Blood Enchantment

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  “Au contraire,” he wags a finger. “You are very much under the call of the Master, if you possess even a bit of Red in those blueblood veins of yours.”

  Low murmurs from the assembled Singers become louder, but Drek ignores them. The demonic before him poses a greater threat than they do.

  Drek wonders suddenly where the leadership might be for the region, but he takes charge of the conversation at hand. “Then rest easy, demonic—for I do not have the necessary blood to cause me to be a malleable specimen for the devil.”

  Bowen comes to stand beside him.

  His presence strengthens Drek. Where three of their kind come together, as with all magics, they become more powerful than if they stood alone. Still, two will do.

  They warily and loosely circle each other. “Then why are you here—for I scent my chosen.”

  The Were at his feet blanches.

  Drek refocuses a sharp look at the Alpha. “What do you know, Alpha of the Western?” At least, he smells like the west.

  The Alpha's nostrils flare. “I have not touched your chosen,” he nearly wails.

  That, Drek believes. Tahlia would have this male for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She's classically trained, like all Lanarre royalty. In theory, she should be an impressive female in all areas.

  “Speak,” Drek commands in a low voice.

  The demonic inches closer.

  Bowen growls, his lips peeling back to showcase the razor-sharp teeth of his wolfen form.

  The demonic halts. Steam pours from his mouth and nostrils; additional vapor covers his revealed skin like a layer of smoke.

  The Singersʼ voices rise. Drek gives them a cursory sweep with his eyes. They appear human, but that can be deceiving. His understanding is complete. They have talents that rival the strength, nose, and speed of Lycans. But they are not a species at direct odds with the Lanarre. He returns his attention to the cowardly packmaster of the west, who is attempting to stand while holding his writhing guts inside his body.

  “I have been seeking my intended for twenty years! She has led me here,” the Alpha mewls.

  Drek reins in his temper to extract additional information just before a loud female voice interrupts. “She didn't want to go with this guy!”

  All heads turn to a taller female Singer.

  Drek's nostrils flare. She is Were, as well, though changed, not born. Interesting.

  “This numbnuts came charging in here after she'd only been here a day, and she took off like the devil was chasing her.”

  Drek blinks, deliberating on the pun within her words. Her modern way of talking and lack of elegance is shocking. However, she is changed. That can make all the difference. Tall but slight, she has longish blond hair and piercing emerald eyes.

  “And this fire prick?” she goes on, pointing at the demonic, “He pretended to be a Singer! But really? He tried to hurt Jules—I know it. And we're really fucking sure he killed Jason.”

  The Singers break out in screams and shouts, surrounding the demonic.

  Drek will not be a referee in supernatural matters between species who are meaningless to the Lanarre. He raises a palm. “Thank you, female.”

  She purses her lips, nonplussed by his dismissal.

  Drek feels a shrug coming on. You cannot win them all, as the humans say. He scans the faces of the Blood Singers of Region One. His scenting tells him many things.

  Death clings to Region One.

  A battle or massacre of epic proportions took place here in the recent past. If the demonic have been loosened in this realm, whatever is afoot will affect them all. And why an Alpha would seek his legitimate intended for two decades reeks of foul play and the breakdown of the Western.

  But none of these factors are enough for Drek to concern himself with. “I am looking for my chosen. She is a Lanarre princess.”

  Blank looks answer him.

  Her scent is here. Someone has interacted with her; Drek is sure of it. He ignores the demonic, who seems to be searching for a handy escape route. Drek gives equal inattention to the Alpha at his feet.

  Drek is keenly aware of Tahlia’s appearance. Photographs have been exchanged. “She stands this high.” He holds the edge of his hand just beneath his shoulder. “Black hair that is curled to her waist, with eyes the color of twilight meeting night.”

  Silence.

  Then the part-Were female says, “Listen, pal—she took off with this jerk's intended.” She makes funny little curls with her fingertips as though plucking the word out of the sky. “So she's gone. And this demon guy's side-kick? She took off with the Alpha's intended”—she says the word with clear distaste—“so since you don't want to join the party in helping keep these guys in line, they went thataway.” She points due north.

  Drek smiles. He supposes she's helpful—in her way. “Lanarre do not engage in altercations with other species. Tahlia will be in need of our protection.”

  Drek sinks to his haunches beside the Alpha male from the Western, who cringes away. “If you follow my chosen, for any reason, supposed intended or not, I will tear the guts that have just healed out of your body and hang you with them.” Drek’s voice remains deadly with intent, never changing in modulation.

  He stands.

  The female Were crosses her arms, glaring at him with disdain. Bowen and Drek exchange a look.

  The demonic's face is hard, cunning and determined. “My subordinate is with the group that accompany your chosen.”

  Frowning, Drek says, “That is not a consideration of the Lanarre.”

  The demonic smiles. “It is to me!” he says with a hiss. In a flash, he's blurred like a red smear to the tree line and beyond. The collective gasp of the crowd is a hushed bomb of surprise.

  Drek's frown turns to a scowl. He wants nothing to do with the demonic, but he will do whatever is necessary to protect Tahlia.

  If he must dance with the devil, then he shall.

  The crowd parts as Drek and Bowen step over the fallen Alpha.

  *

  Bowen scoops the gravel from the shoulder as his nose hovers over slightly damp gravel. He sifts it between his fingers.

  “She was here.”

  Drek is impressed. He does not believe that Tahlia ever got out of the vehicle that was used in the quick exit they made from Region One. Bowen would have to smell her, layered underneath fossil fuel, manmade asphalt of indeterminate origin, forest, vegetation, and the indigenous wild animal population.

  His head turns sharply in Bowen's direction. “Do you think Tahlia might be heading toward the den?” The thought process makes sense. She's probably frightened and unsure. Seeking Drek's pack is solid thinking.

  Bowen considers, tossing the gravel away from them. “Not sure.” His wolfen snout points in a generally northwestern direction. His spinning silver eyes find Drek's. “If she does, that benefits us.”

  “But not her companions.”

  Bowen gives him a look of disbelief and a snort so finely executed, it sounds almost exactly as it would if he stood before Drek in human form. “Does that matter, really?”

  No. Yet, they somehow had a hand in Tahlia's rescue. Or Tahlia somehow helped them. Without the details, Drek is not happy dismissing their lives so quickly. And one is a female Were. He scented her. Unfortunately, the demonic, like the vampire, are scentless.

  “I suppose no,” he finally answers, “but I believe this female rogue was the one who Tahlia assisted back at the highway. And as I put the pieces together, I further postulate that the Alpha who was so neatly gutted at Region One is part of her capture. And Tahlia interrupted it.”

  “That Alpha is bad news, Drek. I don't want that following us to Lanarre country.”

  Drek sighs, knowing he should have finished gutting that one. However, it would have been cowardly to kill a defenseless Were without clear reason. And in front of witnesses, when no transgression was made against the Lanarre? No. A bad move.

  “We own the Hoh. It is ours.” He mis
ses thumping his chest by a hairsbreadth. “It is the Lanarre who has kept the western half of the United States free of problems among Lycan. The alliance between the southwestern Lanarre region through my mating with Thalia would have solidified that further.”

  “Come on, Drek. You know that's not true. There's been unrest. And I don't believe you want the ancient status quo any more than I do.”

  He gives Bowen a hard glance but keeps his misgivings to himself. Bowen is right. Small packs keep popping up. They don't feel the need to formally align with the Lanarre, preferring an outlaw lifestyle to the strength of unity. It's troubling. But that further solidifies Drek's ideas about progressing Lycan culture into a more modern direction.

  “Listen”—Bowen claps Drek on the back—“you can't take all this bullshit political evolution on as your singular mission to save everyone. You just have to make the Lanarre pack the very best of us. We worry about the rest later, yes?”

  Bowen is wise.

  Drek is fraught with obligation, responsibility, and thoughts better left unsaid and not dwelled upon.

  However, Drek does dwell. He dreams of a better life, more communicative between packs, agreement on inter-pack matings, and a cessation of rites that leave females in precarious positions of being fought over. That is not a healthy environment for perpetuating the breed.

  At least that will not be Tahlia's end. No Were would want the cast off of a prince. She can live out her life in peace, without being forced to wed Drek—if, and only if, he is able to effect change.

  Without change, the muck of tradition will weigh them down like boulders in quick sand.

  “Lead on,” Drek says.

  They run.

  *

  Drek slows, his lungs on slow-burning fire. The Hoh receives more than a hundred forty inches of rain per year, and the forest is slick with trailing moss and undergrowth.

  Wolfen flesh has a coating similar to a duck’s; the rain wets the tips, and the hair sheds the majority of the wetness. Still, the rain dampens the pair, making the travel wet and chilly, even in their partially changed forms.

  “You're rugged for a prince,” Bowen huffs as he speeds through the woods.

  Drek lets the next branch swing back. He hears it whip Bowen, who curses.

  “Kidding!” Bowen shouts from behind him.

  Drek smirks. Bowen is always poking fun.

  Loud voices in conflict reach his ears.

  “Wait!” Drek says, wrapping a long arm around a trunk to assist his slowing.

  Tahlia's sweet scent fills his nostrils, and Drek inhales deeply, relief flooding him. Nothing compares to a female of royalty, and Tahlia's safety.

  He scowls, his nose wrinkling at the second scent: one who is in heat. The odor reaches him easily—all male Were would scent the same.

  Bowen reaches him, eyes as wide as his nostrils. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yes,” Drek says.

  “Tahlia has somehow come to the pack, and another female is in her heat cycle? I'm wracking my brains, but I am certain none of our females were cycling.”

  Drek nods. Bowen is correct. He shakes his head. A female in heat? In the middle of a pack of Were? Even the Lanarre will be hard-pressed to restrain themselves. Royal lineage does not negate the primal needs of werewolves. The three Fs are in full play: feeding, fighting, and fucking.

  Bowen races ahead.

  Drek follows closely—he cannot have Tahlia in the middle of the fray. He's relieved she's safely in Lanarre territory. It was his hope that her scent would lead here.

  When he arrives in the heart of his den, his relief is short-lived.

  Tahlia is screaming, held down by three Lanarre males.

  Meanwhile, a demonic guts whoever comes within striking distance of the female he and Bowen had scented as fertile.

  His voice booms over the space, the trees shaking from the resonance of the growling timbre, “Stop!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Scott

  “Scott!” Julia says loudly.

  He blinks slowly awake. Julia's perfect face comes into focus.

  But it's her bare breasts that really get his attention.

  Her hands on his shoulders, she sighs, sitting back on her heels.

  Scott sits up, eyes pinned to her nude form.

  “Perv,” she says in a sullen voice.

  He grins, grabbing her and setting her on his lap. “What happened?”

  Julia giggles softly. “I think we blew a fuse or something.”

  Scott nods, eyebrows hiked. “Nice.”

  Champagne hair sweeps forward over her wrinkled brow. “I don't think passing out every time we have sex is all that great.”

  Scott's brows meet. “Oh, yeah. Why not?”

  He leans in, rubbing her nose with his then kissing the tip softly. “I'll pass out with you anytime.”

  “Perv,” she whispers again, but more softly this time. Her voice is edged with desire and a hint of happiness.

  “You betcha, all the way.” Scott covers her breast with his hand, and her sharp intake of air is felt in both ways, through flesh and a warm breath of air through his soul.

  Scott shudders. “I don't know how I'm going to get used to that.”

  “We will,” Julia says, snuggling deeper into his body.

  They hold each other quietly for a few minutes, saying nothing as Scott explores every inch of her skin with his palms. “I can't believe you're mine.”

  Julia nods.

  Scott feels her sadness through their link and leans back to see her face. A sheen of tears wets Julia's amber eyes. “Hey,” he says as the first one slips out. “No crying. I forbid it.”

  She laughs, nodding. “How can I be this happy when all this shit is raining down all around us?”

  “Ah,” Scott says, understanding sinking in like unwanted teeth.

  Julia disentangles from his embrace and grabs his shirt off the floor, throwing it on over her head. Julia heads to the bathroom, and Scott gives her the space. Water runs, then a toilet flushes.

  Scott stands and walks naked to the thermostat on the wall. He looks at the temperature setting. Too cold. He turns the dial up to seventy-two. Balmy. He frowns. His balls will melt off, but Julia will be toasty. Sacrifices must be made. His lips quirk as he leaves the setting warmer.

  Julia leaves the bathroom, skin flushed.

  He walks by her, trailing his fingers over her neck and down her spine as he moves to the bathroom and uses it himself.

  Water runs down the drain as Scott holds his toothbrush loosely, inspecting his face in the mirror. He doesn't know what he was expecting to see. Their soul-meld is complete, but he really doesn't feel much different. He loves Julia. He still wants to protect her. Nothing's changed.

  Everything has.

  He walks out of the bathroom, catching sight of the pensive way she's standing. “We're not going to discuss what we can't help.” As Scott walks over to Julia, her eyes dip to his hips and a deep-pink color invades her cheeks.

  Oh yeah, got my dick hanging in the wind.

  Scott grins.

  Julia blushes harder.

  This is too fun. Scott's gaze never leaves hers as he laces his fingers, placing his hands on the back of his head. Swiveling his hips, Scott whips his semi-hard-on back and forth. His cock slaps his thighs.

  Scott waggles his eyebrows.

  Julia busts out laughing, covering her mouth. “Really?”

  Scott nods. “Oh yeah—really!” he races toward her, and she squeals, turning to run.

  Scott seizes her around the waist, heaving her on the bed. She bounces once, and he's on her in a flash.

  He runs his fingers underneath his T-shirt, searching for all the obvious tender spots to torture, and soon, she's breathless with laughter.

  When his palms cover her breasts, Julia's laughter drains from her face, and serious luminous eyes regard him.

  Scott grows hard for her again as fierce possessiveness cou
rses through him.

  Julia's eyes widen. “That's how you feel about me?”

  He nods.

  “It's almost too much.” Her eyes hold fear—and wonder. Her hand rises to his face, and light fingertips trail over his day-old stubble.

  “Nah,” he says, fingering the strands of hair caught in her mouth from laughing so hard. “It's never too much.”

  “You want to own me, every bit—my mind, my body.”

  “Your soul,” Scott whispers with a seriousness he didn't know he had in him.

  Julia nods, searching his face. “That especially.”

  Scott presses his mouth to her lips. Breaking the kiss, he cocks his head, giving her hooded eyes. “Let's start on all that right now then. No better time than the present.”

  “I haven't even brushed my teeth!” Julia protests.

  His eyes narrow. “It's not your mouth that needs kissing.”

  “Oh,” Julia says in a breathy voice.

  Scott works his way down to where he just was a handful of hours before.

  Time unwinds.

  *

  “Victor is going to know we were in here humping like bunnies.” Julia covers her face, toothbrush sticking out of her kissable clean mouth.

  “Victor-smictor.” Scott shrugs, slapping her cute little round ass.

  “Hey!” Julia says through her toothpaste, but she's smiling.

  He loves to see her smile. Scott feels her every emotion down to his feet. And when they're good, they're great.

  She spits and rinses, the foamy toothpaste disappears, and she rolls her lips together, sighing in relief. “I hate a sweater on my teeth.”

  Scott laughs. “Great visual, sweetheart.” He gives her a slow wink.

  Her lips twitch as she arches a golden eyebrow. “You're so immature. Rhyming Victor's name.”

  What can I say? “Mhmm.”

  “Oh my word, what have I gotten myself into?”

  Scott turns, grabbing Julia and hiking her up by the ass. Her legs go around his waist. He groans as he gets his third boner in twenty-four hours. My dick's gonna fall off. “You're killing me, Julia.”

  “Ah, no. I'm the one who's sore, big guy.”