She puts her hands on her hips, hazel eyes flashing. “And this too shall pass? Pfft!”
She stomps away, and Slash follows her. Each step he takes is agony. Slash returns to his human form and scents for food.
He scents nothing he can hunt without shifting again, and he's out of steam. His mate is in heat, and Slash doesn't think he's seen the last of her temper after their misunderstanding.
Adrianna suddenly whirls, and the small hairs of his body rise in response to her beast—and her heat. Slash stifles a groan. Regardless of how beat he is, his beast senses his mate's hunger.
“You took us away from the rain forest?”
Slash nods. They don't need to travel deeper into Lanarre territory. What they would do to him for killing the Lanarre would be slow and without mercy.
Adrianna takes his hands. “I'm still so pissed at you, I could spit.”
Slash has only silence.
“But—” She gives him troubled eyes. “I guess what you said makes sense. I would have never left you otherwise.”
“I know,” Slash says.
They smile cautiously at each other. “But what about my heat?”
Slash wearily swipes his head with a hand. “It's not typical. However, it was probably our coming together that caused it.”
“I'm young for heat, Slash.”
He nods and pulls her to him, wrapping his arms around her.
“Can't we just—you know—not.”
He chuckles. “I'm afraid not. I couldn't keep my hands off you if I tried.”
Adrianna's eyes fill with tears, but she doesn't cry. “I'm too young to have a whelp, Slash.”
He cups her chin. “You were not too young to become my mate or share your body with me.”
High color floods her cheeks. “You got me there.”
“It's not about ʻgetting you.ʼ” Slash lets his hand drop, and he stares off into the woods, his eyes searching the pockets of gloom. “It's that we're mature enough. And for whatever reason, our union was strong. We complement each other well, or this would not have triggered such a response.”
“You're the old guy. I'm just a young pup.”
Slash had felt guilty about that. But no more. She pursued him. He fought it. Fought his feelings and desire. Fought his lack of confidence over his attractiveness. Finally, she'd convinced him.
In all the years of Slash's life, he'd never been moved to have a mate. And when he was, she's been barely out of whelphood and was the most stubborn, mouthy female he'd ever met. Slash was reticent in comparison. What did the humans say? Ah yes: opposites attract.
No shit.
“Hey,” Adrianna calls softly, startling Slash from his thoughts.
He grabs her hand and lifts it, kissing the layer of skin that is grimy from their trek through the woods—and their killing.
“I'm not going to just hump right now out in the woods. I don't care if my crotch goes up in flames.” She crosses her arms, and Slash barks out a laugh.
“I think I might be able to restrain myself just long enough to find shelter.” His lips tilt.
Adrianna runs her finger over the worst of his scar—the one that mars his lips—and he allows it. No one but him has ever touched his scar.
“When did this happen?”
Slash's smile fades. He figured he would have to tell her sooner or later. “It was a war between Lanarre and Were. It's when their dominance was firmly established.” Slash laughs, but it's hollow inside the thick woods.
“I assumed the Lanarre have always been top of the food chain.”
Slash widens his stance, crossing his arms and tucking his palms underneath his biceps. He rolls his lips together, absently bending the small ball of scar tissue between his lips.
“Slash.”
He looks up. “Sorry. I'm scattered.” He taps his temple, procrastinating the storytelling.
“The Lanarre are really no more than the strongest of us. This was well before your time, but it shows a lack of historic study of Lycan.”
Adrianna nods. “So shoot me. Not into books.”
The corner of Slash's lips turn up. So young. “Packs of Lycans would gravitate toward similar werewolves. Before we knew it, the weak congregated with each other—”
“And so did the strong,” Adrianna finished, understanding flooding her features.
He pointed at her. “Exactly.” He chops his hands away from his body, “So females began to become sick. Too much interbreeding of the same types of animal. Diversity was lost.”
A sick expression pastes itself on Adrianna's face.
“The males didn't thrive, but they weren't so easily taken by death.”
Slash meets her eyes significantly.
“That's when our females became scarce.”
Slash nods. “It was the malesʼ faults for not recognizing the problem and putting a protocol of prevention in place soon enough.” Slash feels his face screw up in disgust.
Adrianna is uncharacteristically quiet.
“When the Reds found that they were down to only a few viable females, we knew that we needed to refresh the gene pool.”
Adrianna leans forward, and Slash squeezes her shoulder. She shivers. A wave of need rolls through them.
Slash gasps as though warm bathwater has been poured over him.
He clenches his teeth. “Adi.”
She shivers again. “Can't help it—and can I just say how weird it is that you call me that?”
Slash shakes his head as though he can shake off her heat. The strongest of the sensation subsides, but a residue lingers like an electrical charge over his skin.
They let a minute pass. Finally, Slash thinks he can speak. “When talk reached us of the Lanarre hoarding females, at first we didn't think it was possible.”
Adrianna stares at him, eyes wide.
“All of us, from Alaska, from here, converged on the various Lycan packs.”
“How many?” she asks.
Slash's eyes go wolfen. “All.”
“The Great Massacre.”
Slash gives her a slight nod.
Adrianna searches his face. “Even I know of that. They used liquid silver on their own kind.”
His smile is sardonic, his finger traces part of the scar of his face. Her eyes track the movement. “Anything to protect their females.”
“But they wouldn't be protecting us. They'd be keeping us,” Adrianna says, hand to chest.
Slash nods. A soft prison is still a prison.
Adrianna approaches him. He doesn't flinch when she lightly follows the worst of the scarring. Her finger runs from the small bumpy line that bisects his eyebrow, narrowly missing his eye then resurfacing like a jagged lightning strike at the highest bridge of his cheekbone, where it swoops to make a curling small knot of flesh at his cupid's bow.
Her fingers feather against his lips. “You didn't die.”
“No.” He smiles beneath her touch, chuckling softly.
Adrianna punches him, and he catches her wrist before her fist lands.
“Come here.” Slash jerks her to him and plants his mouth against hers.
Adrianna molds her body to his, and Slash is soft and tender against her.
Only her.
*
“Oh my Moon! When will we get there?”
Slash stifles an irritated sigh. Sometimes Adrianna reminds him of her youth when he knew her as a whelp.
They trudge through the deepest part of the forest.
He stays her with a hand. “Do you see that?”
Adrianna scans the darkness, eyes narrowing. She finally sights what he already has. “That creepy Hansel and Gretel cottage? Yeah,” she says with exaggerated slowness.
Slash turns to her. “We must find shelter.”
Adrianna blushes, looking properly chastised. But her vague sadness pulls at him.
“Heart of my heart,” Slash says, placing his palm on her chest as he recites the ancient words of his kind.
Adrianna covers his hand with her own. “Soul of my soul.”
“What harms you, harms me.”
Adrianna's shoulders slump. “Fine. When you entreat the ancient words, only a real douche wouldn't reply.”
Slash grins suddenly. Sometimes it's not bad to be almost four hundred years old.
“I'm thinking about the nurse, Jenni.” Adi bites her lip.
“Let's walk to the little house as you share your troubles.” Slash holds out his palm.
She sighs but takes his hand. His wolf notices her nearness and touch. His beast roils beneath Slash's flesh uncomfortably. The urge to breed is unbearable, like an itch that is just out of reach of being scratched.
They move down a little slope where the trees thin, only to climb back up a gentle knoll. When they reach the top, the small dark cottage stands at odds with the surrounding forest.
Adrianna draws closer to Slash without being aware. He strokes the back of her hand with his thumb.
“I might have turned Jenni, and she's got no guidance. She might be wolfing around somewhere without a clue.”
Slash is half-listening. He does care about Adrianna's thoughts and self-doubts. But the male in him is uneasy.
Slash has not lived this long without listening to his instincts.
He steps forward to the broad, well-worn steps. They're unusually wide, given the small scale of the house. Slash notes old dirt and a general absence of habitation.
“I just bit her, and poof!” Adrianna's free hand swings up. “I don't know for sure if she lived or died.”
“Or crawled away to lick her wounds,” Slash says absently as he fingers the large pole that anchors the top of the steps.
Adrianna slaps his back, and he barely feels it. “You're not listening!”
He steps onto the porch. The old wood tongue-in-groove slats are edged with moss, slowly succumbing to the elements in their damp climate.
“What you should really ask yourself is what are the ramifications your bite might have while you're in heat.”
“What?!” Adrianna shrieks.
Slash covers her mouth with his hand, pulling her tight against his chest. His skin crawls. His eyes chase over the tops of ground-hugging ferns, moss, and discarded pinecones from trees that perpetuate life from the earth. The thick greenery suffocates the strangled moonlight.
His pupils dilate to access whatever light is available.
Nothing.
He slowly removes his hand, and Adrianna opens his mouth. Slash shakes his head, putting a finger to his lips. Her eyebrows whip up. But she's quiet, looking around the immediate vicinity. The forest is silent.
Too silent.
“I don't like it,” Adrianna whispers.
Slash gives her a cautioning look but wraps his fingers around her arm. With a jerk of his chin, he indicates the door.
Adrianna gives one more glance around the dim woods, the light eaten by the high canopy, and derelict moonlight, then she follows Slash.
He places his hand on the knob, old tin with a beaded perimeter, and turns the handle.
The door swings open on well-oiled hinges.
Twin barrels of a shotgun ease into his face from about a foot away. “Step closer, and I'll decorate my walls with your brains.”
Slash freezes.
Adrianna yelps.
The old woman with the gun chuckles. “Well, that ward didn't hold worth a damn. Come in, lovebirds.” She snorts. “Or are you waiting for some trolls to come knocking, eh?”
Slash stupidly holds his position, stunned. What creature is this?
“Are ya daft?” She cocks an eyebrow to her snow-white hairline. “I said to come inside. I don't invite twice, Red.”
Her bushy brows drop as she gives him the best evil eye he's ever received.
Slash gives a pointed look at the shotgun.
“Ah!” she says, chortling. “It's not loaded! If it comes to shooting ne'er–do–wells, all hope is lost.”
“Why?” Adrianna asks with uncharacteristic timidity.
The old woman rolls to her toes, trying to catch a glimpse of Adrianna. Slash moves her behind him.
Her eyes move over the two knowingly. “You're no threat. No you're not.”
Slash is puzzled but unwilling to let his guard down completely.
Her chest puffs up, and she moves swiftly around Slash, who angles Adrianna away, facing her the entire time. She rests the shotgun behind the door with the butt down and kicks the door closed.
A solid brass bar falls down into a crooked little holder nailed into the wood casing.
“Who are you?” Adrianna asks.
Who indeed?
“Nosey, aren't ya? You come to my house—uninvited—and think to just barge in—”
“We didn't think it was occupied,” Adrianna said.
“Well it is, isn't it, Were female?”
She turns, showing them her back, and shuffles quickly to a stove where a kettle brews. Steam evaporates as quickly as it rises. She turns, cocking an eyebrow, and puffs out an irritated breath.
“I'm a witch, girl. And you're on private property.”
Easy to remedy. “We will leave.”
“Can't.” She says the one word as both answer and command.
The hair on his nape rises. “Why not?”
“Did ya hear me? I know a Red Were such as yourself hears better than me. The trolls, fool. You didn't sense them when you and your woman were flouncing around, making a racket that led straight to my door?”
Slash can feel Adrianna's pulse through their threaded fingers. “This is the Hansel and Gretel house. We're screwed.”
The witch's face changes, smoothing into a grin. “I haven't heard mention of that in years.” She gives a little sigh, as though nostalgic.
“So you eat kids?” Adrianna asks only a little in jest.
She shakes her head while Slash sizes up their chances of escape.
“No. That's another witch.”
Adrianna's grip becomes crushing.
“Then what do you eat?”
The witch puts her hands at her hips, a long skirt hiding her fingers. “Food.”
“Like people?”
Her nose scrunches up. “No, I'm a good witch. As good as the two of you are.”
Slash is skeptical of that claim. And if she knew of his transgressions, she might be less forgiving.
The witch narrows her eyes at them. “I smell death on you, Were. But rightful death carries a different scent than wrongful, yes?”
Slash nods slowly. Wise words.
“The two of you crossed a ward I've had in place since I could hardly hold a wand.”
“You use a wand?” Adrianna asks.
Her face tightens. “What do you take me for? A novice? Of course I don't need a wand anymore.”
“Sorry,” Adrianna says, and Slash bites back a laugh.
“So how did we get past the ward?”
The witch gives them a sly glance, full of confidence and something else that makes Slash uneasy.
“True love.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Julia
Two weeks later
Julia blinks, and before she knows what's happening, Jen has dressed her in a gauzy dress of deep cream bordering on yellow. Beads of glass grace the square neckline and cup the outside of her shoulders. Her hair is elaborately pinned up at the crown of her head with half hanging down between her shoulders in loose curls.
When she's breathed through her nerves, she descends the winding staircase in the mansion.
Scott is waiting at the bottom.
His broad shoulders strain against a tailored snowy-white button-down shirt, such a perfect contrast to his dark hair and eyes. A crisp bowtie graces his throat. Black pants encase slim hips and long legs.
He isn't wearing a coat.
Scott is so handsome, Julia gets a lump in her throat. Holding back tears, she admires her creamy satin heels, feeling so overwhelmed.
Then his arms are around her. Scott lifts her off the floor and holds her against him. Subtle fragrance of spicy male and Scott's unique scent floods her nose, and he lets her slip down his front.
She turns in his arms, looking around her and blinking rapidly to expel her laughter. Tears.
Shock.
All the Singers who lived through the genocide have gathered. New faces mingle with familiar ones, and a sigh slides between her lips. Small children, though there aren't many, try their best for quiet. But babies still squall, and mothers silence them with a kiss or a word.
Julia's at a lost, but Cyn nails it.
“Wow,” she says reverently.
“When did all this happen?” Julia asks Scott. She can feel his pride swell inside her, brimming over from his own emotional grid to her own. His thoughts mingle with hers, and she takes his hand.
They did this for us, Julia sends them through the bridge of their meld.
Scott nods.
The edge of day burns into night. Small twinkling lights are strung from both corners of the broad front porch to tall softly illuminated lamps piercing the ground. Each lamp holds a glass oblong light. Many children hold the last of summer's wildflowers in lazy bouquets of drooping petals in every color of the rainbow.
Scott's hold tightens on her hand.
“This is all for us,” Julia says in wonder.
Scott nods. “It's about time.”
Julia couldn't have married Scott when she was married to Jason. Their rules are different. They'd allow so much because of the fact that she was the Rare One, but in her heart, Julia was still human, still culturally bound to the principles she was brought up with.
A sudden thought occurs to her, and she turns to Scott. “Do Singers really get married?” She'd heard the term joining, but never marriage, as humans thought of it. As Julia had.
His smile is crooked, and Julia narrows her eyes. “Tell me.”
He frowns. “We handfast.”
Handfast. Julia smiles at the term as voices in the crowd softly swell.
“Isn't that kinda medieval?” Cyn asks quietly as she surveys the assembled crowd, and Julia laughs. “I don't know, really.”
“Yes,” Scott says, “definitely ancient.”
I guess for Singers, everything is about tradition.
“You look gorgeous, Jules,” Cyn says.
Blood Enchantment Page 20
