto Celia and his fangs lengthen.
Celia’s palm shoots out, keeping everyone in place, including me. “Don’t anyone move.”
Her command and the surety in her tone are the only reason I don’t erupt like a tornado of fire. Holy God, I’ll kill him if he harms her.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask, barely breathing.
“He’s in pain,” she explains, watching him closely.
“Will he attack?” I manage.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” I glance between them. “Then why the hell are you kneeling this close to him?”
She bats her hands, trying to shush me. “Misha, it’s Celia,” she says again.
“I know who you are,” he responds, his voice unearthly.
“You should,” she says. “We’re friends.”
Her response makes him pause. “I called to you,” he says, continuing to watch her like he isn’t sure she’s really there.
“Yes. I heard your voice whispering in my head,” she replies. “I’ll always hear you when you need me to.” She smiles softly, as if Misha’s voice doesn’t sound possessed and he doesn’t seem ready to peel our flesh from our gnawed-off bones.
“Do you hurt?” she asks gently.
His stare falls to her belly. There’s no hiding her pregnancy from the world, not anymore, and especially not from Misha. “Yes,” he responds, his eerie baritone growing more forceful.
I clutch my arm against me. Right now, Sparky trusts Misha almost as much as I do. She quivers, shaking me and my words. “Celia,” I warn. “You have to move away from him.”
“It’s all right,” she says.
I think she’s speaking to me until she reaches out and cups Misha’s shoulder. “They’re gone,” she assures him.
Misha’s gray eyes turn cold and deadly. “All of them?”
“Yes.”
“By my hands?” he questions.
She nods. By now, she’s hurting for him. “Yes, just as Uri promised.”
He doesn’t seem satisfied. “What about her?”
Celia strokes the ends of his hair, very much in that motherly way she always touched Emme’s when she was sick or scared. “She’s at peace. No one will ever hurt her again. I promise.”
“I want to kill them,” Misha growls.
Celia’s eyes well with tears, her expression changing in a way that startles me. It’s not quite angry, not quite vicious. It’s simply in tune with those who seek and acquire revenge in blood.
This expression doesn’t belong on my beautiful sister’s face, not with the compassion and kindness she frequently demonstrates in our presence. But here it is, despite how the prospect of becoming a mother has softened her further.
I suppose revenge is yet one more thing that connects her to Misha. Like him, she knows it well.
“You killed them a long time ago,” she reminds him.
“All of them?” Misha asks, before she finishes the last word.
“Yes,” she tells him. “They’re gone, and now I need you to come back to me.” She inches closer, wrapping her arm around Misha’s neck and resting her cheek against his shoulder.
I don’t like his fangs this close to her throat. Not when he’s taken his share of her blood before. Yet as much as he likely remembers her taste, and what it did to him, the moment she sinks into his embrace, his eyes close and his fangs withdraw.
“Please, Misha,” she tells him quietly. “Leave your past where it belongs and come back to me.”
Misha’s breaths, so pained and shallow before quicken. I don’t move, too busy gawking and scared out of my mind that he’ll turn on her.
If he bites a pregnant mate, especially the alpha’s pregnant mate, any truce forged will be forgotten and the vamps and weres will be at war. I think Celia’s counting on Misha to remember this, but I think she’s counting on their friendship more.
I fall back onto my heels close to where the faded images of the skulls continue to flash in and out. One by one, they sink into the ground, the lush sod swallo
wing them whole.
Celia doesn’t seem to notice them. Her full attention remains on Misha as she continues to speak softly, reassuring him that he’s safe and those who have harmed him are now long dead.
It takes a few minutes, and a few more, before Celia releases him and he opens his eyes.
Sweat drenches his skin, causing his long hair to stick to his face. Celia strokes the loose and messy strands behind his shoulder. “Are you back?” she asks him gently.
Vamps aren’t creatures you’re gentle with. It’s too easy for them to misinterpret kindness as weakness and target you as dinner. I almost remind Celia of this, but she and Misha have always shared a bond no one else can comprehend.
“Yes,” he says. He swipes his face, a gesture that seems foreign on someone so refined.
“What happened?” she asks.
“I don’t know. My magic, Taran’s, and the Fate’s reacted.”
“The Fate?” she questions.
“Here,” Agnes calls.
Tim, one of Misha’s bodyguards, is carrying Johnny with his arm draped over his shoulders. Johnny’s tattoos appeared to have settled back into their original spots. But like Misha, Johnny has seen better days.
Celia’s brows knit, her attention back on Misha. “Where did the magic take you?”
His attention falls to her belly. “Nowhere good. Nowhere safe.”
My vision sharpens further. I don’t have to turn around to know who’s here, but I do anyway now that I know Celia is safe.
Gemini’s jaw is set tight. Aric stands just in front of him, the rage surrounding him accelerating like a dangerous landslide as he takes in Misha’s close proximity to Celia,
Celia and Misha rise as one, with Celia edging slightly in front of Misha. “I had to come, love,” she tells Aric. “I couldn’t leave him hurting like this.”
Aric doesn’t respond with words, reaching for her hand and pulling her protectively behind him. Celia doesn’t fight him, knowing the closer she is, the easier it will be to soothe him.
“We have to talk, wolf,” Misha tells him.
“About you keeping your distance from my wife and mate?” Aric replies, his timbre low and fierce. “Good. You’ve used up any favors you think she might owe you.”
“She owes me nothing,” Misha responds. “The only debt that remains is one I owe her.”
Aric doesn’t take his comment any better. Misha doesn’t care, his stance growing more severe. “This isn’t about me and Celia. It’s about her future and that of your children,” he says, his features hardening as they hone in on me.
I can practically hear Aric’s muscles stretch when his gaze drifts in my direction.
“The skulls are a warning, Aric,” I tell him. “Something is coming after Celia.”
“What skulls?” Aric asks.
At first I think he’s distracted by Misha’s presence. But nothing gets past this wolf. I frown and point to the remaining skull as it disappears into the ground. “All of them,” I reply.
Gemini takes point beside me, appearing as thrilled with Misha as Aric.
“Taran,” Celia says. “There are no skulls.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
We don’t leave vamp camp. None of us even move, the tension and fear over what may be coming cementing us in place.
“I saw them, too, Master,” Hank says, falling to his knees in front of Misha. “The skulls were everywhere and burning in flames.”
It’s only then Misha tears his gaze from Celia. “What else did you see?”
Hank glances up, appearing afraid to answer. Misha lost control over his magic and mind the moment Johnny appeared. Johnny’s power must have somehow clashed with Misha’s magic, and I suppose mine as well, stirring that vision I had at the concert when I first met Johnny, and causing Misha to completely lose his shit.
The pain at watching Celia die, and not being able to save her, too closely mimicked his mother’s death. Jesus, how could he not remember that moment then?
“I saw the tiger,” Hank answers. “But nothing past that.”
“What tiger?” Agnes adds, her breath catching when she looks to Celia.
“There was a tiger on fire,” Hank says, his hands clenching. “The master tried to save her.”
“Her?” Aric asks.
I rub my eyes, remembering Misha’s howls and how he futilely beat the flames with his hands.
“It looked female,” Hank mutters, more afraid to tell Misha than Aric. “But it was hard to know for sure.”
Misha scans the area, his attention skipping over every one of his vampires. They all shake their heads, allowing Agnes to answer for them. “We only saw the burning skulls, Master.” She lifts her chin. “But Hank was closest to you. It could be the reason he witnessed more than we did.”
Aric doesn’t move, neither does Celia. Gemini stalks forward, menace spilling from him like blood from a fresh kill. “Misha tried to save her,” I reiterate. “I saw him.”
“And did he?” Aric asks.
The words are hard to say. “No. Her skulls were among those burning.”
“Was it me?”
Celia asks the one question none of us dare ask.
“I don’t know,” Misha answers.
Aric’s focus jerks to me. “I can’t be sure either,” I answer.
“She’s a golden tigress,” Aric points out. “Her markings are distinct. How can you not know?”
“The flames had already stripped her of her fur when I reached her,” Misha answers.
A bomb could have fallen from the sky and destroyed everything around us, and the aftermath still wouldn’t have been as quiet as we are now.
“I’m not sure Misha was there,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Aric asks frowning. “He told you he was and you saw him.”
“I know, but . . .” I cover my face, it’s only then I feel the bruise forming where Agnes slapped me awake. I release my hands slowly. “With the exception of me lifting the skull, this vision was almost exactly the same as the one I had at the concert. Everything was on fire and the entire area reduced to nothing but flames and ash. But it’s like Misha didn’t belong there. I put him there.” I meet his face. “Or maybe his magic did. Did you feel the flames, or the heat?”
He doesn’t immediately answer, appearing to give it a great deal of thought. “No. I couldn’t feel her.”
“You mean Celia,” Aric states.
He and Misha stare each other down. It’s not in challenge. It’s because neither want to believe that was really her.
“It could have been another tiger,” Edith Anne interjects. She kicks at the ground. “Even without fur the master would have known if she was pregnant.”
Her words cut off and she withdraws at the sight of Misha’s glare. Edith isn’t an easy vampire to like. She’s selfish and spoiled. But in her own way, she likes Celia and is trying to offer us hope.
“My apologies, Master.” She turns to face Celia, her expression one I can’t read and one I don’t recognize on her. “None of us want Celia to die.”
“She wasn’t pregnant,” Misha says. “That I’m certain of.”
Celia edges away. “Good,” she says. “At least the baby was safe.”
Which means her babies will live even if she doesn’t.
I veer away, swiping my tears and march to where Johnny sits on one of the benches. “Did you see the flames? The skulls, everything?”
He looks to Misha, horror riddling his features. “I saw everything,” he says, making it clear he saw more of Misha than he intended.
“Call the grandmaster, the head witches, and Omar,” Misha orders. A vamp takes off toward the house. Misha stops in front of Aric who is seconds away from destroying the entire compound. “The Alliance needs to be informed.” His focus drops to Celia. “It’s the only way we can prevent this madness.”
He storms away. I follow, or at least try to, practically running to keep up with him. “The vamps didn�
�t see the snow,” I mutter, trying to speak in code.
“No,” he says.
“Why?”
Misha’s long hair sweeps over his shoulder with how hard he turns around to speak to me. “I will never allow them to see me in a moment of weakness.”
“But then why did I . . .”
His stare falls to my arm. “The magic in your arm is ancient, so is mine, and in a way so is the Fate’s, since fate and destiny have always existed. They don’t like each other.” He frowns, picking up on something I don’t. “Or perhaps they do.”
Gemini said my magic and Johnny’s both compliments and clashes. I suppose there’s always room for one more, and this space seems reserved for Misha.
“So whose future did we see?” I grab Misha’s arm when he doesn’t answer. It’s a stupid question given his volatile state. Gemini knows it, shoving himself between us and hauling me back. “Whose future?” I demand, trying to break free of my lover’s hold.
Misha’s shoulders rise and fall, anger and the heat of the moment summoning his aggressive nature. Somehow, he keeps it together. “It’s yours, Taran, and Celia’s. You saw me. I couldn’t help her because I wasn’t there to help.”
He walks away. The vampires scrambling after him as he disappears inside the house.
The conference call goes well. And when I say well, I’m lying. The best I can say is no one died, and no one’s killed each other. Yet.
Johnny sits to my right, with Agnes on his opposite side. Like the rest of us, he’s ill at ease, waiting for the leaders to pass their ruling. To his credit, he’s not openly showing weakness. If anything, he’s showing his strength. His tats crawl along his skin, exactly as they did before our collective power went boom and I saw some shit we’ll never unsee.
The peacock Johnny drew on his stomach shakes out his feathers as he parades around the room, his form massive upon leaving Johnny’s skin. He passes the row of vamps lining the wall who creep away from it. They’re not afraid of the bird, they’re afraid of the power behind it. So are the wolves who growl as it struts by.
Omar, the president of the North American Were Council watches it with interest from the giant screen directly in front of us. “As president, I hereby offer the Fate our full protection and declare him a national treasure.”
