Demon Blessed

by Nikki Sex

  Stafford explained the pleasure in being a wolf—the innocent joy of it. He told me there are some shifters that rarely bother to change into human form. They favor the carefree life of a beast.

  “OK, then. I’ll make your apologies. I’ll go find Hope, Owen, and Toby.”

  Regarding me intently, he hesitates, uncertain.

  “You are truly the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Don’t worry about me.” I make a shooing motion with my hands. “Go. Have fun.”

  I watch him whirl around, then soundlessly sprint off—fast, and low to the ground.

  I know what it is to be a wolf. I imagine all the smells, sights, and sounds he hears. I blink with an inner vision, recalling tireless animal strength, the rich, living scent of the deep woods—the vibrant awareness of each pulse of life.

  I’ve experienced animal consciousness. I’ve dreamed that wild sense of freedom, belonging, and uncomplicated purpose. There’s an intimate, godlike connection a wolf has with the magic of this wholesome land.

  Envious and curiously bereft, I stare into the woods long after he’s gone.

  The world seems empty without Stafford.

  If only I could shift to wolf. I long to race into the forest with him.

  Chapter 42. Seer

  I stride into the lodge to find Samara smiling at me as I arrive. She’s dressed like a hippy or a new-age witch, wearing long skirts, and a white peasant blouse. “Hello, Samara, are you waiting for me?”

  “Yes, I am, actually.”

  The vast space inside the lodge echoes with silence. Except for Samara, there is an absence of pulsing, animal energy.

  I scan the room. “Where is everybody?”

  Samara has taken out her braids, her long gray-mane falls in waves. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she replies, “They’re running together as a pack. The day before the full moon, most of us prefer to rejoice in the magic lands as wolves.”

  I chuckle. “Quentin made you wait for me? What a rat. Then again, I’m glad you’re here. It might have freaked me out to see him towering here as I walked in. He’s a big, tough, scary-looking guy.”

  “I chose to wait,” she says with a smile. “Quentin takes longer to shift because he was a made werewolf. You’ll be the same. Made shifters experience pain every time they change. With me, shifting is painless and immediate. That’s because I was born a werewolf. I was born before the demon’s curse.”

  “Oh. That’s interesting. Stafford changes instantly and painlessly, though. Is that because he’s the pack alpha?”

  “No. Stafford is an exception.”

  In so many ways.

  “No one is in the lodge? No one at all? Just us newbies?”

  “Only you, Hope, Owen, and your charming dog.”

  “What happens if someone crosses over the witch’s ward during the full moon? No one will be here to greet them if everyone’s off hunting in the woods.”

  “Our Alpha closes the entry over this period. It’s shut tight right now.”

  “It is?” I experience a moment of claustrophobia. “You mean no one can leave?”

  She smiles. “You can leave anytime, but if I were you, I’d stay until after the full moon. The enchantment is closed off in one direction only. No one can enter.”

  “I see. I’m sorry you’ve been stuck delaying your celebration, on my behalf.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Well, I won’t take any more of your time. I’ll go upstairs to visit my friends. They’re probably in their rooms.”

  “I believe you are correct. Do you know the way?”

  “Yes, no problem.” I hesitate, then ask, “Samara, do you mind telling me why you appeared so surprised when you first saw Hope?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The moment you first laid eyes on Hope, I could tell she meant something to you. I don’t know if you dreamed about her, or she reminded you of someone you know. There is a reason. I’ve been trying to figure out what would make you react like that.”

  “I’ve never met Hope in my life.”

  I slant her a disappointed glance. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Samara says nothing.

  “I saw the expression on your face. You were shocked. Stunned, actually. Your emotions showed for only a second, then you hid it very well. I was watching.”

  Samara nods. Her hand reaches to touch the neck of my t-shirt. The expression in her gray eyes is an unspoken request of, May I?

  Startled, I shrug wary approval.

  Samara pulls down the collar of my shirt, enough to see the bite Stafford left on my neck. Self-conscious, I put my hand to my throat.

  “Our Alpha marked you.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I could smell it.”

  Okee dokkee, then. That’s gross. Jesus. These wolves smell everything.

  I frown. “Er…is that a problem?”

  Her lips tug up into a smile. “No, but our Alpha hasn’t marked anyone since his mate died. That was over twenty years ago.”

  Disturbed, yet flattered by the proof of his attachment to me, I reflect on this tidbit for a few heartbeats. I wonder what Samara would think if she knew he’d bound me to him?

  “We knew each other previously,” I explain. “Is the fact we sunk our teeth into each other a big thing?”

  Her eyes widen, her lips part in surprise. “You marked him, too?”

  I hesitate while I consider my reply. For all I know, swapping bites with a werewolf is like exchanging wedding vows. Just what have I gotten myself into?

  “Um…why do you ask?”

  As if unhappy to have said anything, Samara closes her mouth.

  The woman doesn’t want to talk about this, but honestly? Who cares? I’ll discuss it with Stafford, later. For now, my attention is on the possibility of danger, concerning Hope.

  “Never mind, Samara.” I exhale slowly, hiding my anxiety and frustration. “Let’s get back to the subject. Hope is particularly dear to me, as is Owen. Can you explain why you reacted that way?”

  Our eyes meet for a long moment.

  I read equivocation in hers. She reads determination in mine.

  Giving in, Samara sighs. “Come with me.”

  We walk up two flights of stairs, down a hall, and eventually arrive at double-sized oaken doors. She presses down on an elaborate iron door handle, and gestures for me to enter. I walk into one of the biggest libraries I’ve ever seen. Samara shuts the door quietly behind her.

  The vast room has a second tier, with an open balcony, displaying even more books. Directly in front of us is a large area for pleasure reading. There are dog-eared paperbacks with colorful spines, comfy couches, and so on. But there’s another, less used section, filled with leather-bound volumes.

  “You guys are not into e-readers?”

  She laughs. “Actually, we are. Spukani Lodge was built over a hundred-years ago—this library has been here from the beginning. We’ve accumulated books and records from centuries before that.”

  She takes me through a side door, down a hall. Pulling out a key from a pocket in her voluminous skirts, she unlocks another entry, then takes me into a much smaller, enclosed room.

  What an odd little chamber. The earthy smell of leather, and musty scent of aged paper assaults me. I feel as though I’ve walked into the Restricted Section in Hogwarts. My eyes take in a richly colored Persian carpet, a stuffed eagle, and a human skeleton. I don’t think people come here much.

  The volumes in here are set in leather bindings, but they’re too large for reading. They must be something else.

  Pulling one of these out, she sets it on a table. Her expression wry, she opens it to the very front page.

  It’s my turn to be stunned. “Oh, my God,” I say in a dazed whisper.

  “Just so.”

  “When did the artist draw this?”

  “Marikri was one of the greatest werewolves of our pack. She was the witch who cast the spell to p
rotect our lands over three-hundred-years ago. Not long after she joined the Spukani pack, she drew this picture.”

  I say nothing.

  Samara smiles. “Now you understand my reaction.”

  I shake my head. “Man, she was gifted.”

  “Marikri loved to paint and draw.”

  “An incredible artist, someone who saw the future, and was able to cast a spell that has sheltered so many. Astonishing achievements for one woman.”

  Samara laughs. “She was the best. Marikri changed our world. To date, there’s never been another like her.”

  “Did Marikri happen to write anything about this portrait? Maybe notes about why she drew it, who it was, and why this woman is important?”

  Samara hesitates. “She did.”

  “You’re reluctant to speak to me about it?”

  “Our Alpha will decide who should be told of the prophecy. I only disclosed this portrait to you, so you understand why I found it difficult to hide my response. I wouldn’t have shown you this, however, if Lord Stafford hadn’t marked you.”

  Lord Stafford.

  Stafford was a reluctant English lord when we first met. Fascinated with science, he’d been an avid student, bored by the aristocracy, fox hunting, and politics. To top it off, he refused his family’s choice of wife. In fact, he refused marriage all together.

  He had been a disappointment to his father.

  I always thought my interest in science came from my demon. Perhaps not. Did I acquire it from Stafford?

  With a critical eye, I study the perfectly detailed portrait of my young friend, created with watercolor. Blond-haired with profound, almond-shaped sea-green eyes—innocence and love shines from her expression.

  Marikri captured her essence, alright.

  It’s Hope’s eyes that blow me away. They’re so damned penetrating. I often find it difficult to meet her gaze.

  If a professional artist painted a portrait of Hope today—this is exactly what it would look like. I remember when Hope first came to these magic lands. I recall how she called out joyously, “This is where I belong.”

  It appears as though my young friend knew exactly what she was talking about.

  Samara says suddenly, “You’ll be interested to see something else. I’d forgotten about this particular sketch—” Samara carefully turns more pages.

  As she begins to leaf through the volume, I see various illustrations, all without color. These are rough sketches; the kind of preliminary drawings an artist might make in preparation for either a painting or a more formal study. Created using pencil, charcoal or ink, they capture the mood and personality of the subjects.

  “Earlier today, I was looking through this record again.” A wry smile glitters in her eyes, transforming her face with humor. Something has both amused and bemused her. “You won’t believe what I found.”

  I tilt my head, find myself smiling back at her. “Okaaayyy.”

  Samara nods. “Here it is.”

  She turns a few pages. I see different types of plants and animals. My eyes zero in to a picture of a springer spaniel. It’s a medium sized animal with big paws, expressive eyes, long-hanging ears, and a docked tail. Drawn in charcoal, there are no colors, but the shading is distinctive.

  This dog is white with darker markings on his brows, cheeks, and hind end. Red patterns are what Marikri must have seen in her mind.

  It’s what I see every day.

  “That’s my dog,” I whisper.

  Samara nods. “I agree.”

  It’s Toby, alright. The artist nailed my dog’s personality completely, including the sardonic human stare Toby often regards me with. As if he finds me amusing. As though he’s astonished I somehow managed to get through life without him.

  I’m just getting over these bombshells when I glance lower to observe sketches half the size of the drawing of my dog. These are more detailed exact images of three young women and two young men. Their pictures are set in a dark, dark circle. Heavily shaded, each face seems tightly bound together.

  No! It can’t be!

  My heart rate spikes. Samara—a shifter with acute hearing, tilts her head, studies me curiously.

  I minimize my shock with a shrug. “It freaks me out a little to think that three-hundred years ago someone drew a sketch of my dog.”

  Samara nods her understanding.

  Why is this illustration of Toby here? To draw my attention lower, perhaps? I take one more surreptitious look at the facial representations just below the springer spaniel sketch.

  Five small portraits grouped together.

  Why five?

  One portrait I recognize without a doubt. I can’t help but wonder, did the artist draw this with me in mind. Is it a hint? A clue? A warning? Some sort of message she wanted only me to see?

  All five have flat, wide faces, short necks, and slanted eyes. Each of them has the classic features of Down syndrome.

  One is an exact picture of what Hope looked like before my demon changed her.

  Chapter 43. Full Moon

  I wake at first light. The sky is a perfect blue, with a few stars still visible before the fullness of dawn.

  I love this peaceful, magical world.

  Frowning, I regard my huge bed. I’m disappointed I ended up sleeping alone. I was looking forward to cuddling with the wolf. Maybe wolves don’t sleep with humans, after all. On the way back from Coquitlam, Stafford hadn’t been in human form, so he hadn’t been able to discuss it with me.

  Hope and Owen had been in buoyant good spirits last night. They’re excited to be introduced to their inner beasts, to feel them, be them—galloping around on all fours. We spent some time discussing how much fun it would be to have skin covered in fur, to have a tail, to scent rabbits.

  They both also gushed about how friendly everyone was. The people here have been amazingly welcoming. Hope and Owen have never felt so wanted.

  It’s no surprise—not every wolf here has a mate. I’m sure there will be a lot of interest in the fresh new faces that have abruptly arrived in their midst. Considering the circumstances, perhaps I should say fresh meat?

  What a terrible joke. I’m an awful person.

  The accommodations are generous, modern, and practical. All our bedrooms have a refrigerator, TV, DVD player, a compact kitchen, and two king-size beds. Like me, Hope and Owen have been given rooms of their own. While they unpacked their clothes, and accepted both rooms, last night Owen slept in the same bedroom as Hope.

  Hope’s “big” little brother is reluctant to let pipsqueak out of his sight. I love watching the two of them together. Their relationship is not so much brother and sister—although there is that. They’re best friends, yet friendship is not what shines between them when they’re together.

  What they have is more like unconditional love, combined with mutual admiration. Maybe even adoration.

  Owen has been on a high ever since Hope was changed. He thanks God every day. While he personally never saw a flaw in her when she had Down syndrome, it hurt him that she had never been accepted by their father.

  Sometimes I worry she’ll wake up one morning to find she has Down syndrome once more. Magic can be wild, random, and unpredictable. What if my demon is discovered and I am killed? Then will she revert?

  I sigh and decide not to borrow trouble. I have enough problems without looking for more. Besides, would I care if I’m dead? On the other hand, maybe I’ll become a ghost and follow Hope around, constantly worrying if she’s OK. Even worse, maybe my demon will, too.

  There’s an appalling thought.

  I asked Hope and Owen to keep Toby with them last night with the expectation I’d be visited by Stafford’s beast. I’ve cuddled into Toby many times, but in preference to a good night sleep, I always draw the line at welcoming him into my bed.

  I would’ve savored a night of snuggling up with a wondrous, magical wolf.

  Stafford.

  The thought of him in any form spikes my heart rat
e. I wonder what he learned about the scents near the dumpster? Did he recognize the wolf who attacked my friends?

  I pick up the educational DVD left for me to watch. I may as well do my homework before I go down for breakfast.

  Hope and Owen have watched it twice.

  I turn on the TV, load the DVD, and press play. A small unnamed manual goes with the DVD. It’s filled with pictures, advice, and lycanthrope laws.

  The DVD starts with recordings of born shifters, transforming into their wolf form in under a minute. They fast-forward the change for made shifters. It looks painful, and clearly takes ages. Over the years made weres can speed the process to ten minutes.

  If a werewolf doesn’t want their clothes shredded—they need to remove their garments before they shift to their alternate form.

  There’s no title on the manual or DVD. If it were up to me I’d call it “Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Being a Werewolf, And Some Things You Didn’t Want to Know, Too.”

  I snicker as an avalanche of silly titles roll through my mind. “Release Your Inner Werewolf.” Or perhaps “Now you see wolves—now you don’t.” “HOWL 101—Introduction to Basic Werewolfery.” Maybe: “Do's and Don't's for The New Lycanthrope.”

  As I watch, I’m impressed. This movie is like a kindergarten trainer—super basic, with lots, and lots of demos. Maybe it should be called, “Becoming a Werewolf for Dummies.” Or as a Jack and Jill primer, in verse:

  See Jack turn into a wolf.

  Gosh, that looks like it hurts!

  Don’t worry, Jack, you’re not dying,

  The first time is the worst.

  The DVD, while full of interesting information, is also a dedicated sales pitch. Clearly sensitives who cross the witch’s barrier are being actively recruited. If a visitor hasn’t been bitten, they have a choice.

  It’s so strange to watch this. I can’t help but giggle. This is the soft sell to become a wolf, but once they get their teeth into you…

  I wonder if vampires have something similar? Somehow, I doubt it. I rather suspect they simply take who they want.

  Numerous advantages to becoming a shifter are emphasized, such as longer life, greater strength, no illnesses, and the inability to contract diseases. Both born and made shifters describe the joy they find in their wolf form.