Die By Night

by Kaitlynn Aisling

  But though her smile is kind, she doesn’t offer up any more information. No one else attempts to continue my conversation either; so I take my last bite of pancake. Heather holds out another vial of green ick. I down it quickly, chasing it with the orange juice.

  Our little crowd of paranormal disperses quickly, each of them picking up their own plates. Glenna picks up Gavin’s and mine, and I decide that he doesn’t realize what’s going on around him. I don’t think he means to be kingly or believes he should be served; rather he’s very focused on the work in front of him. I guess this would be his first treaty negotiation, as his father died seven months ago. The pressure must be immense.

  Maybe we could try a treaty negotiation. That’d be something he’d abide by. Heck, he might even enjoy it.

  “You should practice,” I offer, feeling quite queenly.

  As attuned to me as always, despite his obvious distraction, Gavin looks up.

  “What’s that, lass?”

  “Your negotiation skills.”

  His grin has me smiling in return. He is worried about this treaty negotiation, that much is obvious, but I’ve managed to brighten his day for a moment. For some reason, that’s important to me. It almost feels like a notable accomplishment. I also find it amusing that he thinks I can’t teach him a thing about negotiation, but of course I can; I’m a woman.

  “Let’s start with the coffee rule.”

  His smile fades, just a bit, but it’s enough to have me racking my brain for a joke on the off chance it’ll resurrect his mirth.

  Before he can tell me that he will not discuss the coffee, I lean forward and steeple my fingers beneath my chin, before saying, “I’ve already relented on the caffeine part, which is a definite loss in quality. Let’s talk quantity now.”

  “One half,” he says, in an even tone.

  I laugh a little at that, and settle back into my seat.

  “Come now, let’s at least pretend we’re being serious. If you want to hold your ground with the witches, you’re going to have compromise a little. Let’s start at five.”

  The table screeches against the floor as he jumps to his feet, his chair crashing back against the wall behind him.

  “Five! Lass, decaf or no, five cups o’ coffee a day tis no’ healthy, no’ tae mention your delicate condition.”

  “First off, I’m not delicate, and I never will be. Secondly, during arbitration, you need to remain calm to keep a position of power. One of your famous smirks would suffice in response to an unreasonable demand, not that five cups is unreasonable mind you . . . ”

  Huffing a little, he eyes me closely, as if trying to determine what I’m about. The rise of his chest slows a bit, his body relaxing. He gives a little chuffing cough before righting his chair and regaining his seat, this time sitting across from me at the table so that we’re now facing each other.

  “One,” he says.

  Then he does something I never expected. He leans back in his chair and rolls up his shirtsleeves, his muscle-corded forearms coming into view. Catching my gaze, his fingers drift to his collar, and he unbuttons the first two buttons down his shirt. My eyes track each movement of his strong, nimble fingers. His actions bring me back to a time when my own buttons were derailed by this man. I shift in my chair, trying to distract myself. Dang pregnancy hormones!

  “Four,” I counter, though my retort loses some of its power due to the breathiness of it.

  Another button slips through its mooring.

  “You started too high, you claim I started too low. Two is the best compromise, where neither o’ us is satisfied.”

  “I don’t—”

  “We both know that twill be two cups by the end o’ our little bit o’ diplomacy. Would no’ our time be better spent on other . . . activities?” he interrupts.

  He fiddles with his collar, exposing more bronzed skin and that intriguing shadow tattoo of his, leading me to the realization that he’s not wearing his customary tee shirt under the flannel. This time I’m the one coughing, breathing a bit heavier on my side of the table, and now he’s flashing that smirk.

  “I doubt this tactic will work on the witches.”

  There’s no longer any force in my words at all. Instead, they resemble whispers, lacking any resolve or power. I channel what my words lack to my impulse control, avoiding looking at his chest, the movement of his toned arms, and those bewitching eyes. Instead, I study every knot and imperfection in the table.

  “I find tis more important tae me whether or no’ this tactic works on you.”

  This time he leans forward and grabs my hands, pulling toward the center of the table and closer to him. Our bodies inevitably follow, until our faces are hovering close to each other. I can feel his breath against my lips and smell the coffee I’ve been craving within it. Irrationally, I ponder closing the distance to get a secondhand taste of it. I just manage to refrain, but I don’t pull away. It’s like I’m trapped in the power of his gaze; the desire in his eyes is rooting me in place.

  “Well? Is it working for you, lass? Do you appreciate my powers o’ persuasion? Are you swayed by my negotiation skills?”

  The arrogance should push me away, but it doesn’t, because I can hear, or maybe sense, the vulnerability beneath the bravado. He wants me. Desperately. The anam faol rustles to life inside my heart and soul and assures me of this. Then it whispers about the rightness of this. Of us. Unlike the wrong touch of every other male since Gavin’s bite, his grasp against my hands promises right. How do I refute that? How do I fight us?

  I must have said the last thought aloud, because he answers, “You doona.”

  Then he closes the minute distance between us. As my spirit crows with the utter perfection of his kiss, my brain acknowledges that not only does he taste like coffee, his touch in itself is like a jolt of caffeine.

  His tongue slides along the border of my lips, catching my gasp as surrender and slipping inside to tangle with mine. I push against his hold, shoving against his palms for purchase. He leans back from the kiss before I’m ready. But I needn’t have worried, for as I drift back to my seat, he leans for the edge of the table and shoves it into the back wall, taking the chair at the other end along for the ride.

  There’s a resounding crash, but it doesn’t hold my attention. With no barrier between us, he stalks closer, until his hands grip the sides of my chair, his fingers brushing against my outer thighs. He leans down and takes my mouth with a vengeance. My own fingers reach up to grab his shoulders.

  There’s a gasp from the other side of the room and various other sounds that attempt to distract me from the sinful touch of this tempting man, but I couldn’t care less. That is until a heavily accented voice cries out, “The table!”

  Oh, crap.

  Gavin leans back from me, his ink black hair mussed from my wandering fingers.

  “Later, mo muirnín,” he whispers.

  Hmmm, that endearment is a new one.

  Gavin straightens, unblocking my view of the room and those inside it. A wolf whistle from Hawke has me blushing.

  “Oh, crap,” I mutter, because the sentiment needs to be said aloud.

  Glenna’s hands are covering her mouth, her fingers trembling. She is staring in horror at the mangled table, chair, and wall. The remaining chairs are kind of eerie, all placed around an empty, table-size space.

  A deep, rumbling laugh fills the space, joined by an equally deep chuckle. The women stare at the men as they descend into guffaws over the destruction Gavin just wreaked for a kiss. Heather starts laughing too, but I’m too mortified to consider amusement. The men don’t share the same problem, because they’ve reached the point of tears of laughter, except for Connor who’s staring at the wall as though trying to measure the amount of paint that will be needed to fix it.

  Hawke steps over to Gavin and slaps him on the back, as if in a job well done. Glenna’s hands drop from her face, but she’s still in shock, her wide, astonished eyes zooming back an
d forth from the table to the laughing men.

  Then, once the laughter has died down, Gavin says, “I never liked that table.”

  While the men work to reestablish order in the dining room, I make my escape outside. I know I can’t go past the Wards, but I need a little breathing room. Besides, one minute outside the house and Connor is trailing behind me, so there’s little to no danger here. The man misses nothing.

  The scenery is beautiful, and it reminds me a bit of home. I need to get with Gavin on calling Max and Meagan again. I know I should also call my papa, but I’m not sure I’m ready to face that conversation yet.

  There’s not much time left to face it.

  True, self, true. The baby is due this month, rather than three and a half down the road, as I originally believed. There’s not much time to do anything. Where’s the nearest hospital? Don’t we need to put together a go bag? In every romcom I’ve ever seen, the pregnant lady had a go bag. I wonder if Gavin has ever seen a romcom.

  “Not too far,” Connor says from behind me.

  The Wards. I’ve wandered close to one edge. It’s misty in the land of the rolling hills, but not misty enough to disguise the shimmering boundary of the Ward…or what’s on the other side of it . . .

  “Uhhh, Connor?”

  “Not too far!”

  Huh. The decidedly creepy woman on the other side of the border must be a threat. I’ve never heard Connor quite so worried, not even when I was chowing down the choke-hazard pizza.

  “I’m not. I’m not. Calm it down, already,” I mutter.

  I’m not going to go too far. I’m about to stop. Just a little bit closer . . .

  The woman grins.

  It’s not pleasant.

  I can hear Connor’s feet thundering closer behind me. I should turn back, but there’s just something about her. Although she is American Horror Story creepy, the woman is beautiful. Her raven black hair shines, even from a distance. It’s like the mist and shimmering Ward boundary give it more dimension. She seems more real somehow.

  As I get closer, her eyes are clearer. They’re lit from within, with a predatory fire not so different from the one I’ve often glimpsed within Gavin’s gaze. But while Gavin’s whiskey eyes are dominant, and sometimes even feral, they never give off the same type of inhuman cruelty that this woman is emanating.

  She lifts one hand and summons me even closer. The lines in her palms glow like lightning trails, and the play of light within her hands is entrancing. I reach out for her, her grin widening in response. It still isn’t pleasant, but for some reason, that doesn’t matter to me anymore. Right before I push my foot through that pesky barrier between the captivating woman and myself, an arm slides around my upper waist and yanks me backward.

  At first I fight the hold, kicking and screaming. I need to know the secrets this woman holds. She knows things. I know she does. If I could talk to her, grasp that beckoning palm, those secrets would be revealed to me.

  “Stop it!” Connor hisses against my ear.

  I stop thrashing, his tone penetrating the haze in which I was locked. I don't remember walking so close to the Ward boundary. Why did I do that?

  “What happened?” I ask, surprised to find my words sound slurred and sluggish.

  “She bewitched you,” he answers, sounding shocked himself.

  Bewitched? Huh. How fitting.

  “So that was a witch?” I ask.

  I’m still half hanging from Connor’s hold with one arm above my belly and the other across my hips.

  “Aye. It was. We need to tell Gavin.”

  “No!”

  Gavin doesn’t need to know about my stupidity, and we can’t risk jeopardizing the treaty. I suspect we’re all relying on the Ward’s protection now more than ever. The vampires are actively seeking us, and we’ve left quite the trail to follow, what with Gavin’s use of credit cards.

  “You can put me down now.”

  “Can I?” Connor bites out.

  Ohhh, Gavin’s not the only one with a sharp tongue in their little pack. Connor must have been more than worried about my fate and safety, if he’s reacting this way. His words and tone sound like obvious disrespect to me, and if I’m his queen, he’s likely breaking several tenants of Were etiquette.

  Now that I’m returning to my senses, Connor’s touch is inspiring the itchy discomfort in my mark. So, I don’t bother replying to his sarcastic little query. Instead, I push at his fingers, digging in with my nails a little, until he releases me. I turn to face him, and see fear in every worry line in his forehead. His hair has grown a tad in our time together. Not much, but enough to show a hint of golden color. I bet he keeps it so short because it’s curly, and I bet that drives him mad. I’ve never bothered to look at his eyes before, but they’re crystalline blue, clear as the sky.

  “You’re a bit of a pretty boy, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t like me,” he responds.

  It isn’t a question or a hurt-filled query, but instead a statement void of emotion. It is a common observation.

  “You don’t like me,” I reply, trying to sound as unemotional as he does. It doesn’t work.

  Connor’s eyes widen slightly, a little bit of a sign showing his surprise. He is right. I don’t like him, and this is an example of why I don’t. He’s too mechanical, like a robot programmed with only the basics. He can speak, to say, “Aye, Rìgh”—the wolf equivalent of “Yes, sir, King, sir,”—to some order from Gavin. He can move, to grab my arm and tow me back in formation. He can…No, that’s about it. The only emotion he shows is worry.

  “You’re my rìgain, my queen,” he says, as if trying to explain an obvious concept to a dimwitted child.

  What makes it worse is that I know he isn’t trying to mock me, but is concerned that I don’t grasp the simplicity of his supposed loyalty to me.

  “Gavin and I aren’t married,” I say it out of habit, even knowing that in Connor’s mind, as well as in the mind of every other pack member, mating is far more binding and formal than a marriage.

  “You are his mate.”

  Connor is also quite predictable.

  Rather than getting into an argument over mating that I have no hope of winning, I address the real issue.

  “Loyalty does not affection make.”

  “My loyalty just saved your life. We’re going to tell Gavin. Now.”

  Fine.

  Connor lifts me and sets me in front of his body, motioning to walk back to the house. There’s no real way to defy him now, so I follow his silent command.

  When we get back to the house, things have settled. The wall is still in a bit of shambles and the table will always bear signs of today, but everything is back in its proper place at least.

  “Enjoy your wal—” Gavin asks as I step over the threshold, but he stops as soon as he looks up at me.

  His supernatural speed brings him before me mid blink. His fingers tremble as they run up and down my arms.

  “What happened?”

  He’s asking Connor, not me. Somehow I know this, but his eyes are still focused on me. Connor explains what went down, and Gavin satisfies himself there’s nothing broken. His hands rise to cradle my face, lifting my gaze up to his.

  None of what happened is my fault, but the stark fear in his expression has me battling guilt. It’s as if every fear he’s ever considered, ever, came to pass while he was helpless to stop it.

  “Oh, Gav,” I whisper.

  My own fingers trace his eyebrows, seeking to soothe, because despite his role in all of this, the truth is that he didn’t choose any of this either. How can I blame him for all the wrong and evil that dwells within his world? He didn’t create vampires or witches. He may have fostered the discontent between their groups, but he’s never known anything different.

  Connor is a still, and now silent, presence behind me. I forgot there were others here; Gavin and his touch have that effect on me. However, rather than be embarrassed, I try to take a more
. . . queenly approach.

  “Maybe you should . . . ” I whisper to Gavin, my hands gesturing behind him.

  He can’t see it, but Hawke, Glenna, and Heather are all staring in shock at our little trio.

  “They can wait,” he says.

  Then he leans close and kisses me. It’s different than our kiss not even an hour ago. This one is desperate and grateful, relieved and fearful, all at once. Then he eases away. And when he reaches to place his hands on my stomach, for once, I let him. And I can tell he’s grateful for that too.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After all the commotion, first with Gavin and I letting our passions destroy the dining room, then the witch trying to lure me beyond their dubious protection, it’s anticlimactic when the rest of the pack arrives the next evening. Not that anything is exciting for me anymore.

  No one will talk to me, and it’s driving me mad. I know there is a lot happening behind the scenes, but everyone pretends that it’s all hunky dory. Instead of including me, they all want me to caw canny, relax, and get to know the pack better. Gavin even had the gall to suggest I make friends.

  It hurts when he shuts me out, and I know it shouldn’t—with our lack of a true relationship—but it does. I need to know what all those secret meetings are establishing. I need to know what all the whispers contain. It’s my child that hangs in the balance. Forget my own life, Liam’s life is at stake.

  I never understood before how mothers could love someone that hasn’t taken a breath yet, but now I do. It’s an overwhelming surge of love that overrides every sense of selfishness and self-preservation that’s been preprogrammed into me for as long as I can remember. I would give anything for this child to live a happy life. But it’s not mine to give, because I know nothing. I’m helpless to help him.

  Man, that stings.

  Glenna keeps trying to teach me to knit, claiming the baby will prefer blankets and caps created by her mother. They’re all so resolute that the baby is a girl. The truth is that the baby, who for sure is a BOY, won’t care who made the blankets and garments as long as he’s warm. And with my lack of skill and the unintentional gaps in my knitting rows, anything I produce does not qualify.