Inking the Wolf: A wolf shifter paranormal romance (Wolves of Crookshollow Book 3)

by Steffanie Holmes

  Bianca started to chant. “Spirits of Primrose House, speak to us. Spirits of Primrose House, make yourselves known.”

  We all took up the chant, our voices blending together in the darkened room. After a while, Bianca dropped my hand. As she did so, a shaft of cold air blasted my back.

  “Did you feel that?” Bianca whispered. “It just got cold.”

  “Oh yeah,” Elinor said through gritted teeth. She dropped Eric’s hand and rubbed her bare arm. “I feel it.”

  “It could just be a draft,” Eric muttered, but no one agreed.

  Shivers ran down my arms. Bianca bit her lip as she stretched out one finger, and placed it on the edge of the goblet. I copied her, and so did Eric. Elinor shook her head, folding her arms across her chest.

  “This is crazy,” she said.

  “Come on, Elinor,” Eric said. “It’s just a bit of fun.”

  “You try being in love with a ghost, and tell me how fun it is,” Elinor said, but she relented, and placed her finger on the goblet, too.

  Bianca started to chant again, focused intently on the glass. I muttered the words under my breath, keeping my finger against the glass, wondering how long we’d have to sit here for, when the glass jerked under my finger.

  “It moved!” Elinor cried. “I felt it.”

  “Me too,” Eric said.

  My stomach tightened as the goblet slid across the floor, moving across one of the letters. Bianca let out a squeal. “That’s an E. This is amazing,” she breathed.

  The goblet touched another letter, and another. “L … I …”

  “It’s spelling something …” Bianca said. Elinor whimpered, as the goblet swung toward another letter.

  “N … holy shit, Elinor—”

  “Why is it spelling my name?” Elinor moaned.

  Eric sniggered. The glass toppled over on its side.

  “Omigod, Eric, you bastard!” Elinor grabbed the pillow off the bed and beat Eric over the head with it, sending a great cloud of dust.

  “Sorry, my love. I couldn’t help it.” Eric grinned as he fended off her blows. “Your face is priceless!”

  Bianca exchanged a glance with me. “Bloody Eric.” She scooped up the candles, and set the goblet back on the shelf in the secret cupboard. “I was hoping we could really channel a spirit.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But Eric didn’t make the temperature drop, did he?”

  “Hey, yeah, you’re right.” Something warm brushed against my fingers. Bianca’s hand. She slipped her fingers into mine, squeezing me tight. A surge of energy jolted up my arm, straight into my chest. My whole body hummed with want of her. All I had to do was throw my arm around her and pull her close and try to chase away the unearthly chill with the heat of my body—

  But I couldn’t, because it was pointless. Because I’m holding the hand of my fated mate, but she will never see me as anything other than a friend.

  7

  Bianca

  Back in my own bed in my tiny apartment above the shop, I hardly slept a wink, my mind focused on the Primrose House and poor Hattie. At 3 a.m., I couldn’t take it any longer. I flicked on the light and sat up, dragging the scrapbook over my knees. Macavity glared at me as I shifted my legs, disturbing his sleep.

  “Sorry, boy.” I patted his head. “This thing is keeping me awake, so I might as well see what happens next.”

  I flicked through the pages, past the crumbling lace samples and faded illustrated postcards of birds and flowers, my eyes flicking over Silvia’s beautiful cursive. At first, her entries were quite dull, just listings of her daily activities – the embroidery she was working on, the dresses she commissioned down in London, the books she read, the teas and dances she attended.

  Hattie’s name started coming up more and more. It seemed the girls were spending time together while Silvia’s parents were away. Silvia’s entries filled with gushing prose about Hattie’s wicked humour, her games, her lovely hair.

  If I didn’t know better, if Silvia wasn’t a repressed Victorian lady who eventually married a Yorkshire earl, I would have guessed that she had a crush on Hattie.

  I turned the page. The next entry read:

  “I am dazzled. My stomach twists and flutters as though it is filled with beautiful butterflies. I must write quickly, so Mama does not come up behind me and see. Today, I had my lessons with Martha in the drawing room, with the curtains drawn tight so the sunlight wouldn’t damage my skin before next month’s ball. Hattie was dusting in the hallway, and every so often, I would look up from my lesson to see her peering in, making faces at me. I couldn’t help laughing, and Martha rapped me across the knuckles. After she had set me some French vocabulary, she left to finish kneading the dough for the evening’s bread, and Hattie and I were alone.

  “Hattie dropped her duster and ran over to me, her smile bright and becoming. Before I could tell her that we must be quiet, for Martha could be back at any moment, she grabbed my face and pressed her lips to mine.

  “Oh, diary, it was exquisite! All the words of all the great poets cannot describe the wonderful feeling that overcame me. I want to sing out to all the world that I am in love, but I dare not, for I know that Hattie and I will never be allowed to marry.”

  Wow. Not so repressed, after all. I grinned from ear to ear to think that in this house of repression, a forbidden lesbian relationship had blossomed. My smile froze when I remembered how it ended. I turned the page.

  “Mama and Father went off to Yorkshire to visit our relatives. Normally, they would make me go also, but I begged them to allow me to stay behind so that I could attend the Winlove’s ball. Last night, when I was sure Martha was asleep, I crept downstairs to the kitchen and took the secret staircase up to Hattie’s bedroom. I lay with her on the bed, and under the glow of the moon we discovered each other.

  “I wish Mother and Father would never return. Hattie wants us to run away together. She showed me her secret stash of little trinkets she has stolen. She says when she sells them, she’ll have enough money to free her brother, and the three of us will buy passage to America and start a new life together.”

  My fingers trembled with excitement as I flipped another page.

  “Mama and Father returned today. Over dinner, Father informed me that they had an enjoyable time with the friends of our relatives – another noble family who own a lot of land in Yorkshire. He mentioned that their son, Edmund, Earl of Dartmouth, would be inheriting an estate on his twenty-first birthday, and that he was looking for a wife. He said he’d invited the Dartmouths to accompany us when we travel to London for the Season. I believe he intends for Edmund to court me, but I am afraid. I know that I should be excited about the prospect of marrying such a good match (and a handsome man, too, if the portrait Mama brought back for me is any indication). But if I left Primrose House, I’d never see Hattie again, and the thought of it is too much to bear.”

  I flipped past the next few entries, searching for the diary entries after the death of Hattie. There was only two. Silvia had doodled all over the page, adding clothes and pressed flowers to an outline of a woman’s body that had been printed there. The journal entry was dotted with tiny specks, blurring the ink. I realised they were tear drops.

  “Everyone has forgotten about Hattie, except me. The constables came to speak with Mama, and Lord Raynard, as well. Mama keeps telling me to stop looking so morose, that I’ll never find a husband if I keep up this sullen attitude. I do not care. I took some money from Father’s office and brought it to Bedlam to secure Hattie’s brother’s release. I hope it will be enough for him to begin a new life.”

  On the corner of the page, just below the entry, was a ticket stub for the train to London, a first-class seat. So our narrator went down to London to free this brother herself? I smiled, wondering how it must have been for her to stand in that demonic place and free a brother she did not know.

  People do such remarkable things for love, I mused. I wonder if anyone will ever love me
like that. That crazy, all-consuming love that dooms even the brightest stars.

  I flipped to the final entry. One entire page was taken up with swatches of white bridal lace and beautiful embroidered silk. An exquisitely lettered invitation requested the presence of a guest at the wedding of Silvia Sinclair and Edmund, Earl of Dartmouth. A flash of anger shot through me. I’d known the wedding happened, of course, for it was part of my family tree, but now that I knew what had occurred before it, seeing that bridal lace turned my stomach.

  “So much has happened since I last made an entry; I am to be married! Edmund is everything I dreamed of in a husband – handsome and clever and kind and noble. I am sure that if she’d still been alive, he would have let Hattie come to live with us as my personal chambermaid, and everything would have been exactly as I dreamed.

  “I am to move with Edmund to his residence in Yorkshire. I am not sure when next I’ll set foot in Primrose House again. After what happened to Hattie, and how her presence has haunted me since she was laid to rest in her pauper’s grave, I doubt I shall return willingly.

  “I leave this, my record of our time together, in Hattie’s secret place. She has some things in here, silver and jewellery belonging to Mama. I’m going to leave them here. Perhaps the next maid that must endure this stuffy, desolate room will find them, and use them to buy her fortune.”

  I closed the book and flicked out the light, my eyes brimming with tears. How differently their lives might have turned out if they were born today! If Silvia had just run away with Hattie, she might never have died and they might have found a way to be together. But Silvia was too cloistered by her upbringing to see the possibility in that, which was why even though her very own dragon-slayer was right in front of her, she still went looking for Prince Charming.

  “I promise you,” I whispered to the darkness, my hand still resting on the cover of the book. “No one who sets foot inside this house from now on shall ever have to suffer as you did. Anyone who comes through these doors will be free to love whomever they chose.”

  The next day, bleary-eyed and mildly hungover, I stumbled downstairs into the shop. Elinor stared at me from her spot at the drawing table. “You look like shit.”

  “Eight beers and a bad sleep will do that to a person. Thanks for the pep talk, by the way.”

  “Usually you like the fact that I call it like I see it.”

  I scowled at her, tossing the shop phone onto her desk. “Usually, you’re not directing that brutal honesty at me. Cancel my appointments today. I’m in no state to hold a gun.”

  “If you’re cancelling on them, you call them.”

  “You’re my apprentice,” I growled, lowering myself onto the chaise lounge. “It’s part of your job description that you assist me. Now, start assisting.”

  Sighing, Elinor grabbed the phone and the appointment book, and started dialling. Her immaculately styled fringe bobbed over one eye as she held the phone up to her ear and sorted through her sketches. Damn her, how did she manage to look so good? Probably because she stopped after three beers last night, I mused, wincing as a particularly nasty headache throbbed against my temple.

  “What will you do today instead? You should probably get started on the taxes.”

  I groaned, clutching my head. “My headache just got worse.”

  “You could sweep out the—”

  “Stop right there.” I held up my hand. “This is my shop. I don’t want to hear about any more chores. This is a chore-free day. I’m going to plan my wedding.”

  “Your fake-wedding,” Elinor corrected, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

  “Yes, my fake-wedding. Where was that girl’s number?” I waved a hand vaguely in the direction of our desk.

  “What girl?”

  “The hot one who could didn’t speak above a whisper … you tattooed a rose on her ribcage …”

  “Oh, Willow. Right, here you go.” Elinor passed me a scrap of paper. I tugged my phone out of my pocket and, steeling myself against a wave of nausea, dialled Willow’s number.

  Willow showed up at the store ten minutes later, clutching a big stack of wedding magazines. I noticed she lurched a little as she walked, as though one of her legs had stiffened up. Her sweater was inside out and it looked as though she hadn’t brushed her hair.

  “Big night out?” I grinned at her.

  “Huh?” Willow placed the magazines down on the waiting area table. The stack teetered precariously. She yelped and reached out to save it, but she was too late. Wedding magazines cascaded across the floor.

  “I mean you, looking a little worse for wear.” I bent down to help her collect the wayward magazines. “No judgement here, I’m a little hungover, myself.”

  “Oh, no, ah … I don’t drink.” Willow turned her face away.

  “Right.” So she went out in public like this without the influence of alcohol? Hmmmm.

  Again, I wondered how Willow managed to organise all the millions of tiny details associated with a wedding. She seemed a little scatterbrained as well as horrifically shy and totally drop-dead gorgeous. “Hey, how’s your tattoo healing up?”

  “Oh … good so far. Um …” Willow set the last of the magazines back on top of the pile, then slid into the seat beside me. Her blonde curls hung over her face, hiding her expression from my view. Dammit, woman, look at me. I want to drown in those gorgeous eyes.

  She rested a moleskin on her lap and flipped it open to a blank page. She placed a pair of craft scissors and some double-sided tape on the table. “So, let’s start by having a look through these. You can point out anything you like, and we’ll add it to a vision board.”

  “Fun!” I grabbed the first magazine and flicked through the images. Ick … gross … marshmallow … pink, eeech … what has she got in her hair?

  “See anything?” Willow shifted, her curls brushing my arm as she leaned in to get a closer look at the magazine.

  “Er … “ I turned the page around, showing a picture of a snooty-looking bride and groom walking away from an archway made of gnarled wood. “I guess that’s pretty cool.”

  “The archway?”

  “Yeah. Only … not with that hideous white bunting. Maybe with some fairy lights instead, or some barbed wire and black roses, and even a couple of swords hanging from the struts.”

  “Swords?”

  “Yeah, that would be really fun. Hey, yeah! We could even cut the cake with them.”

  Willow looked ready to faint. “Um, I’m not sure I even know where to find swords—”

  I waved my hand. “Oh, don’t worry. My friend Alex knows a guy who does re-enactment. I’m sure he’s got a house full of swords. Alex told me how she once chased a werewolf with a broadsword …”

  My voice trailed off. Elinor was making wild gestures at me behind Willow’s back, her face white. I clapped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late. I was used to talking about werewolves and ghosts and supernatural stuff as though it was perfectly normal, I’d completely forgotten that Willow knew nothing of this world.

  “Er, I mean, this was a Halloween party, of course,” I said, hurriedly picking up the next magazine and opening it to some tulle monstrosity. I snuck a look at Willow out of the corner of my eye, but she was still staring at the magazines with her hair in her face, so I couldn’t read her expression. “So it’s settled. I’ll take care of the swords. Now, let’s see what else we can come up with. Not this dress, obviously, but I guess I kind of like the colour of the groom’s pocket square …”

  An hour later, and we’d gone through every magazine in the stack. Now I saw what made Willow so good at her job. She didn’t try to lead me on. She just sat silently, listening to my running commentary about tulle and cake toppers and little gift boxes called “favours” that seemed to be a scheme to deprive brides of a small fortune for plastic tat that no one in their right mind would keep. All the while, she cut out images and swatches and made pages of notes in her little book. Somehow, she was creati
ng a wedding out of my insane rantings.

  “I think I know what you don’t want,” she said at last, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and dropping the magazines on the floor. The heavy pile fell right on top of her foot, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s try to get a grip on exactly what you do want. Any venues around Crookshollow that you’d be comfortable in?”

  “What about Club Medusa?” Elinor asked. Club Medusa in Crooks Worthy was the sole music venue within driving distance, unless you counted Tir Na Nog on Irish dancing night.

  “Hey, yeah!” I exclaimed. “We could have like a whole show, with bands playing and fire dancers and—omigod, I just thought of the perfect idea. We should have it at Primrose House.”

  “What’s that?” Willow asked, looking as though she was bracing herself for some other crazy idea.

  “It’s this house I just inherited. You’ll love it. It’s an old Victorian mansion with all these dark rooms and ridiculous wallpaper and it has a real honest-to-goodness ballroom. I’m going to turn the house into an artist’s sanctuary and backpackers. We could easily have the wedding inside, and hey, we could even make it the grand opening of the art house!”

  “Hang on, don’t you have to get married this month?” Elinor said. “There would be a ton of work to do if you wanted to de-octogenarianify it, and have it ready to host a huge event. Will the house be ready by then?”

  “It had better be.” I grinned. “I want my wedding to be the biggest, craziest, most ridiculous art party Crookshollow and Primrose House has ever seen.”

  Now that I had a wedding venue, the ideas came thick and fast. A decadent Victorian gothic ball with mandatory costumes, art from all my friends on the walls, Eric’s band on stage in the ballroom playing their unique gothic rock while a DJ spun dance tunes between sets. Laser lights and aerial silk performers hanging from the chandeliers. And, of course, as many swords as I could legally swing about the place.