Fed to the Wolves, Part 2: Bad Moon Waxing

by Delilah Fawkes

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  Fed to the Wolves, Part 2: Bad Moon Waxing

  By Delilah Fawkes

  Did I really just tell three werewolf brothers that I’d consider mating with them? That I’d consider letting them each fill me with their seed--take me together like wild animals—and hope that one of them bred me in the act?

  I heard Quentin’s husky voice, translating the words of that ancient parchment once more, echoing through my mind:

  Only a healer’s gift can turn the tide for those who bear the curse of the Rougarou. If she willingly joins herself to the one afflicted, and life is created in love, then evil will abate. For evil cannot stand in the presence of love’s healing power…

  If grandmother’s research was right, then one of my kind, one woman with the healer’s Gift, could only mate with the Rougarou who was her match. Her perfect mate. Something in our destinies would have to line up in order to allow me to heal the monster within him… to allow me to grow full and ripe with his child.

  But how could I consider such a thing?

  If my Mama and Daddy were still alive, they’d most certainly have somethin’ to say about me lying with three men, much less let them try to breed me. And brothers, besides! It was downright perverse. Nothin’ but sin and depravity.

  But then again, it would mean one less monster roaming the streets of Cattail Creek. One less brother suffering, knowing he couldn’t control the killer roaring inside of him, waiting to break free. And if I could find other healers for the other brothers…

  The fact of the matter was, whether I was ready for this decision or not, here it was, placed before me, staring me square in the eye. A good girl would do the right thing… even if it did mean spreadin’ her legs for the three sexy, gorgeous Boucher Boys, ready to take it like a cat in heat.

  If I didn’t, though, if I worried more about my reputation than about the lives of those dead women—the lives of everyone else in town—then what did that make me? Surely, Jesus wouldn’t want me to restrain my passions when it meant putting my own pride before the safety of so many, not to mention the torment of the poor man I could be savin’.

  And I would be creating life.

  The very thought should have terrified me. I mean, I’m only twenty-five, and have a lot more things I wanted to do in this life before I settle down. But the idea of it, of my belly growing rounder each month, the little heartbeat gaining strength just beneath my own, made me feel a glow inside I’ve never felt before. Instead of terror, I felt a warmth spreading through me, and my heart ached with an unknown longing.

  Lying in bed, staring up into the darkness of my room, I tentatively touched my stomach, smiling as my hand ran over the cool silk of Ms. Rosa’s borrowed nighty.

  I could be a mother.

  I laughed at the thought, then sighed. I didn’t realize it until then, but I never thought I’d have that. Not really. Not a real family. Not after everything that happened.

  After Mommy and Daddy died, I’d felt it inside me—the hollow place in my heart where the idea of “family” used to live. But since that terrible car crash when I was nineteen took them away, the idea of family seemed like a dream. Unreal. A mirage. Something I’d reach for, and feel slipping through my fingers like water.

  I’d been on my own, taking care of myself all alone in that big old house in Atlanta, trying to just stay alive after the grief. Especially when Mama kept showing up in the kitchen, making biscuits, like nothing had happened at all…

  I think that was the hardest—seeing her as a memory, a shade, imprinted on the path she wore smooth on the linoleum floor, from cupboard to counter, moving back and forth, spilling flour that wasn’t really there over the cutting board, so the non-corporeal dough wouldn’t stick. She hummed as she worked, her hair up in a kerchief, looking for all the world, just as beautiful as she did every morning, with the sun shining on her, but now, faded and greyed, flickering at the edges like an old home movie.

  Remembering how alone I’d felt, sitting on the floor, cross-legged, watching her work and putter and hum… all those mornings, just watching… brought that old feeling back. Like I was gutted. Like a piece was missing that would never grow back.

  Now, six years later, the wound still felt raw—tender.

  I took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, wondering what it would feel like to begin again. To no longer be that funny Orphan Girl who thought she saw ghosts, but instead to be someone’s mother. To be someone’s family. To be that person rolling out the dough and humming on a sunny weekday morning…

  I ached inside, thinking about it, but the ache was sweet.

  I thought about the little apartment I rented back home, above the Laundromat, my hand-painted wooden sign reading “Psychic—Readings and Healing Work.” I used my Gift to help others sort out their energies all the time, but now, questions niggled at me; wouldn’t leave me be.

  How many people had come through my door with aching hearts and minds? How many with tears in their very being that I helped find and correct—helped soothe away—using my Gift? How many minds had I entered, how many painful memories had I walked through, guiding a client through the darkness and back into the light? How many times had I healed someone’s pain, but ignored my own?

  Perhaps this was an opportunity. Maybe this whole bizarre situation was the Universe’s way of getting me to take a good look at what I wanted. What needed to be healed in my own life.

  Did I want this?

  Could I really do this?

  Was I brave enough, strong enough, to go through with it?

  Grandma certainly thought so.

  I shook my head, wrinkling my nose at the thought of my sweet, old granny discussing somethin’ so… well, so damn dirty… with a man like Quentin Boucher. The thought was decidedly icky. Then again, Grandma never was shy when it came to discussing menfolk, or matters of the heart, for that matter.

  I remember talking on the phone with her just before I lost my virginity. I’d been a bit of a social outcast, never had a boyfriend, and now, at twenty, was thinking about giving it up to a man I’d just started seeing—a professor at the local college. I was at war with myself over it, and just wanted someone who knew me, someone who loved me, to help talk me through it.

  “I know it’s wrong, Grandma… giving it away before I’m married, and all, but… if you saw the way he looks at me, you’d understand,” I said.

  I remember my cheeks burning as I held the phone to my ear, embarrassed and eager all at once, to hear what the woman I respected so much would have to say.

  “Honey,” Grandma said, her voice warm and rough like an old blanket, “it ain’t wrong to feel what God put in our nature. We are all creatures who crave a little love now and again, and def’nitely seek after pleasure. And I know you’ve had a tough time, Sugar. Especially the way those damnable high school boys teased you, callin’ you ‘Spooky,’ an all…”

  I sighed, and looked down at the notebook on my desk. Someone had scrawled Spooky Gordon Sucks Cocks in Hell! on it the year before, and I’d covered it carefully with white out. I couldn’t afford another.

  “But you have ta pay attention to what ya want, Honey. Don’t go givin’ your heart to just anyone who shows an interest. Because most times, that’s what you’ll be doin’, whether you want to, or not—givin’ your heart to whoever you decide to lay down with, child. With a heart like yours, you have to think carefully, and know if it’
s a risk you willin’ ta take.”

  I’d chewed the end of my pen cap as she spoke, my stomach twisting at the thought of falling in love, or worse, hoping for love, and receiving nothing but disappointment in return.

  In the end, I waited a little while longer, desperately horny and frustrated, until one night, I slept with him anyway, seeking comfort for the lingering sadness that still filled my every moment, but not for love. My heart was carefully kept locked up during those few fevered nights I spent in the professor’s bed, learning about lust and pleasure, but knowing this wasn’t the real deal.

  He wasn’t the one.

  He was just my first. My only.

  Until today, I hadn’t thought much about love or lust, to be honest. Been too busy tryin’ to build a life for myself, and doing a damn fine job. I wasn’t even all that lonely, because I had so many people comin’ in and out of my door… Well, that and a rabbit vibrator I named “Steve.”

  But a plastic boyfriend don’t keep you warm at night, no matter how many settings he has. Remembering the way Quentin’s lips tasted, the way he and his brothers touched me, makin’ my skin burn and my toes curl… I ached for more.

  Maybe it wasn’t a sin if I did it with love in my heart. And if Grandma was okay with it, it couldn’t be that wrong, even if it was with more than one man. I certainly never thought I’d even consider something so deviant, so wanton, so desperately naughty, but I have to admit, just the thought of having all three of the Boucher men in my bed made my sex heat with desire.

  I reached down and touched my aching lips, drawing in a hiss of breath when I felt how wet I was, just thinking about it. Just thinking about them…

  I imagined Quentin leaning over me, his shirt unbuttoned, his strong chest and abs rippling with muscle in the candlelight, and moaned softly, my fingers busy between my legs. I licked my lips, remembering his taste, his scent, a little spicy and oh-so-male, and saw him look me over in my mind’s eye, hungry and horny, just as eager for my body as I was for his. He growled, low in his throat, sending shivers up my spine, and kissed my neck, softly at first, then rough, his teeth scraping over my tender flesh.

  I gasped, my back arching, as Dream Quentin kissed lower, pausing to suck each of my nipples in turn, drawing on them greedily, before moving down again… growling against my belly, kissing and licking… then spreading my legs apart and looking up at me, his eyes glowing with need.

  I bit my lip, my fingers working furiously, as he lowered his mouth to me, eyes locked on mine. He pushed my thighs down, pinning me beneath him and devoured me, lapping and sucking, licking and teasing. I called out his name as I came, squirming in my sheets…

  It was only after, lying in the darkness, my thighs slick, and my heartbeat slowly returning to normal, that I realized I’d cried aloud.

  I covered my mouth with a gasp, then laughed behind my hand. I should have been mortified, wondering if he could hear me, if he had some kind of heightened senses that could hear me through the walls of this old mansion, but I found I didn’t care. In fact, I felt tingly and naughty all over, imagining him in his bed, hearing me cum, calling out for him.

  And maybe his brothers, too.

  Trixie, maybe you aren’t such a good girl after all, I thought. I pulled the sheets over myself and rolled over, grinning in the darkness like a damn, dirty fool.

  ***

  It was strange, accepting help from strangers, after bein’ on my own for so long. But when Bastian and Felix insisted on fetchin’ my things from Grandma’s, they wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “Take a load off, Cher,” Bastian said, nodding at me with a twinkle in his eye. “You got thinkin’ ta do. No need to be wearin’ yo’self out when there’s menfolk fo’ da heavy liftin.’”

  I rolled my eyes at him.

  “I don’t think liftin’ a few boxes would exactly do me in-“

  “Naw, naw, Trix,” Felix cut in. “You a guest here, an’ dat mean you get the royal treatmen’. Put dem pretty li’l feet up, and we be back in no time.”

  I just shook my head, wonderin’ what in tarnation these boys were thinkin’. Were they tryin’ to butter me up, so I’d say “yes,” to their proposition? Or were they just the real deal—old school southern gentlemen, tryin’ their best to make me feel welcome in their home?

  Only time would tell, but I had to admit, all this attention wasn’t half bad. A girl could get used to it, and I ain’t lyin’!

  Bastian squeezed my hand as he left, and Felix gave me a wink, both of them making a little thrill run up my spine. I gave them an awkward wave, willing my cheeks to stop burning, yet again. I couldn’t help but get hot whenever these darn Boucher Boys touched me… especially knowing what may lay in store for us soon enough.

  A large hand on my shoulder made me give a yelp of surprise.

  “Whoa dere, girl,” Quentin said, his voice low and laughing. “No need to jump out ya’ skin.”

  He was right beside me, his arm slung casually around my shoulder. I leaned in to him a little, unable to help myself, his scent and warmth drawin’ me to him like a fly to honey.

  “You alrigh’, Cher?”

  “Well…” I sighed, breathing him in, my heart beginning to hammer in my chest. “If I’m bein’ honest… I’m as anxious as a long-tailed cat in a room full’a rockers.”

  I winced, inwardly. Why did I always have to get so damn corny and well, southern, when I was nervous?

  Don’t get me wrong—I love where I’m from, both here and Georgia—but I spent my teens tryin’ to rid myself of most of my drawl, wantin’ to be like the women I saw on television. Poised. Together. Able to pronounce all of their consonants.

  But the more stress I had on me, the more I reverted back to my old ways, and the more my Mama and Grandma’s little sayin’s would find their way right out my mouth and into the world.

  Shoot-a-mile…

  I looked up to gauge Quentin’s expression, and saw him smiling down at me, his eyes crinkling in a way that made my heart beat even harder. Here I was, worryin’ about actin’ the fool, and this sexy man was lookin’ at me like he’d never seen anything quite so charmin’ in his life.

  I smiled back, and felt some of my tension release from my shoulders.

  “Understandable, no?”

  Quentin caressed the top of my arm with his thumb, sending shivers down my body.

  “While they gone, how about I show somethin,’ you… You up fo’ a tour, Cher?”

  I grinned inwardly at his phrasing. I may have a bad case of South Mouth from time to time, but at least I was in good company. And unlike some people, I didn’t have them funny little trip ups that come from speakin’ so much French.

  “Oui,” I said, giving him a smirk.

  He cocked an eyebrow at that, then shook his head with a grin.

  “Come on naw, girl. Let’s you an’ me go for a walk. Get you answers to some o’ dem questions you got to have burnin’ you up.”

  I did have questions. More questions than I thought he could possibly answer, at least in one afternoon, but I was curious, and eager, so I let him lead me out of the house, away from the pittlin’ remains of the breakfast Rosa and Candide fixed for us, and out into the muggy mid-morning air. I wore a pair of short denim cut offs that hugged my rounded ass and hips, and a thin white scoop-neck tank I’d had stashed in my car. I pretended not to notice the way Quentin’s eyes roamed down over my cleavage, his eyes flashing as he took in my curves, but it gave me a little thrill all the same.

  I wasn’t used to be noticed like this. Wasn’t used to male attention, at least not from someone so dang sexy. I brushed my white-blonde hair out of my face, smiling at the thought.

  But, I had to keep focused. There was so much to understand, still. So much to decide. And not a whole heck of a lot of time to work with.

  “Follow me,” he said, his hand sliding down to the small of my back. “And while we at it, hit me with what you thinkin’.”

  “Well
,” I said, trying to ignore the shivers running up and down my spine, “You said last night that your daddy was the first one cursed, right?”

  “Oui. It passed on down to us from de blood.”

  “Thing that’s makin’ me scratch my head, is who put the curse on him? Someone in the town who thought he really was workin’ dark magic?”

  The easy grin fell from Quentin’s face as we walked into the shadows beneath the Cyprus.

  “That’s da thing, Cher. We been lookin’ for answers for 150 years naw, but we keep hittin’ a block. We know where the cunja come from, but we can’t get no further then dat…”

  His strong hand guided me through the creeping vines and thick underbrush, past the cabins, deeper into the wilderness behind the ancient manor.

  “Somethin’ tells me you boys aren’t exactly the quittin’ type, especially not with somethin’ this important. What’s in your way?”

  “Here,” Quentin said, pushing back some creepers so I could duck under.

  I stepped out into a wide clearing, weak sunlight filtering down through the break in the canopy of leaves. Crypts jutted up from the marshy ground, some crumbling from moisture and age; others looking almost regal--marble-carved angels and gargoyles staring, columns unbroken—daring time to touch them.

  “Here be our family graveyard,” Quentin said. “A sacred place, once used by other folk in the parish, as well as our clan. The churchyard ran out o’ earth and came to my granddaddy, askin’ if they could use da lan’. He say yes, an’ helped lay many a neighbor down, ova the years.”

  Despite the heat of the day, a chill ran through me. There was no wind, and I felt, suddenly, as if the ground itself were sending waves of feeling up and through me. Sadness. Fear. Depair. Rage…

  Each one rippled upward, the vibration cold as ice, makin’ me feel like someone was steppin’ on my grave. I took a deep breathe, and tried to ground myself, to protect my mind from the residual emotion of the boneyard.

  “Cher?”

  Quentin’s hands were on my shoulders, and I realized I’d shut my eyes, tryin’ to block everything out as I concentrated. I opened them now, and looked up into his kind, brown eyes, now filled with worry.