The Danger of Destiny

by Leigh Evans

  If not kill them.

  New postholes had been dug. But the shovels had been abandoned. And what we had left was a pack of Weres milling about up in the parking lot, none of whom looked all that friendly.

  I knew them.

  For they were Creemore Weres.

  * * *

  Crap. I knew that Trowbridge and I would have to eventually face the itty-bitty problems we left in our home world. I just didn’t expect them to be waiting for us. My gaze scanned the half-dozen wolves standing in the parking lot up the hill, noting the presence of my old enemy, Rachel Scawens. Standing beside her was her daughter, Petra.

  Petra wore a neutral expression.

  I couldn’t say the same for the rest of our greeting party. Two days ago, the sum of the Creemore Weres’ aggressive scents and brow-lowering scowls would have made my sphincter tighten. But I’d seen stuff since then, you know? I’d seen people fight for their lives, not just because their feelings were hurt or because they were hoping to upgrade their position in the pack, but because they had no choice.

  It was either fight or die.

  And it was like that for the Raha’ells every freakin’ day of their lives.

  Rachel had a rifle. Typical.

  Two other Weres had brought their boomsticks too.

  Also typical.

  I smothered a sigh. “Last time I saw you, Rachel, you were walking away from me, leaving me and the others to duke it out with some bikers. And now here you are, with your daughter”—I nodded relatively benignly to Petra—“and a few Creemore wolves. How’d that happen?”

  Petra answered, “Cordelia called from a pay phone and said that our Alpha and his mate needed us. Then my mom called my cell and said she needed to be picked up. Once we got her, we came back here because it’s the last known location for our Alpha. We found St. Silas and his men digging a new fence.”

  Succinct and to the point. Man, Petra should write for Coles Notes.

  I didn’t see the French-Canadian council member of the NAW among the assembled. I asked where he was. And again, an answer that was both prompt and fulsome. “St. Silas and his men are in the bakery, waiting to see what happens.” Petra slid a warning glance toward her mother. “We’re all waiting to see what happens,” she repeated evenly.

  Behind, from the Safe Passage, came a lupine yelp and heavy thud.

  The first Raha’ell had landed.

  Rachel’s knuckle tightened on the trigger of her Remington. “Where’s my brother?”

  “He’s coming.” My magic shot down my arms, branched out to both hands to painfully simmer at the base of my nails. I eyed the rifle. Rachel couldn’t shoot me without hurting her brother.

  She knew that.

  Another thud behind me, followed by a low growl, and with it the aggression streaming from the Creemore Weres spiked again: a sour sharp scent that completely overwhelmed the scent of pie.

  “Sheep’s tits!” I heard Mouse say from inside the portal.

  * * *

  And here we go. Once more, a nice visual of my wavering life path splitting into two forks. One way led to waiting for other people to smooth out problems for me. The other—dealing with this lack of respect right here and now—might lead to a non-threatening, but painful, bullet wound.

  Seriously?

  I’d fought for my life and the lives of those I’d loved, waging war against two Fae mages and a Royal Court, and I’d won. And now I knew without a doubt what and who I was beyond the titles. (Not to get repetitive, but here they are: Daughter of Ben, the wolf, and Rosylyn, the Fae. Sister to a twin, who may or may not have magical powers, once the dust settles. Consort to the Son of Lukynae, mate to the Alpha of Creemore…)

  All those titles? They’re merely notations in my history.

  I’m Hedi of Creemore pure and simple. My blood is sweet with Fae magic and rich with lupine pride.

  I’m one perfectly imperfect Hedi.

  I wasn’t going to surrender a quarter inch of the recognition I’d clawed to myself. Not from the hands of my future sister-in-law. And definitely not at the freakin’ Peach Pit in front of a handful of fast-food-fed wolves.

  I felt my brother’s presence beside me and movement to my right, which I knew was Mouse taking a flanking position. I did not take my gaze off the Creemore wolves, who were visibly tensing with each thud-growl coming from the interior of the Safe Passage. The Raha’ells were landing faster than suburban stork deliveries nine months after a blackout.

  If they perceived the Creemore wolves as threats; if they thought themselves without a leader …

  “To me,” I said softly in Merenwynian to my pack.

  And then I held my breath.

  * * *

  The Raha’ells, still in their wolf forms, slunk up the steps. For an instant, they stood shoulder to shoulder at the portal’s entrance—a hundred percent feral—blinking against the sunshine.

  Stand with me.

  For the record, I know I didn’t say those words out loud. But as I thought them, I summoned up a visual of myself standing amid a milling throng of wolves. A freeze-frame image of what I wanted, what I needed, what I expected.

  To my utter astonishment, less than a fractured heartbeat later I received an image. And then another, and then a flurry of them, as if someone had tossed a handful of vividly painted cards at me.

  The images were so clear, so freakin’ disorienting. So much like the thought-pictures shared between Lexi and me. Some were color; some were black and white; some were—

  Oh Goddess. They’re all from my Raha’ells.

  For a second or two, or perhaps three, I allowed myself to absorb them, completely oblivious to anything other than the images flooding my mind. Because, sweet heavens, all of those wolf thought-pictures were of me.

  Of me.

  Images of Hedi of Creemore as seen by her wolves. A young woman standing in the window of a tall tower. A pair of green eyes lit with the unearthly fire of an outraged Alpha. Small hands, knuckles grazed. Her grimed face filled with determination and strength, and—oh Goddess—fierce beauty.

  “Hell,” murmured my brother, his tone shaken.

  So he was receiving them too.

  The rest of the Raha’ells funneled up the stairs. Lips retracted. Tails rigid. Fight pheromones broadcasting louder than a trash-talking Jersey girl. The first responders hip-checked me in their eagerness to get close to me; the new arrivals weaved in front of Lexi and Mouse, leveraging for a chance to stand closer to me.

  I’d called my wolves to me and they’d come.

  I’d had this opportunity with the Creemore pack, and I’d let it go.

  Never again.

  I lowered my arm, letting my hand drop to the wiry coat of the male wolf on my left. His fur was dense under my touch. He leaned into me, just slightly. When this is over, I will learn his name, I promised myself. I will know his family. I will learn everything about everyone in this pack.

  As I will with the Creemore wolves.

  “These are the Raha’ells,” I said in a loud, firm voice.

  One of the Creemore wolves swore softly under his breath. I recognized him—he worked in the city but came home on the weekends. I stared at him, understanding his fear. It was daylight; the moon was long gone. Only the most dominant Creemore wolf could hold on to his animal self after sunrise. And here I was, standing in the bright sunlight, flanked by wolves, not naked people looking for clothing. The Creemore Were had to be calculating how the Merenwynian refugees were going to affect his standing among the Ontario wolves.

  Get used to it. Things are going to change.

  “These wolves belong to Trowbridge and me. And we, in turn, belong to them, heart, body, and soul. When Trowbridge arrives we’ll discuss how these two packs will merge, but in the meantime, Rachel, I’m giving you two seconds to lower your weapon.”

  Her eyes glittered. “I’ll wait for my brother.”

  “I’m not giving you that option, Rachel.” I stared at
her for a beat. Then, I said very quietly, “One.”

  “Mom,” said Petra, “you should to do what she says.”

  “She can’t even change into her wolf!”

  “Oh, but I can, Rachel. I did it in Merenwyn. And I plan to do it again, every single month. I will run with the wolves because I am one of you.”

  “She’s not the same,” Petra warned her mom. “Can’t you see it? Everyone should put their rifles away, okay?”

  “Not until I see the Alpha of Creemore,” Rachel said firmly.

  I’m going to enjoy this.

  Magic-mine was curling above me, glittering in anticipation. I flexed my fingers, smiling wide, knowing that my face was lit with the lust and joy of battle. “Two.”

  Epilogue

  Sometimes families break up. You don’t want that to happen to yours, but all too often it happens anyhow and those who you thought defined you are taken from you.

  And you’re lost.

  At least you think you are. But that’s a bunch of crap, isn’t it? You know where you are—stuck in some shadow place where grief rules. In the meantime, you’re still breathing and you’re still moving through the real world, albeit slowly, and sometimes as you go about your daily life your shoulder may brush against another’s.

  A girl’s got to pay attention to those accidental life intersections.

  That’s how new families are born.

  We need them. For without family and friends, our lives are hollow.

  I smelled Trowbridge’s approach before I heard his tread on the first stair. I expect that’s going to be the way of it for the next seventy or eighty years—his scent will reach me before he does. Today, it was a mellow perfume. The sour tones of anger, stress, and unhappiness were missing.

  Sooner or later—though not today—I’ll tell him that his personal signature has changed. I don’t consider the new element off-putting; its presence is merely another layer to a complicated man. But I hope he won’t prod me for details, because I’m having a hard time coming up with a good scent comparison. The smell is not sweet like flowers, and it is not ripe like a wolf returning from his run. But it is as persistent as the lingering scent of charcoal from a recent fire.

  Bluntly put, Robson Trowbridge is no longer just “woods, wild, sex, and yum.”

  He’s more.

  Merenwyn had forged Trowbridge. It had taken the free-floating gifts that hadn’t found a place to stick—like valor and commitment and honor—and made them stick.

  Maybe that’s what I’m detecting.

  I guess we’re both more now.

  My mate entered our master bedroom, wearing boots, a pair of perfectly fitting faded jeans, and a T-shirt, which he was already in the process of tugging over his head. He dropped the jersey on the floor as he passed the laundry basket. “I need a shower; I smell like a pig.”

  He didn’t. Not one bit.

  But he sure loved hot running water. The aluminum rod over the tub needed replacing courtesy of our fun last night. I made a mental note to add “new shower curtains and rod” to the list.

  I inserted my chipped nail under the wallpaper’s seam and lifted.

  Yes.

  Carefully, I pinched the hangnail of paper and gave it a test tug. It was all about how gentle you were. Slow is the way to go with twenty-five-year-old wall coverings.

  Yes, yes, yes—

  It was coming off the drywall in a sheet, complete with the most satisfying tearing noise, and I knew brief jubilation until the inevitable began. The glossy side of the wallpaper started to separate itself from its backing.

  No, no, no.

  Once it’s begun, you can’t stop it. As I continued to lift, the paper went from sheet, to thinning strip, to nothing. What the hell did they use to stick this stuff to the wall? Cement glue? I sighed and dropped the paper to the small mound beside my knee.

  “So, I’m guessing they found a pig for tonight?” I asked, because I could feel Trowbridge’s gaze boring into my back.

  “Yeah.” His scent curled around me, a coaxing embrace. “All that’s left is to figure out where to put the roaster.”

  “To the right of the barbecues.”

  “You think?”

  Intent on the job, I nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  The sash made a horrible squeak, and cold air poured into the room. I heard Trowbridge call out the bay window, “Hey, Bill.”

  “Yes, Alpha?” A voice floated up.

  “Tell Lexi that Hedi wants the spit placed to the right of the barbecues.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Close to the driveway.”

  A hand braced on the sash, Trowbridge twisted to look at me for a second. Then he stuck his head outside again. “Make it close to the driveway—”

  “But not too close,” I murmured.

  Trowbridge drummed his fingers on the wooden frame. With a hint of humor, he said, “Bill, did you get all that?”

  “Yes, Alpha.”

  “Good enough.” Trowbridge pulled the sash down, closing the window on the cold air and inquisitive ears. Hands dug into the depths of his pockets, he studied me again. “Shower?”

  Tempting. I’d developed such a weakness for nooners. And my mate was a Goddess-appointed natural attraction, standing there shirtless, his jeans riding low on his hips. I made some calculations based on past experiences. “We’ll never make it down to the barbecue in time.”

  “I’ll chance it.”

  I gave him a wistful smile.

  “I need to do this right, Trowbridge. It’s our first formal gathering. It’s important to me.”

  Resolutely, I went back to the paper, selecting a new piece of forget-me-nots. I gave it a firm—but gentle—upward tug. Success was all about keeping the tension level. Never pulling too hard or too fast.

  Say good-bye, little blue flowers.

  “You know you’re leaning toward obsessive with the DYI, right?”

  “Yep,” I replied.

  Our master bedroom was in the process of a significant face-lift. The work had started nine days ago, after the Alpha of Creemore had entered the room to find me standing in front of its bay window, chewing my thumbnail to a stub as I watched the road.

  He hadn’t said anything, but he’d slipped between me and the glass. Strong arms hard circled me. For a while, we’d stood melded together, his chin a solid, comforting weight against my temple. When most of my anxiety had drained away, he’d asked, “What do they call all this flowered shit?”

  I frowned. “Chintz?”

  “Chintz,” he murmured with a nod. “I think I’m done with chintz.”

  There’s an antiques store not too many miles from Creemore filled with furniture pieces from an earlier time. My mate brought me there, and I’d wandered the dusty barn for a good two hours, my hand trailing over the pine, the oak, the cherry, and the maple.

  And now we have new old furniture.

  I like it very much. We’ve also replaced the old comforter with a hand-pieced quilt. I knew the beauty belonged to us the second I saw the border’s embellishment: tiny stitches forming a pattern of entwined ivy. Since Trowbridge is basically a hot-water bottle, we’ve never actually slept under the quilt, but I’m partial to the sight of it covering our new bed—just as I’m quietly thrilled every time I walk into the room and see the floor.

  That I totally love.

  Seven days ago, my mate took a break from his Alpha duties to personally rip up all the carpeting. Once Lexi and Petra had taken the pieces away, my Trowbridge had worked on through the rest of the day and night, restoring the oak floor with a professional-grade sander, a few gallons of top-quality polyurethane, and a Dumpster full of choice cusswords.

  He wouldn’t let me help.

  It must be a guy thing.

  But now the floors gleamed. Old wood, with old memories, brought back to life.

  I’d spent most of my free hours doing the rest. Repainting the trim—victory! Making a stab at recovering the easy chair—not qu
ite a victory! Then, scrubbing everything that didn’t smell like us with a solution made from two cups of hot water, ten drops of thyme essential oil, and a quarter of a cup of borax.

  The only lingering trace of Mannus and the eighties was the wallpaper. It had to go. I couldn’t wake one more morning to those blue forget-me-nots.

  Because, you see, it had been ten days.

  Ten freakin’ days.

  I wet my thumb and rubbed it over the film of backing until friction rolled it into tiny cylinders. They fell—rat-a-tat—on the plastic sheet I’d placed to protect my oak floors. I started working my nail at the wall covering’s seam again.

  The bedsprings creaked. I heard a boot drop. “You almost finished?”

  “As soon as I’m done with this panel.”

  “Thought so,” he murmured, getting up to disappear into the bathroom. Over the scratch of my pick-pick-pick, I heard the sounds of drawers of being yanked open and slammed shut. Then, my nose crinkled. I smelled ammonia.

  He was cleaning the mirror? Well, that was a first.

  The tap squeaked; water ran.

  Trowbridge came out of the washroom carrying a Windex bottle filled with clear liquid. He sank into a crouch, his heavy thigh brushing my shoulder.

  He scored the top of the wallpaper with his wolf-hard nails.

  “First you have to scuff it up so the water will penetrate. I’ll get Jack from the hardware store to bring you a scourer so you don’t mess up your manicure any worse than you’ve already done.”

  My knuckles wore a line of scrapes.

  Balancing on the backs of his heels, he aimed the nozzle at the wall. “After that, you need to wet the paper.” He began squirting hot water on the strip next to mine. Squish-squish. Squish-squish. “You know, we could easily get Jack and his crew to do this.”

  “I told you. This is our private place. Our room. Our bed. Our walls.”

  Squish.

  “Yep. Thought you’d say that too.” He squeezed the handle a few more times, spritzing the paper until all the blue flowers were slick. “Now, this is the important part,” he told me, setting the bottle down. “You’ve got to let the water do its work.” He let his elbows rest on his thighs, hands dangling between his knees. “All you have to do is let it sit.”