Lilith Mercury, Werewolf Hunter Series (Boxed Set, Books 1-3)

by Tracey H. Kitts

  However, I sympathized with Peter, as I later came to sympathize with his wife. Does it really matter if Peter was hers in the end, when he was mine first; when a part of him would always be mine, a part she was not capable of touching? At least Peter had been man enough to say goodbye. I would always love him for it. I didn’t really miss Bradley, for I saw him as he truly was before he left. I was glad to be rid of someone like him, it just ... hurt. My love and my trust had been abused by someone who was unworthy of them both. I found myself wondering if what I felt for Alfred was something more than friendship. “And,” I asked myself, “does it matter if Marcy has him, knowing it’s me he cares for?”

  “Yes,” I answered out loud, “it does.”

  The beautiful summer day had begun to turn as ugly as my mood. Through the doors to the balcony, dark clouds could be seen gathering. Technically, it was still spring, but when the temperature reached nearly eighty degrees every day, I called it summer. That’s the only thing about Florida I wasn’t fond of. I did not deal well with the heat. But, you can’t have everything, and living in the middle of nowhere, with almost no neighbors, I was probably surrounded by some of God’s best art work. As I walked out onto the balcony, surrounded by deep red roses, I marveled at the fact that there were people who did not believe in the existence of a higher power. I watched the storm clouds rumble and swirl, looking like a bruise mingling with the blue of the sky. I had the urge to get a blank canvas and some paint. Yes, God existed, and he was an artist. In my opinion, anyone who doubted that need only watch one sunset. Every day the countryside around me was painted with the same masterful hand in a slightly different portrait.

  The first few rain drops began to fall around me, making the roses look like bobbing little red heads as the rain bounced from their petals. I closed my eyes, tilted back my head and let the rain wash away the bad memories. After a minute or two of the refreshing downpour, I stepped inside and made my way to the shower. The upstairs bathroom is huge. There’s an alcove in the corner that hides the walk-in shower with a wall made of large river rock. I shed my wet clothes, throwing them onto a mat so as not to damage the wood floor.

  The shock of the hot water on my skin after the cool rain was surprisingly pleasant. I looked out the small octagon shaped window to my right, watching the rain slide down the glass. I needed to talk to my father. Talking to him always helped to put things in perspective. I dried off quickly, put on my robe, and began looking for my communicator.

  My father was on planet Terra. He went back and forth as his job required and at the moment, it required him to be there. I sat down at the writing desk, making sure my robe was closed up to my chin. My father knew I wasn’t a saint, but there was no reason to look trashy. I pushed the red button on the small communicator and watched as my father’s image projected into midair before me. He was cooking French toast.

  “Hey,” he said, dropping his spatula on the floor.

  “Hey, Daddy. Do you have a minute?”

  “Yeah,” he picked up the spatula, flinging it into the sink behind him. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” he added, sitting at the table so I could get a better look at him. Jacob Ellis Mercury was fifty-one years old, but he didn’t look it. The streak of white hair on the chin of his otherwise red beard was the only indication he was over thirty-five.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, apparently getting a better look at me, too.

  “Bad day.”

  He smiled in a way that said he remembered exactly what my bad days normally consisted of. “Someone pissed you off, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I laughed, feeling better already. “I’ll get over it. What did you need to talk to me about?”

  “Barak.” He said the name as if he were referring to a cockroach.

  “Why, what’s he done?”

  “Remember the crap he gave you about equal rights?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, he’s asking for permission to speak before the council.”

  “The Wizard Council?” I said, disbelieving Marco would go that far.

  “That’s right. Won’t say what it’s all about, though.”

  “He’d need a special escort even to be allowed back on the planet.”

  We both paused, considering the situation. I spoke first. “Do you think he’ll get it? Permission to speak to the council?”

  “I’m not sure, but if he does, I’m damn sure gonna know what he says.” He held up what looked like a small blue dragonfly.

  “A bug?” I asked.

  “In more than one sense of the word.” He smiled.

  “Won’t that look odd, a blue dragonfly on the wall?”

  “Not really. The woods around the Council Tower are enchanted. There’s all sorts of weird things in there. No one will notice a blue dragonfly.” He looked very pleased with himself and I had to admit it was a good idea. Neither of us was sure what it would mean if Marco spoke to the council about equal rights for werewolves. How would that change the job of The Hunters? Better yet, how would that change the lives of those people on Earth who were lycanthropes?

  The President of the United States as well as other world leaders had all known of our existence for some time. But this, like so many other things, had been kept from the public. If the Wizard Council agreed to equal treatment of lycanthropes, other world leaders would be hard pressed to find a reason to disagree, at least on Terra. Earth was another story. There were remote places where The Hunters had not been allowed, letting the werewolf population run unchecked. Lycanthropes would still need to be governed by some laws that would not apply to ordinary people. But, as my father said, “That’s for people with more authority than you and me to decide.” He was right, and it would do no good to worry. It sometimes took months for the council to decide if they would even allow someone to speak, let alone side one way or another. Wizards did not get in a hurry.

  Most of this world was shaped by wizards, though almost no one is aware of the fact. There have actually been many famous wizards on Earth. Only seven wizards are born every century, with most living close to one thousand years. Three of these seven will serve on the council for their lifetime, however long that might be. Council members are elected by the public. Only two wizards were ever known to refuse the office, until recently. Methuselah was the first, and everyone has heard of Merlin.

  The most recent wizard to refuse the office was Alek Ambrose, whose name, roughly translated means, “the immortal protector of mankind.” Ambrose was famous for defeating the goblin army created by the dark wizard, Tavarius Maeryn, in his youth. It was a surprise when he turned down the appointment. To have such a powerful wizard remain neutral could be dangerous.

  Julius Caesar was descended from wizards. Even Cleopatra was rumored to have been a sorceress. Science and the unexplainable have lived side by side as far back as recorded history. In the past, wizards played an important role in many cultures, before society developed a need for scientific explanations. Science has not yet been able to explain the power of wizards. It’s sort of like trying to explain how God created the heavens and the earth, people will always disagree. Some theorize that wizards derive their power from extreme psychic ability, others say it’s magic. However you want to look at it, wizards simply are what they are. People have always mistrusted someone different, instinctively fearing what they cannot rationally explain. In this case, however, their fears are not entirely unfounded.

  One of the most truly evil wizards in our history, Ulric Weylin, was closely associated with Lionel Ferdinand, the creator of the lycanthropy virus. It was speculated that science would never find a cure for something the wizard likely had a hand in. There is no vaccine for black magic. All attempts at vaccination have only spread the virus further. Just like some people develop the flu from a shot, nearly everyone vaccinated contracted lycanthropy.

  Much of the population of Terra has some psychic ability, or knows someone who does. Nothing extreme, just some flicker of abi
lity. Because of this, their distrust has never extended to psychics, though on Earth, anyone calling themselves a psychic is pretty much a joke.

  I felt better after talking things over with my father, but I was no closer to being able to clear my head. My mind was flooded with images of things not found even in the Kama Sutra. I knew my thoughts of Marco were completely inappropriate, but that didn’t stop me from thinking them. As much as he wanted to deny being an animal, when it came down to brass tacks, he was as alpha male as they came ... and that just turned me on. Maybe my attraction to power had something to do with being a woman. Or maybe, as much as I denied it, I was close enough to being an alpha female that he simply had that effect on me. Either way, I needed to do something to get Marco out of my head.

  I love art, in all of its many forms. Drawing in particular has always been a great way for me to relax. Sometimes, if I can get my thoughts on paper, I can get them out of my head. Bearing that hope in mind, I collected my sketchbook from its shelf, along with the small bag where I kept my many assorted color pencils, turned on some music, and began to sketch.

  The images that had plagued my mind for days began to take their erotic forms on the velum before me. In my mind, I pictured everything I’d seen of Marco that night, and everything I hadn’t. My darkest fantasies took the shape of sordid graphite images, Marco chained to the chair, tied naked and helpless in a dungeon somewhere, kneeling like a slave before me.

  Of course, no one would ever see these except me, so I gave my imagination free reign over my hands. One picture consisted of nothing but his chest with my hands pressed against him. My hand worked as if it had a mind of its own. The more I sketched, the better I felt. I suppose it was like telling a counselor all of your problems, or talking to a really good friend. I just felt better getting these pictures out of my head.

  As I stood up to stretch my legs, I decided it was time for a change in my musical accoutrement. I looked over my assorted CDs, stopping finally on a mix I had labeled, “favorites.” The first song that began to play was an oldie from the seventies. It was about a couple finally consummating their relationship and the rough, sexy voice of the singer did it for me. I had always liked the song, but something came over me that evening. I sat down, searching for a pencil that didn’t need sharpening. I had seen something I had to capture before the image was gone.

  I began sketching frantically, trying to get on paper what I saw. My hand moved wildly over the page. As the image began to form, I saw a man, a handsome man whom I’d never seen before. His hair was somewhat wild, his eyebrows thick, and even though I drew in black and white, I knew he was blond. His eyes that I drew with a detail which had previously eluded me, were brown. I could not picture his body, just his face. He had a long almost aquiline nose that cast a slight shadow over his lips, which seemed to be pursed in thought. He had fine lines around his eyes and mouth, which gave some indication that he was at least middle aged.

  I sat back and looked at the picture in amazement. It was not unusual for me to see things in my dreams, but something like this had never happened to me before. I wasn’t sure what to think, or what it might mean. But I knew eventually, this man would mean something to me. It was odd. I sat staring down at the face looking back at me, and I knew him, though I’d never met him. I don’t believe in past lives, and I’d never seen this face before in my dreams. I was at a loss.

  By then, the hour was late, and I was very tired. I decided to put the drawings away, and think about it all another time. I looked over at the ornate iron clock hanging on my wall. It was two thirty in the morning. No wonder I was tired. I collected the many sketches and pencils that were scattered across the bed and placed them on my writing desk.

  I slid between the silk sheets, staring at the sheer red hangings draped above my four poster bed. I didn’t like the idea of bed hangings that would completely obstruct my view so I had long pieces of sheer fabric loosely wrapped around the iron bars that connected above the bed. It gave the room a dramatic flair that I loved. The first time Kathryn had seen the room after I redecorated, she described it as “a romantic mix between Victorian elegance and a medieval dungeon.” I’d say her description was pretty accurate.

  No matter how long I lay there, or how hard I tried to rest, the comforting arms of sleep would not embrace me. At about three o’clock, I gave up and decided to have a cup of tea. The air seemed cooler after the rain. I figured I would need to wear something more than my robe downstairs. I went to the chest of drawers and took out some black silk pajamas. My favorite color is purple, but no one could guess that from my wardrobe.

  My room had been decorated in different shades of purple before the dramatic red. I was ready for a change. Kat said I was projecting the romance I wasn’t getting in my life onto my bedroom. She was probably right.

  As I crossed the foyer I noticed the kitchen light was already on. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. After walking out earlier that day when Alfred had so obviously wanted to argue, I was almost afraid to be alone with him. But, I’d be damned if I was going to be intimidated out of my own kitchen.

  I found Alfred sitting at the table, reading one of my books of poetry and enjoying what smelled like English tea. A bowl of strawberries and cream sat on the table untouched. He didn’t notice me at first, which gave me the opportunity to appreciate how good he looked. He was wearing gold satin pajamas which went well with the caramel of his skin. I had worn black fuzzy slippers, but I noticed Alfred’s feet were bare. I’d never known Alfred to wear slippers, but watching him that night, the sight of his bare feet seemed more intimate somehow. His hair was tousled, looking as though he had tried to sleep, but the circles underneath his eyes told me he’d had about as much success with sleeping as I had.

  He was either oblivious to the fact that someone else was in the room, or he was deliberately ignoring me. Since he was reading my poetry, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I sat across from him, noticing the slight smile that had begun to play across his lips. “This is quite good,” he said without looking up.

  “You knew I was here?”

  He looked at me then, with the same half smile as he said, “Of course. I just wondered how long you were planning to stand there watching me.” He sighed, placing the book on the table, his smile beginning to fade. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

  “No.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. Obviously telling him how Marco had haunted my thoughts was out of the question. I almost mentioned the other picture I’d drawn that night, the handsome man with kind eyes, but it seemed somehow wrong to discuss the drawing with Alfred.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  “Honestly? I’m not sure where to start.”

  “You can’t keep pretending I’m not here, Lilith. I’m not stupid. You’ve been avoiding me for weeks now.”

  “You didn’t exactly make yourself available either,” I accused.

  “Why should I? Do you realize how many times I tried to speak to you and you didn’t even look at me?”

  Ouch. Had I been that distant? I wasn’t ready to discuss my feelings with Alfred, but I hadn’t meant to be so cold. “I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I’ve been dealing with ... some things. I never meant to take it out on you.”

  He seemed to consider what I’d just said. “Would it help if you talked about it?”

  “There are some things that I’m not sure I can say to you.”

  “What about Kathryn?”

  I laughed. “Kat’s solution to everything is for me to get enough of my brains screwed out that I can’t think straight enough to worry.”

  He laughed softly and I realized I had never fully appreciated the deep subtle quality of Alfred’s voice. I think I might have blocked it out in an effort to protect myself. I was so afraid of falling, only to find there was nothing to catch me but the cold, hard ground. I leaned forward over the table, looking deeply into Alfred’s eyes. I could see he ge
nuinely wanted to understand. I had an idea, but I wasn’t sure if it would work.

  Chapter Five

  “Do you remember the guy I was dating when I was attacked?” I asked, sliding back into my seat.

  His eyebrows drew closer in concentration. “Peter?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes, I remember him. He was John’s son wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I said my voice unable to hide the sorrow that even the mention of Peter caused. John had worked with my father, also, once upon a time. He was killed by a pack of werewolves only six months before my attack. I looked up into Alfred’s eyes and found them full of compassion. It was more than I could take. I moved into the seat closest to him, reached over and took his hand in mine.

  “There are things that I never told you,” I began, “things that I never told anybody, even Kat.” I looked down at the hand I held between both of my own, lightly caressing the calluses on his knuckles. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”

  “All right,” he said, as if unsure what his response should be.

  Without waiting for further permission, I grasped Alfred’s hand tightly and forced myself to remember Peter. I saw him just as he had looked almost ten years ago. I remembered the way my heart fluttered to look at him, standing outside one summer afternoon. His light blond hair blowing in the breeze, his sky blue eyes sparkling with a joke that I couldn’t remember. I recalled how happy it made me just to be near him. Every time he smiled at me, the world seemed to be a better place. I loved him so deeply, so passionately, that it hurt to breathe. I took those strong emotions, those memories and I pushed them with my mind, through my hand and into Alfred.

  The memory of the night Peter turned on me played itself out in my mind as if it were yesterday. At last, Alfred knew what it felt like to be called a monster. I let him feel my memory of being afraid that the world would end and I would have never known love. Then I remembered another face, one without fond memories attached. I let him see the girl Peter had married and how strongly she resembled Marcy Johnson. I remembered the way I had felt when I learned of Peter’s engagement. No one had the balls to tell me. I had to read it in the paper. It felt like someone had hit me. I remembered the picture of their smiling faces looking back, mocking me from page five of the local news. I knew they were dating. It had been five years since my attack when Peter got married. But seeing it there in plain black and white brought home more than ever that he would never be mine again. I took my rage, my unfulfilled need to cause someone else to hurt as badly as I did, and flung it at Alfred.