Legendary Shifter

by Barbara J. Hancock

  Elena was startled by another sudden shove that sent her sliding backward in the snow away from Romanov as he pushed her several feet before he and the Volkhvy collided. She didn’t fall. She kept her balance as only a woman with years of physically demanding training could have. Her knee screamed, but it didn’t give way. Her arms flew out to automatically aid her equilibrium, and anyone watching would have thought she had merely been landing from a smooth pirouette.

  “You grow weaker with each materialization, old man. The stone can be recharged. I’m not sure the same can be said for you,” the witchblood man said.

  “Try and try and try again. But always empty-handed in the end. Right, Dominique?” Romanov taunted in return.

  “You know this man?” Elena asked. She’d immediately recovered and gone to a weapons rack where practice swords and daggers were hung in a rough array.

  “Him. Many others. They’re all the same to me. They come for the sword Vasilisa gave my father,” Romanov said. “They leave without it.” His blows connected powerfully with the Volkhvy’s abdomen, chest and jaw. The witchblood man recovered from each blow much more quickly than a mortal man would. But after one particularly hard connection, he did spit blood into the snow. “Sometimes they don’t leave. Perhaps it’s your turn to die, Dominique.”

  “Romanov!” Elena shouted. She threw a short broadsword high into the air. It flew in a wide arc and then down into Romanov’s hand. She grabbed two daggers for herself, but as her hands closed over their hilts, something drew her attention across the courtyard. Her eyes fell on the sword Romanov had buried deep in the scarred practice form. Her feet carried her closer to it of their own volition. One step and then another. The sapphire didn’t look that dull to her. It seemed to sparkle in the sun.

  “No. Go inside,” Romanov ordered. She ignored him. The Volkhvy had drawn a blade from a sheath on his back. His leather trench coat whirled around his legs as he brandished it. It wasn’t jeweled, but the metal itself glowed in his hands.

  Elena had gone for the easily accessible weapons because that’s where she’d ended up when Romanov had shoved her away. Now she tucked the daggers in her back pockets and went for the more powerful blade. It was buried deep in the wood of the cross. So deep that it held her entire body weight, such that it was, when she grasped its hilt and tried to pull it free.

  “I’m not running away. Not anymore,” she said through clenched teeth. She refused to let go even when the hum of power in the sword caused her arms to go numb. Romanov was wrong. There was power left in the blade. It hummed like bees beneath her skin, vibrating her body as she pulled. She braced her feet against the practice form. Her knee screamed, but she used all of her strength to push with her legs and pull with her arms at the same time.

  “It won’t matter. Running, hiding, making a stand. He’ll have you in the end. There are many that claim to be Volkhvy, but only Dark Volkhvy royals can trace their lineage back to Baba Yaga herself. The witchblood prince won’t be denied. Oh the pretty tales he’s told about his future plans for you, my pet. Or I should say his pet,” the Volkhvy said. His laugh was cut short by a sudden fierce attack by Romanov. The powerful warrior hacked and hacked until the muscles on his back stood out in bunches and the witchblood man was driven to his knees. The Volkhvy, Dominique, parried as many blows as he could, but others connected with him until his white hair was painted with crimson flecks of blood.

  “You should have given up. This will be your last attempt,” Romanov said.

  Elena suddenly fell to the ground as the Romanov blade came out of the practice form. She cried out as the fall jarred her knee and she closed her eyes against the pain, but she didn’t drop the sword. She landed on her back with the sword grasped in both hands. It took long seconds to catch her breath and regain her feet. Seconds Romanov didn’t have. As she opened her eyes and stood, the Volkhvy’s hands glowed. His blade had been knocked from his fingers, but he looked prepared to unleash some kind of spell against the man she’d been kissing minutes before.

  “No,” Elena shouted. She ran toward the men with the sapphire blade held high.

  But there was no time for spells or the Romanov blade. Romanov plunged the dull practice sword into the Volkhvy’s chest. The rusty metal must have penetrated the witchblood man’s heart. Thick black blood bubbled up from the wound and from between the man’s lips as he fell to the snowy ground.

  Romanov fell to his knees beside his old adversary and grasped him by the lapels of his leather trench coat. He jerked him up toward his face. Elena stopped dead in her tracks and lowered the Romanov blade before the gruesome scene.

  “Take Grigori a message. Tell him Elena Pavlova belongs to no one but herself,” Romanov said. “And that Bronwal is defended. For eternity.”

  Elena started and dropped the Romanov blade when the bleeding man hazed before her eyes and disappeared leaving nothing but a puddle of steaming black blood on the ground. The sword fell with a solid thud that caused Romanov to rise to his feet and turn as if he was prepared to face another challenger.

  “It’s a defense mechanism. Volkhvy fade back to their home when they’re gravely injured,” Romanov explained. There was black blood on Romanov’s sculpted cheek. From it a slow curl of steam rose in the air. His hair was loose now. It had come unbound during the fight. Long black waves framed his face. His hands were clenched. His chest rose and fell from the exertion of defeating a magical foe. But it was his eyes that caught her attention. They tracked from the sword on the ground to the practice form, to her face and back again.

  “You tried to bring me the Romanov blade,” he said.

  “You warned Grigori away,” Elena replied.

  He stalked toward her looking battered and bruised, but the confident look in his eyes and the puddle of Volkhvy blood on the ground made him seem invincible. Why had she been so desperate to help him when he had refused to help her?

  The answer came from the things he’d said to the witchblood man.

  She thought he would pick up the blade she’d dropped, but he stepped over it instead. He’d already recovered. His breathing was no longer labored. As she watched, the black blood completely evaporated from his face. He ignored the sword and came to stand directly in front of her, his attention fully on her. His penetrating gaze caused a flush to rise as she remembered her hungry response to his kiss.

  “I’m no longer Vasilisa’s champion against the Dark Volkhvy. I’m no one’s champion. But I am the last Romanov and I stand to defend Bronwal. Forever. I warned Grigori away for that reason and that reason alone,” Romanov said.

  “Why didn’t the alpha wolf...or any of the wolves come to help you?” Elena asked. The courtyard was empty. The sunlight was hidden behind clouds that had drifted in sometime during the fight. New snow fell in soft silence. Fluffy white flakes contrasted against Romanov’s dark hair for brilliant seconds before they melted. The black waves released from his queue grew damp once more.

  Romanov laughed softly and the snow globe the world had become suddenly crystallized and warmed at the same time. Elena hugged herself to keep from reaching out to him because his laugh was hollow rather than happy.

  “I don’t need wolves to fight a Volkhvy of Dominique’s degree. Only the lesser witches come for the Romanov blade in its current state. Its power has faded. It holds no attraction or appeal to greater witches,” Romanov said.

  “Grigori would never fall to a common sword. Even if it pierced his heart,” Elena guessed. Deep down she’d already known. That’s why she’d sought the help of the alpha wolf.

  “This blade is far from common. But it is also far from what it was when it was given to my father,” Romanov said. He turned away to bend and retrieve the jeweled sword. The sapphire in its hilt winked dully in the cloudy light.

  Elena reached to touch the sapphire. She wasn’t sure why. The dark gem was cool and damp beneath her fin
gers.

  “It’s very old,” she said.

  Romanov had frozen and she was reminded of her first glimpse of him last night. He stared at her face as if he saw something in it that caught his attention and wouldn’t let him look away. The snow was falling more heavily and it swirled around the place where their bodies kept it from the ground. But when she looked from the gem up to his eyes he was no longer a legendary figure come to life. He was a complicated man. One who swore he was no hero while at the same time warning her greatest enemy away.

  “It isn’t age that diminishes the stone. It’s dishonor,” he said. “It wasn’t meant to be brandished by a traitor.”

  Elena withdrew her hand and Romanov blinked and looked away from her face. He lowered the blade until its tip pointed to the snowy ground.

  “You’ve carried the weight of your father’s mistake for a long time,” Elena said. “But I can also see that you aren’t bowed beneath this burden. You might doubt that you’re still a champion, but your body knows. You don’t fight like a man with nothing to lose. You fight like a man with everything to lose. I can see that the stone doesn’t shine,” Elena continued as she turned to walk away through the accumulating snow. “But I can also see that you still do. You shine. And you could help me if you would.”

  He didn’t reply and she didn’t pause. She left him and his dishonored blade in the whiteout of falling snow. She wouldn’t kiss him again. She would avoid him while she sought the alpha wolf. The ferocity of his unexpected needs drew her, as did the skin-to-skin electricity between them. But she hadn’t climbed the mountain to find a seductive lover. She’d answered a call that couldn’t be denied and she’d come to find a way to defeat the witchblood prince.

  Chapter 5

  She’d tasted like honey cakes and her scent had been feminine and minty sweet. The combination had gone to his head like a mead brewed for maximum potency and pleasure. Romanov sought out his rooms and the cold comfort of a bath to wash away the remnants of his long training session and his battle with Dominique. He used a rough cloth to sluice icy water over his skin. Crazy that he should kiss her. But it was a crazy inspired by sizzling attraction that clouded his thinking and burned in his blood. She should have been frightened away by his brothers, by the castle, by his tales of Ether-mad people wandering the halls.

  Instead, her body had melded against his chest in his arms. She’d reached for him. She’d held on tight. She’d eagerly welcomed the thrusting of his tongue. She’d tasted him. She’d moaned and sighed as if her body craved more intimate contact with his than could be had in a courtyard in the snow.

  The cold water was useless against the onslaught of sensations his mind insisted on recalling—one by one in slow, torturous succession. He hardened with the memory and he was glad he’d filled his own tub. He didn’t need an audience for his body’s reaction half an hour after Elena Pavlova had allowed—nay, participated in—an embrace and kiss that shouldn’t have happened.

  Once again, he’d been surprised by how powerfully muscular her seemingly delicate dancer’s body could be. He’d wanted to rip her clothes away so he could explore and appreciate every taut line, every smooth curve. Not to mention the soft, full breasts that contrasted with her spare frame and the warm, hidden crevices he could only imagine.

  Oh damn, how he could imagine them.

  Many Cycles had come and gone since he’d been alive enough to feel like this. And even more since he’d been foolish enough to act on the feelings. He was cursed. He wasn’t free to crave and savor and...

  His body was reddened from its rough washing when he stood to allow soapy cold water to run off his skin. He wouldn’t indulge his erection. He left the bath instead, wrapped in a sheet that was tattered and faded. No one had been prescient enough to mend or replace linens in a long time.

  He walked to the window and pressed open the stained glass that had been added centuries after the castle was constructed. Throughout the castle there was evidence of the passage of time. People had tried to carry on. Some still did. The window’s iron hinges protested, but the cold air rushed in, bathing his moist face and chilling his body temperature. He needed the blast of winter air.

  Dominique wasn’t dead. A normal blade would never kill a Volkhvy. His bold message would be delivered to Grigori. He’d told Elena he wasn’t a champion. He’d told her the alpha wolf wouldn’t help her. Both of those things were true. But he was a defender of his family’s enclave and he would be here when Grigori came for the dancer he had claimed.

  If he assumed wolf form to fight the witchblood prince, he might lose himself to it as his brothers had. Bronwal would be deserted and the Romanov blade would be up for grabs. The Dark Volkhvy might gain a foothold that couldn’t be dislodged without a clearly sentient person to stand against them.

  He couldn’t risk the shift even for Elena Pavlova.

  From where he stood he could see the ravens that circled around Elena’s tower. They soared like feathered shadows around her room. It seemed a dark foreshadowing of what was to come.

  His only option was to force her to leave Bronwal.

  Cruel that he should continue to taste her and recall with perfect clarity the bold strokes of her tongue.

  He wasn’t sure how he would drive her away when everything in him wanted her to stay.

  But he had no choice.

  She’d fallen to the ground when she’d pulled the Romanov blade from the practice form in the courtyard. It had been a hard, bone-jarring fall. The blond waves of her hair had tumbled into her face and her eyes had closed. She hadn’t seen what he’d seen as her body flew backward. It hadn’t been the weight of the blade or the momentum of her jerk that had sent her to the ground.

  The dormant, fading sapphire in the hilt of the Romanov blade had flared in her hands. A powerful force had radiated out from the awakened gem. It was that force that had sent her petite body to the ground.

  The stone had dimmed immediately after and it hadn’t glowed again when she rose to her feet and picked it up. But it hadn’t been his imagination. The sapphire had reacted to Elena’s touch. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d felt the same awakening in her presence. Not to mention what her touch did to him. An hour later, and the blood in his veins still thrummed from the fleeting kiss they’d shared.

  As the ravens swooped and soared, he lifted his hand to feel his lips as if he would be able to feel the ghost of her heat on his mouth as well as he did within.

  The wolf he kept buried howled deep in his chest, but not as deep as it had been before Elena arrived. She tested his control. She tempted him to give in to the passions he’d denied for so many Cycles with ease.

  He had no choice but to send her away when the weather allowed it. He’d almost shifted when Dominique had taunted him in the courtyard. He couldn’t risk what he might do if Elena was still at Bronwal when the Volkhvy came to gloat at the Gathering.

  Almost as if he’d willed it to show its face, the sun burst from behind the storm clouds that had eaten its light earlier in the day. The mountains were covered in snow, but the clouds were gone and no more flakes fell from the sky.

  He couldn’t help remembering the stories of how the Romanov blade had chosen his mother. He remembered her as a ferocious warrior well able to wield it, and yet she’d died with the blade in her hands in spite of its power. She’d fallen against the Dark Volkhvy king.

  Vasilisa had created the blade for the alpha’s mate.

  He refused to accept what its wakening in Elena’s hands might mean.

  The curse changed everything. It twisted all of the old enchantments. He was doomed to stand alone forever. The sapphire’s glow only illuminated his pain.

  Chapter 6

  Evening came early as the sun set once more behind the rocky ridges of the snow-capped mountains. Elena figured out how to open one of the stained glass panels in he
r room so that she could see the brilliant red sphere as it sank. It turned the entire world to crimson and gold, while ravens continued to lazily patrol the skies around her tower. After the kiss and the fight, she’d retreated to the tower. She’d slammed the door and turned the key. But no one had followed her. She was alone except for the ever-present birds. Their constant revolutions occurred silently, with only the occasional flutter of wings.

  Once the sun went down and the world went dark, Elena took one last deep breath of the fresh air and then closed the window against the night. With the snowstorm clearing, it was only a matter of time before Romanov decided to send her away. She didn’t have long. The unwound clock in her room didn’t tick. It didn’t have to. She felt the seconds counting down with every heartbeat in her chest. The call beneath her skin had become a continual sense of urgency rather than a pulse.

  It compelled her to be brave. She didn’t have much time. She unlocked the door and left the tower to search for the alpha wolf. The long winding stairway was deserted, but when she left the tower to travel into the main part of the castle, she wasn’t alone. Lev and Soren appeared behind her. Romanov had ordered his wolves to stalk her. Their claws could be eerily quiet when they wished. But not as eerie as how loud they could be seconds later. The click-click-click that occasionally sounded behind her caused her heart to pound. She bit her lip so often against the fear that her lower lip became swollen and sensitized.

  She was already more conscious of her mouth than she’d ever been.

  She’d been kissed before. She’d enjoyed it. That pleasure was pale in comparison to what had flared between her and Romanov when their mouths had come together. He could have crushed her, easily. His arms were massive and not in that showy way that bodybuilders attained. Romanov had real, ropey muscles that flexed and released when he moved, in the same way that a dancer’s muscles stretched and released. Not for looks. For utility. It so happened that muscles built for utility were the most attractive of all. Her stomach went all molten liquid when she remembered his embrace—his calloused hand on the back of her neck, his other splayed on the curve of her lower back. He’d pulled her close, not as if she needed to be held, but as if he was hanging on for dear life.