Your Lycan or Mine? Page 2
“You don’t look like much. I could take you.”
Ash didn’t bother looking up from her drink. She’d been imbibing liquid courage to visit where her childhood died. Where everything died. She did not want to go to a place she’d only revisited in nightmares.
To top off her shitty mood, the moron standing next to her table was either an asshole looking to impress other assholes or he was suicidal. He was certainly three sheets to the wind. At the table behind him, his buddies nudged each other, grinning widely.
Cripes.
The bar was small, dark, and seedy. It smelled like smoke and piss. The vinyl chairs were all duct-taped. The jukebox was broken, so the only noise was chattering voices peppered with laughter. Ash liked it here because the parakind patrons kept to themselves. Most people and creatures knew to leave her alone. Those who didn’t end up with broken limbs.
Or worse.
Ash sipped her drink. Idly, she wondered how long the guy’s patience would hold. Would he let his testosterone get the better of him? She hoped so. Ash hadn’t punched anyone in a couple of days.
“Hey. I’m talking to you,” the jerk said, his words slurred.
Ash rolled her eyes. She itched to pull out a dagger and jab it in his temple. Instead, she picked up her drink and finished it off.
Seconds later, Nor returned to the table with two rye whiskeys. His fingernails were painted neon pink, which matched his dress, heels, and wig. His make-up, as usual, was perfect. He was sexy as a man or a woman. His werewolf form wasn’t bad, either.
Big, Tall, and Dumb sneered at Nor as he sat down. He crossed his legs and sipped his rye. He looked at Ash. “New beaux?”
“You know me, Nor. Got to beat ‘em off with a stick.”
“You wanna fight me? I’ll fry your ass.” The man reached down and grabbed her shoulder.
Ash looked up and met his gaze.
“Shit!” He let go and reared back. “They said you had a…” He trailed off, staring at her.
Diamond gaze. She’d heard it before. The night of her awakening, her eyes had turned such a light gray that they sometimes appeared translucent so that her pupils looked like black dots in orbs of white. It disturbed people—and giving ‘em the heebie-jeebies often worked to her advantage.
She looked him over. Tall, buff, dressed in jeans and a biker jacket (idiot), he was a clone of every other blustering paranormal jerk who’d tried to make their bones by kicking her ass.
It never ended well.
For them.
“I ain’t scared,” he said, regaining his composure. He looked over his shoulder and apparently got a boost of confidence from his jeering friends.
“Go away.”
“You saying I’m too tough for you?”
Nor laughed. “Oh, honey. You’re adorable.”
This was not the reaction the inebriated bully expected. He frowned. “Don’t laugh at me, bitch.”
Nor bared his teeth and let out a low growl.
Oh, for fuck’s sake! This guy had a terminal case of stupidity. Ash looked at her half-finished drink, mourning its loss as she stood up. “Let’s get out of here, Nor. I’m bored.” She put a twenty on the table. Nor tossed the rest of his drink down the hatch and regally rose to his six and a half feet. With heels, he was six foot eight.
She plucked her pink leather jacket from the back of the chair. Ash hated to be a cliché—an assassin who strode around in leather, but hell, she loved her tailored jacket. Not only was it stylish, but it also had useful magical properties.
“You running away?” Stupid yelled. “That’s right. You ain’t shit.”
Ash turned, pointed at him and released a tiny fraction of her power. Blue and white lights danced around her fingertip. “If you want to keep your soul, asshole, walk away.”
The man’s eyes widened.
Ash lifted an eyebrow and flicked the magic at him.
He yelped and turned, stumbling back toward his now silent friends.
Nor looped his arm through Ash’s. “Well, that was fun.”
NOR WENT TO to the nearby liquor store to pick up a decent bottle of bourbon. So, Ash had walked to the motel by herself. Since the bar shared the same parking lot, it only took about five minutes to reach the outdoor staircase that led to the second floor. She took the steps two at a time, rusted metal creaking in protest.
This joint was so ancient and so broken down that the owners hadn’t bothered switching to a card-key system. She liked the old-fashioned brass key rattling in the lock.
A swish of magical energy warned her she was no longer alone.
She leaned her forehead against the door. Paint flaked off and drifted to the concrete. “I’m so not in the mood to kill you.”
“I’m not in the mood to die.”
Ash looked up. Jarod leaned against the concrete wall, looking at her, his dark eyes hiding his secrets.
But not his desires.
Ash unlocked the door and swung it open. “Go away.” She went into the room and flicked on the light. It cast a dim, yellow glow from the single bulb dangling from the ceiling.
The room didn’t boast any amenities. Hell, not even the antiquated television sitting on the dresser worked. The twin beds were hard as rocks. The chair in the corner had stuffing popping out of several tears.
“Wow. What did you ask for? The hobo special?”
“I prefer low key.” Ash took off her jacket and tossed it onto the bed.
Jarod’s gaze wandered over her black, skin-tight pants tucked into sturdy black boots and her pink tank top. His lazy examination sent electric shivers across her skin.
“I recognize Bernie’s work. Not many people get to wear his creations.” His gaze flicked to the jacket. “Did he make that, too?”
Ash shrugged. Jarod had a keen eye. Her friend and literal fashion wizard Bernie made all of Ash’s clothes. He knew how to make magical materials that wouldn’t cut, burn, tear, or restrict. The jacket was one-of-a-kind. It had a dozen pockets. She could hide anything, huge or tiny, in them. They all offered endless storage, and the cloth stretched to accommodate just about any object.
Ash crawled on the bed, leaning against the cheap headboard and stretched out her legs. “What do you want?”
“I’m checking on you.”
“You mean you’re checking to see if I’m doing what the Convocation wants.”
“Convocation 2.0 isn’t so bad,” he said as he sat on the bed opposite of hers.
Most parakind were terrified of her. Nobody who liked living was completely unafraid of Ash. It was one thing to die. It was quite another to have your essence stolen and stored inside a being with the ability to assume your form. For creatures unfortunate enough to be absorbed by Ash, there was no afterlife.
Ash felt a flicker of guilt, but it did no good to feel sorry about what came naturally to her. Working for the Convocation meant maintaining the balance both ways. Whoever the Convocation marked, she’d taken their souls—good or bad.
She didn’t do that anymore.
Most people born on the Earth got to choose what kind of lives they had. They went to school or traveled or took jobs and raised families. They worried about things like love and happiness and loss and sorrow. But for Ash, there was never a choice. Sometimes, you were born into your destiny.
She couldn’t change the fact that she was a soul shifter. But only she got to decide how to live her life. Ash would never have a family or a husband or a nine-to-five job. She would never be normal, never be anything other than what she’d been born. But how she used her gift was her choice and hers alone.
Jarod seemed content in the silence and in a weak moment, she allowed herself to think that he was kinda cute.
The door flew open. Nor posed in the doorway, holding a liter of Buffalo Trace in one hand and a bag of ice in the other. “I’m ba-ack!” He looked at Jarod and grinned, obviously delighted. “Ooooh. You brought me eye candy.” He lifted the bourbon. “Drink?”
Ash held up two fingers. “I’ll have a double.”
Nor strode to the dresser and unwrapped the flimsy plastic cups provided by the motel. A couple minutes later, he handed a cup to Ash. “It’s a triple.” He took his drink and sat next to the soul shifter. “Who’s the yum?” Nor asked. He crossed his legs and looked at Jarod critically. Then he sighed dramatically. “Straight. Too bad.” He waved his manicured hand around. “I guess you can have him, Ash.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Nor’s eyes widened and he gasped. “Is he a client? Oh please, please, please let him be a paying client!”
“He’s not a client,” said Ash. “Unfortunately, he’s a minion of the new Convocation.”
“I’m not a minion,” protested Jarod.
“The Convocation?” Nor pointed at Jarod. “We don’t like those uppity bitches. You’re not here to recruit my BFF again, are you?”
“No.” He turned his gaze to Ash. “I know you received the lion’s body.”
“Because you sent it.”
He shook his head. “Not me. But I do know it’s a statue dedicated to Lilith. Lion body. Owl head. Snake necklace.”
“Do you know about the bad poetry we received with the headless beast?” Nor sipped his bourbon. “Apparently, my girl is the only one who can keep the demon Lilith from destroying the world.”
“I know about the prophecy.” He stared at Nor until the werewolf popped up and said, “I need more...um, ice. I’ll be back.”
Nor left the room, and Ash looked at Jarod. “Subtle.”
Jarod moved to her bed and put her booted feet on his lap. She eyed him suspiciously. He pulled off her boots and her thick socks, and then pushed up her pant legs and starting massaging her feet and calves.
“What are you doing?” Whoa. His strong, warm hands against her tension-filled muscles felt so good. The stiffness of stress started to drain and contentment curled in her belly. It would be stupid to give up a free massage just because she didn’t want to be attracted to Jarod. Or so she told herself. She enjoyed his touch, and her body hummed with anticipation.
“You want me,” he said.
“Said the arrogant therianthrope.”
He laughed. “I want you, too.”
Why lie? “Yeah, okay. We got sparks, but so what?”
He stopped his excellent massage. She bit back a protest. He stood up and offered her his hand. She looked up at him, feeling lazy. One eyebrow winged upward. He wiggled his fingers and with a huge sigh, she clasped his hand and he pulled her to her feet. He plucked the cup from her grasp and placed it on the rickety nightstand.
“Natasha.”
“My name is Ash.”
“Not to me.”
“Whatever.” Ash’s gaze dipped to his luscious mouth. Oh, she shouldn’t be looking at him like that. And her heart shouldn’t thunder in her chest. And she shouldn’t be even the teeniest bit attracted to him.
“You know, most humans aren’t as stubborn as you are.”
“I’m not human.”
“But you are a woman,” he said, leaning down to nuzzle her neck. “And I’m a man.”
“I’m so glad we’ve clarified our genders.” Ash figured she should pull out of his embrace. Then punch him for daring to assume she’d even consider sleeping with him. It had been a while since she’d been with anyone. Rare was the man who kept her interest. Besides, she tended to terrify most red-blooded males.
Somehow, she knew that Jarod would be the kind of man she’d never get enough of … the kind of guy that would never want to tame her, but could match her in every way. Oh, shit. She was in trouble with a capital T.
“I see your dilemma,” he said, lifting his head to stare at her. “You can’t decide if you want to kill me … or kiss me.”
“Kill you,” she whispered. “Definitely.”
His lips pulled into a wicked grin. “You could try.”
“Maybe I will,” Ash said breathlessly, her lips within tantalizing reach of Jarod’s.
The first brush of his lips was electric.
Sparks? More like nuclear explosion. Her whole body went molten. She gave in to her lust, returning his kiss with fervor, drawing him closer, wanting more.
Ash broke the kiss. She didn’t let go of him—she might collapse if she did. “What are we doing?”
“Having fun. Are you going to say I caught you in a weak moment?”
A whirlwind of emotions claimed her. She tried to sort through them and pick one to flail him with.
“You regret it. You never want it to happen again. I should take a flying leap.” His fingers stroked the small of her back in contradiction to his words.
“Do you need me to participate in the conversation?” asked Ash, the chill of her reluctance thawing with his every touch. He brushed a tender kiss on her lips. She melted completely. This was so not like her. She blew out a breath. “We shouldn’t do this … whatever this is.”
Jarod pulled back and looked at her. “We’re perfect for each other, you know.”
“That’s only possible if you don’t have a soul. When I get the munchies somebody dies.”
“You can’t take my soul, Natasha. I’m a therianthrope.”
She frowned. “So?”
“I’m the last of my kind, just as you are. I’m the one creature on this earth whose soul will never be yours.”
“How is that possible?”
“Turns out therianthropes and soul-shifters have a mating history. Did you know soul shifters were only female?”
Ash reared back. “What?”
“Soul shifters needed mates immune to their peculiar hunger.”
“Therianthropes.”
“Yes. It makes sense. You and I both can change forms. Granted my way is easier because my DNA is malleable.”
“So now we’re destined mates?” She pulled away and put distance between them. “One kiss doesn’t mean we’re gonna get married.”
Jarod laughed. “Relax, Natasha. I promise not to drag you down the aisle.”
Ash noticed he didn’t deny his belief that they were mates. She didn’t know what stunned her more: The fact he’d suggested it or the fact she didn’t hate the idea.
“I have work to do.” Flustered, she grabbed her boots off the floor and started to yank them on.
“Are you sure you want to face the past alone?”
She didn’t bother asking how he knew why she was here. After all, he’d sent her this direction with all that talk of remembering where the first sacrifices were made.
“You really think my parents’ deaths are because of Lilith? That she knew I was the one who could keep her bound?”
“Yes,” he murmured. “They had you, the statue, and the prophecy. The problem is that Lilith struck before they could prepare you. And then the Convocation scooped you up.”
“Yeah. And what a joy that turned out to be.”
Jarod stepped closer to her and cupped her face. His concerned gaze met hers. “Do you need back-up?”
“I have to do this alone,” said Ash. “I’m not even taking Nor.”
“If you need me…” He trailed off, his gaze filled with genuine concern.
“Yeah,” she said, uncomfortable with his obvious worry for her. “Thanks.”
Chapter Three
Marietta, Ohio
CLAIRE GLASS WANDERED among the garage-sale treasures. She touched votive candles, potholders, Matchbox cars, and a cookbook. Her fingertips relayed the differences in textures. Smooth. Soft. Bumpy. She could see the sizes and shapes of the items.
The colors were missing.
Gray permeated her once vibrant world. How she longed to see a red rose, a blue sky, and a green Starbuck’s logo. Had it been only a year since every happy thing in her life had been stolen? The man she loved. The wedding they’d planned. The new promotion she’d gotten. Hmph. Difficult to be an interior designer without the ability to see color. E
ven their dream house, which they’d only moved into the week before the accident, had been taken.
Without Henry or her job, she hadn’t been able to afford the mortgage payments. Now, she lived in a tiny apartment trying to make ends meet with disability and Henry’s life insurance money.
When she’d come out of the coma, the doctors told her that her cerebral cortex had been damaged. Cerebral achromatopsia was the result. She was lucky to be alive and luckier still that only her limited vision was the price paid for the same wreck that took Henry’s life.
Snap out of it, girl. Pity parties are so lame. Claire rounded the corner of the table and looked at the items displayed on a rickety bookshelf. Her fingers danced along an assortment of Precious Moments figurines. She knew why she was so damned mopey. Today would’ve been her first wedding anniversary. Had Henry lived, they would be celebrating, maybe even taking the first step toward starting a family.
Her gaze swept the driveway, looking at the careless displays of toys, shoes, and tools. What the—
Heart thumping, Claire leaned down and reached into the cardboard box labeled “Miscellaneous ~ 25¢ each.” The owl head was as wide as her hand and looked familiar. She could see groves in the neck where the head connected to another piece. It was a shame it wasn’t intact, but the broken statuary was still extraordinary.
She saw its color.
The owl head was a brilliant red. Claire looked around. If she could see color again, maybe her vision was getting better. What did doctors know? Miracles happened every day.
As her eager gaze bounced around the neighborhood -- staring at cars, at people, at lawns, she saw the dreary grayness she always did. She looked at the owl head again. For some odd reason, she only saw this object in color.
She stared at it, searching her memory. Where had she seen this before?
Natasha’s house.
Her best friend in junior high, Natasha Nelson, had shown her the odd statue during a sleepover. It had an owl head, a lion body, and a snake necklace. Natasha’s father studied ancient cultures and supposedly he’d found it on some kind of dig in Israel.