Compared to the other homes we passed, the expansive three-story structure looked like Santa’s sleigh crashed into the side of the house and the cheerful contents from his bag were discarded everywhere. A grin filled my face. Christmas lights covered every curved corner on the yellow and lime green house. There were still a few weeks until the Christmas holiday, but these folks knew how to throw on some cheer. The huge wreath on the door practically beckoned us to knock and sing carols.
And yet—there was more—an abundance of jigsaw-like architectural details that fit together like the white arcs over the white railings on each floor. The century-old batten, or vertically placed siding, used to build this house whispered its age to me based on the cracks in the paint and size of the single live oak in the tiny front yard. This was the kind of home I wouldn’t mind living in as Thorn and I grew old. We were only in our early twenties, but I was drawn to these types of places. They had history. Someone loved this house enough repair the growing flaws over the decades.
With a skip in my step, I opened the slick, wrought-iron gate. My mate caught up with me by the time I swung my arm to knock—only to have a man open the door before I could.
Arm in mid-air, I stared at him with wide eyes and he did the same, perhaps flabbergasted that both of us surprised each other. His large brown eyes blinked a few times before a smile broke out on his face. “You must be, Mrs. Grantham,” he said with exuberance. His barreled chest gave him a deep, smooth accent. “I spoke with your husband on the phone. I’m Jackson Cason, the mayor of Bright Haven.”
“Call me, Natalya, please.” I extended my hand, and the older werewolf shook it. I almost repeated his name, but something told me I’d stumble over it. I mouthed the name and verified the double “son.”
He nodded and smiled, his mouth hard to see with such a bushy blonde mustache and beard. The mayor had the strangest, expansive eyes, like two bronze coins reflecting in the dim light of the foyer. The enticing smell of freshly baked cookies and coffee drew me to look away.
“This is a nice place you got here,” Thorn said first.
“Thank you,” Jackson replied. “Our pack is pleased you came at such short notice.”
Thorn shrugged. “My mate and I have had a hard year. The opportunity to relax and enjoy the time here was welcomed.” He glanced at me from the corner of his blue eyes and I couldn’t help grinning.
“You’re right on time,” Jackson said with a hearty laugh.
Thorn glanced at me again. “Again. My wife.”
“Our pack leader is already here. His wife wanted to prepare our meal.” The older man shrugged. “Something about how my food tastes like I’d wrangled up a half-dead croc and served its head on a plate.”
“I’m sure you do just fine,” I said to be polite.
The outside of the house was grand, but the inside hadn’t seen a broom or a duster. A layer of dust covered an ornate china hutch that extended across the wall. Tarnished silver plates and dusty Wedgwood china filled every shelf. My heart broke to see them in such poor shape.
The Friday evening shadows in the room grew longer as the faint light from outside darkened, and shortly, hard rain beat against the windows.
“We got in just in time,” I managed over the rumble of thunder.
“This nasty November weather has gotten worse lately,” Jackson gestured for us to follow him into the dining room. A lone, dark-haired man sat at the head of the long table covered with a white tablecloth. He sat with a straight back, his chin jutting as his sharp iron-gray eyes accessing every move we made. His scent was strong from even the doorway, leaning against us as he projected his place within his pack. This was the local alpha. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickled, but I ignored the feeling as Thorn rested his hand on my hip and pushed me toward a seat not far from the alpha.
“Natalya and Thorn, I’d like for you to meet our pack alpha, Calvin Braxton Cunningham. Most of the boys around town call him Cal.”
Calvin cocked a grin, revealing the hint of an incisor. “Thanks for coming, Grantham.” His low timbre voice was southern-smooth like a double shot of Kentucky bourbon.
My mate nodded, his gaze never leaving Calvin’s as he pulled back my seat for me. They stared at each other for a moment like werewolf males always did. A dance of sorts where they virtually circled each other to sniff out their vulnerabilities. Thorn did this countless of times in front of me, but today just seeing them engaged in the staring match made Calvin seem like a deadly lionfish. The fish had an enigmatic beauty, but it underneath its colorful scales a predator swam in the dark waters hunting for the next prey. The alpha’s eyebrows lowered and his smirk stretched his prominent cheeks. He didn’t need cologne with all the cockiness he exuded.
Neither of them looked away, but Calvin spoke first. “How was the drive?”
“Uneventful. Just the way I like it,” Thorn said smoothly.
“Good.” The mayor brought in a bottle of scotch with a few shot glasses. “Let’s get this dinner started before Mary Ann brings out the food, shall we?”
Twenty minutes later, we were all gathered together and surrounded by delicious food. Mary Ann, the pack’s alpha female, was a sharp-tongued redhead with ruddy skin. She marched out tray after tray of steaming delights: a bowl of green bean casserole, steaming corn bread, fried chicken, and sweet potato pie.
“And that’s just the first round,” she boasted.
She knew how to keep hungry werewolves satisfied.
Thorn and I dug into the eating fest, not holding back from the generous servings.
Mary Ann tried to pour me another drink with a smile, but I declined.
“Just one.” I rarely drank. As much I liked to have fun, having my wits about me was much more preferred. Especially with a man like Cal around. He kept drinking and couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“Have you ever been down here before?” he asked Thorn.
“Not really. I’ve stuck to the northeast. This year has been different though,” he glanced briefly at me with a smile. “But due to pack problems, I’ve stayed close to home. Now that things are stable, I’ve enjoyed traveling more.”
“This town has run into hard times recently, but back in my time, it was in its glory.”
“Here we go ...” His wife rolled her eyes and tried to give him another serving of pie, but he pushed it away.
Calvin poured Thorn another shot of scotch. “Oh, hush, woman.” He tipped back his own drink in a single swallow and then kept talking. His voice showed not a single sign that the liquor touched his senses. “This year, I’ll be one hundred and seventy-five years old. If I’d been born a year or two sooner, I’d have a leg up on the ‘ole mayor here.”
Jackson nodded. “You’re still a crusty old fart in my eyes, boy.”
Fulton continued. “Back then, this land had been different. All the electronics and gadgets we have today have painted the landscape into something I don’t recognize anymore. I miss the good ole’ days. I’m assuming you haven’t explored all the sights around here. You ever been to a plantation before?”
Thorn shook his head.
“You such see one if you get the chance. Over the years, they’ve gotten a bad rep due to Southern traditions. But they hold good memories for some.” Calvin appeared wistful. “Even during wartime.”
“So you were a soldier?”
“I’m still a soldier, Grantham. There will always be an enemy to face.” He stared at us. I squirmed in my seat until Thorn took my hand under the table. “My first real taste of fighting was in General Sherman’s March to Sea back in 1864.” His long fingers played with the rim of his shot glass. “My regiment was on their way to offer reinforcements to Fort McAllister, but we never made it. Those Yankees burned countless homes and plantations.” Then his fingers froze and he gripped the glass tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. “After that, we didn’t have access to hardly any food for my brothers in arms. We had to take what we needed.”
>
“And how did you do that?” I asked. I had a feeling he didn’t buy what he needed from peddlers by the side of the road.
His sneer was prickly. “There was this plantation near Savannah that was fortified by the Yankees. I was more than happy to join a few other hungry boys. Like I said, we took what we needed from them. Food … and otherwise.”
Thorn’s grip tightened until my hand ached. Lightning flashed outside the windows, and my shoulders tensed as thunder boomed to shake the house, even the dinner plates on the table.
Calvin continued his tale. “Once or twice, I ran into slaves stealing away from other plantations. Once I caught this old woman trying to run away. She had the nerve to put up a fight, too. What I remember the most about her was what she tried to take with her—this strange statue made from some kind of wood I’d never seen before. She kept saying she needed to protect it. To bury it to keep it from the likes of men like me. A bunch of hogwash. I took it from her—she didn’t need something so valuable—but her eyes had been fierce, like she had a fire inside her that a man like me couldn’t extinguish.”
“What did you do to her?” I murmured.
“What do you think happened to her?” He let his final words hang in the air.
I wanted to say that he probably killed her and stole for himself that strange statue she’d had. I wanted to stay that he probably returned home a hero without worrying about the stain of what he’d done on his fingers or his conscience. Yet when I opened my mouth I realized I didn’t want to say anything at all.
“Well, you might’ve fought with those Johnny Rebels, but it’s a good thing we hadn’t met in the field, ‘cause I would’ve shot your crazy ass down,” Jackson said with a laugh and licked his fingers. What was left of his fried chicken was nothing but naked bones.
Calvin joined his laughter. “You were a lot skinnier in those days, friend. You could’ve taken me.”
“Mmm-hmm. I would’ve whipped your ass good.”
The joviality lifted the somber mood at the table. I tried to smile at Thorn. Calvin was just the alpha of these parts, after all. We were here for us and not for him.
Chapter 2
The next morning, I took my time waking up. Tonight was the full moon, after all. Every sense escalated to dizzying heights. Safe in the dim lights of our second-story room, the rain continued with a dull cadence outside, bringing with it wind. The light taps from a branch beat against the window over our bed, its shape casting ghostly shadows on the walls. We had the largest suite to ourselves.
I curled up next to Thorn and rest my head against his back. He smelled so good, but during the full moon, most werewolves smelled like tantalizing pre-packaged sex. Thorn was no different.
He rolled over until he leaned over me. “Up already? I bet you spent the night with dreams of old dusty vases and vintage Christmas ornaments, didn’t you?”
“Not really.” Yes, I had.
His hands slipped down my sides, and he lowered his head for a long kiss. “We could stay here in bed. And get ready for tonight.”
His lips rained kisses along the nape of my neck, his breath soft against my skin.
“I want you,” he whispered.
My body hummed every time he said those words. Over a year ago, our relationship had been tumultuous since he was forced into an engagement with another woman, but now he was mine. He rolled over on top of me, the evidence of his arousal pressing into my thigh. His black boxer shorts did little to hide that.
His lips trailed to my chin until he met my mouth. Kissing Thorn was like dreaming of paradise and then experiencing everything there: his mouth was sunshine, his hands on my skin cool ocean waters, his caress like a never-ending sunset. As our kiss deepened, his warm hands snuck under my shirt, kneading my skin until he cupped my breast.
A moan escaped my mouth into his.
“Mine,” he said against my mouth. “I want to claim you as mine again and again tonight.” He urgently tasted my lips as his fingers trailed down to between us. His fingertips brushed against my heat, and my body trembled betraying my need for control.
“There are so many things I want to do to you after we hunt.” He gave me a wicked grin. “Don’t even think about sleeping.”
He tried to pull up my shirt, but I tugged it back down. He knew what having sex right now meant. No matter how hard it would be to say no to Thorn today, he had to understand how I felt about starting a family.
“How about we wait until tonight?” I suggested, but he knew what I meant. I was brushing him off yet again.
He sighed. “My hand is getting tired of doing all the dirty work.”
“Thorn! Stop being crass.” I couldn’t resist laughing. Just imagining Thorn Grantham servicing himself brought heat to my cheeks. “We have sex all the time.”
“Am I asleep when it happens?”
With a gentle shove, I pushed him out of the bed. “All we’ll do is sleep tonight if you don’t take a shower so we can go shopping.”
As he got into the shower though, I couldn’t resist frowning. This was what we always did when I dodged his advances during the full moon. I couldn’t keep doing this to him. To us. I shuffled my feet, looking for reasons to feel like I was ready. But how the hell did someone who swam in doubts everyday come to terms with how they’d be as a parent?
I loved Thorn with all my being and did what I thought was impossible to save him nearly a year ago, but sometimes things seemed still insurmountable to me.
###
The cool rain pelting my face didn’t stop me from my shopping trip. Jersey winters laughed at what the Southerners called a winter chill. I’d traipsed through snow drifts for a sale and a bunch of wind wasn’t gonna keep me from perusing antique shops and getting my rocks off feeling up old antebellum-era tables and delicate afternoon tea sets.
The antique shops we visited blended into one and the next one, but the prevailing thing was the smells. The richness of the old wood. The faint touch of vanilla and lavender on a cotton and lace bonnet. As I browsed the aisles, I ran my fingers against bureaus from the early 1800s to ribbon-wrapped jars of jams with fresh strawberries inside. Every clerk had a smile for us, asking if we were newlyweds on our honeymoon.
The most interesting shop though was a tiny business right next to a crumbling Piggly Wiggly, the only grocery store in Bright Haven. A covered porch extended from the front, protecting an elderly gentleman who tipped back and forth in a creaky rocking chair. As grocery store shoppers passed, they’d nod to him, but he kept on going, not paying them any mind. His rocker was just far enough from the line of rain to keep him dry.
As we passed him to the tiny shop, he murmured, “You should be careful digging up holes when you don’t know what you’ll find.”
His paper-thin voice was so whispery it barely registered over the pitter-patter of the rain on the tin roof.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
The old man didn’t respond, merely continuing the steady motion of his rocking. I shrugged and went inside. The storefront for Lilly Mae’s Antique Emporium was only a narrow bay window with a headless, barely-clothed mannequin, but on the inside, the shop extended far into the back. A few select lights here and there illuminated the space. Curiosity tugged me inside. The air here was far stuffier than most places. Almost as if every morning the doors were shut for years and only re-opened for inquisitive souls like me.
The sounds of shuffling from the back reached my ears. A shadow grew along the wall until I spied an older woman wearing an ill-fitted, dark brown dress waddling our way. “Can I help you?” A fog of jasmine enveloped me. The werewolf had dabbed herself a few too many times.
I smiled at her. “Not yet. I’m visiting from out of town to see if anything catches my eye.”
She nodded, adjusting the black wig on her head. Bits of her white hair peeked from underneath. Instead of leaving us to browse, she hovered close as if we’d need help right then and there. Not far from me, I spotted a str
ange, black box with shiny tools inside. One of them appeared to be a long, metal pick. The other one was a hammer. A shudder ran through me when I read the words Transorbital Lobotomy Kit in cursive on a tiny card next to the box.
Thorn cocked a grin as he found a spot to hold up the wall. He’d probably read the news on his smartphone until I was done shopping. At least he wasn’t the one with a tagalong.
“Is your friend from around here?” she whispered. Discretion was a southerner’s best friend. The other best friend was gossip.
“No, my husband isn’t,” I said.
“Your husband? He’s handsome.” She paused for a moment as if in deep thought. “I have a granddaughter I should introduce him to.”
Thorn chuckled when he heard her.
“How sweet?” What else could I say? Look, Granny, he’s married. As in taken. So send your granddaughter’s honey and biscuits to some other hungry wolf.
The elderly werewolf continued to follow me as I looked over some jewelry cases. It was rather hard to enjoy the craftsmanship though.
“He looks so familiar,” the woman said from close behind me. “Does he have kin around here?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I wish I could remember where I saw a face similar to his. Anyway,” her voice strangely brightened, “you two should be careful since there’s a rumor around about a town curse.”
My hand froze on the edge of the container I was holding. “Excuse me?”
Thorn’s head slowly lifted.
“I refuse to live in town. I come here every day to operate my shop, and I’ve always wondered.” Her gaze floated away for a moment before she met my eyes again. “Haven’t you taken a look around this place? The buildings? The way a darkness settled around the corners of every home?”
The need to humor her was obvious. A moment before, she wanted to introduce a married man to her granddaughter—if she had one—but she had a point. And that was what concerned me the most.
“The town is rundown, but that doesn’t mean it’s cursed.” Magic was something I didn’t trifle with—in any form, but the rumblings of a touched werewolf shouldn’t have kept Thorn and I from enjoying our weekend.
Cursed Page 7
