Breathless Page 3
“You don’t need to stop crying, Rosalin,” I whispered. “We’re here. You can fall apart. It’s okay. We’ll hold you.”
The great sobs that had shook her body picked up again. Rosalin screamed, one long and angry scream, her face contorted with the pain. She threw her head back and howled. Even if I wasn’t a lycanthrope, I would’ve caught the mourning and sorrowful tune of her song.
The wolf’s need rushed through me and I tilted my head back, echoing the lonesome call in a long, clean note.
Rosalin nestled into me tighter and offered her voice to mine.
Distantly, I felt Lenorre shifting her arm, sensed the ripples of other energies entering the room. The air was heavy with the scent of rich soil and patchouli.
Another call came, echoing Rosalin’s. I raised my face to find Trevor, one of the more submissive wolves of the Blackthorne pack, standing in the doorway with tears in his brown eyes. He dropped to his knees and we, my wolf and I, knew that he was waiting for permission.
I held my hand out and he crawled to us, keeping his head low to the ground so that all I could see was the bleached blond of his surfer hair. In his jeans and blue shirt, he knelt by Rosalin, reaching for her uncertainly, as if he was afraid of how she would react.
A high and concerned whimper emitted from his throat.
Rosalin brushed his hand and Trevor plastered his body against hers, bumping us roughly enough that if it wasn’t for Lenorre’s support, we would have fallen over.
The smell of forest fell over us like a comforting blanket. Someone nudged my hand and I opened my eyes.
Claire’s full lips brushed across my knuckles. Her wide hazel eyes searched mine. I knew by the confused look that Claire probably had no idea why she felt the urge to join us. Though she was gaining better control over her wolf, the wolf’s urges were still strong within her, strong enough that she probably came to us without realizing it.
I knew she had a room upstairs, but until that moment I hadn’t known she was having Thanksgiving with us. I touched her cheek, pushing the brown tresses away from her face. She accepted the invitation, and Trevor moved so that she had room to join our little snuggle party.
I smelled air and rain, like sky and slick streets. Zaphara stood above us. She was fey, not a lycanthrope, and I didn’t always get along with her, but the energy spilling from her skin caressed mine, calling to the blood in my veins, like two droplets of water colliding. She did not wait for my permission, but knelt and rested a hand on Rosalin. Her aubergine hair was pulled back in its usual tight braid. Her model features were striking, but it was her eyes that made me hold her gaze. Her eyes, shining like amethysts, were filled with such soft compassion I was reluctant to turn her away.
Rosalin’s tears slowed, but even after the tears stopped fallng, we held her. We comforted her. Lenorre’s energy was a cool balm against my back, like a slight breath of winter wind. I cradled the arm she had wrapped around my waist.
“Thank you,” Rosalin whispered, to me, to all of us.
Trevor responded, “We’re your family.”
Rosalin looked at me, eyes still damp and red from crying. She smiled sadly.
“It’s true,” I said, brushing aside a strand that had broken free of her ponytail.
“I know,” she said, “but uh, you guys are kind of smooshing me.”
I laughed, leaning back against Lenorre.
“It seems your wolf is feeling better,” Lenorre said.
“Yes,” I said, not bothering to argue whether she was my wolf or not. In that moment, I agreed with Trevor. We were family.
Claire peeked at me from around Trevor’s shoulder. “That was amazing,” she said, tears still damp on her cheeks. “I’ve never felt so whole…so at peace with myself.”
Rosalin actually giggled. “Welcome to the pack.”
“But you’re not a part of the pack,” Claire said to me.
“No, but she has the mark of an alpha and you answered her call,” Zaphara said rather cryptically.
I met her gaze and the look in her eyes was more Zaphara, less compassionate and more tricksy and mysterious.
“What made you want to join?”
“I’m fey,” she said, as if that explained everything. I let it go.
“We should speak with Rupert,” Lenorre said.
I clutched the robe, holding it carefully in place as I tried to get to my feet. I didn’t get very far, considering Rosalin was practically sitting in my lap and Trevor and Claire were still pressed against her.
“Yeah,” I said, “we should before he starts wondering what the hell is going on.”
Lenorre helped me to my feet and drew my back against her chest, hugging my waist.
“Shit,” Rosalin said as she got to hers. “Fucking shit!”
“What?”
She ran for the door, calling over her shoulder, “The bird!”
Trevor and Claire hurried out after Rosalin. Zaphara crossed her arms over her chest, considering me.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. I believe Rosalin will be relieved when she finds that I rescued her bird before it was beyond edible.”
“What did you do, pull the stove out of the wall?”
She scoffed. “No, why would I do that?”
I played my nails across Lenorre’s arms.
Lenorre’s laugh thrummed against my back. “Kassandra is implying that she does not believe you know how to find your way around a kitchen, Zaphara.”
“I don’t,” she admitted. I hadn’t actually thought it was true, but had thought the joke would irritate her. “However, opening the door and taking the turkey out when the timer went off wasn’t exactly difficult.”
“Who knew you cared,” I said.
“I wouldn’t have,” she said in a bland voice, if Zaphara’s sultry voice could ever be bland, “if I wasn’t going to be partaking in eating it.”
Such was Zaphara.
*
We met in the upstairs parlor. Rupert sat in one of the white armchairs, wearing a dark sweater and black jeans. The brown spikes of his hair were gelled into place. When I entered, he stood and offered a black case that he’d been holding in his lap.
“What is this?” I asked.
“A belated birthday present.”
“From you?” I asked, taking the heavy case.
“No.” His blue-gray eyes went to Lenorre.
I gave her a suspicious look. “What did you do?”
She smiled, silvery eyes sparkling in the brightly lit room.
“Open it and see.”
I sat on the edge of the couch and opened the case. I recognized the beveled slide serrations and shiny steel. The breath caught in my throat. I ran the tip of my finger over the word Kimber engraved on the side of the gun.
I’d been wanting that gun for a while. I’d actually mentioned it once to Rupert. The last I knew, he didn’t have any in stock, and even if he’d given me a discount, it was still a little too expensive for my tastes.
“Kass, you can close your mouth,” Rupert said.
I couldn’t help it. I stared at Lenorre. “You didn’t have to do this.”
She traced the white streak in my hair. “I wanted to.”
Something hit the couch and I jumped. I turned to find a shoulder rig that Rupert had practically launched at me.
“That one your girlfriend shouldn’t be able to rip apart so easily,” he said.
I looked at Lenorre. “You told him about that?”
She lifted her shoulders. “It came up briefly when I was replacing the other.”
I grabbed a handful of her curls and tugged her head down to mine, kissing her softly.
“Thank you,” I whispered, this time against her lips.
“You are more than welcome.” She touched my throat and something about the way she did it made my cheeks flush with heat, reminded me of what we’d been doing earlier and what we had left to finish.
“I will meet you in
the dining room. No doubt Rosalin is setting the table.” She looked at Rupert. “You are welcome to join us, if you wish.”
Rupert nodded. “Thanks.”
“I’ll be there in a moment,” I said.
I watched the way the high heels made her hips sway, the way the slacks hugged her very delicious form and spilled down her legs, the way her onyx curls fell, dancing at her waist.
“You’re really in love with her,” Rupert said, almost casually.
“Yes.” I sighed. “I am hopelessly, completely, madly, and sinfully in love with that woman.”
“Huh.” He looked uncharacteristically thoughtful. “You know, I haven’t exactly been nice to her, but I’m starting to think maybe the Countess is good for you, Kass. She seems good to you.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re not giving her enough credit, Rupert.”
He grinned, blue eyes hardening coldly. “I’m not giving her more than that, Kass.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “I will. Are you going to stay?”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“You’re a brother to me,” I said. “Of course I want you to stay.”
The smile he gave me made his eyes warmer. Well, as warm as they got. “I’ll stay.”
“Good.” I led the way to the dining room. The table had already been set, and Lenorre sat at the far end. I took the empty chair next to her.
Lenorre’s lips brushed my ear. “After you are well fed we have other matters to attend to.”
I met the seductive look in her gray eyes. “Trust me, I’m all yours.”
Lee Lynch
The characters in “The Top” first appeared in Sweet Creek and Toothpick House (www.boldstrokesbooks.com).
The Top
Lee Lynch
Annie Heaphy had been to Oregon several times to visit Vicky, usually when her life was flipping ass over teakettle. They would always drive to the coast for a day, but this time they headed inland, where Vicky had promised to spend Christmas Day with a couple who ran a natural food store. Vicky’s wife, Jade, was stuck in Mumbai, where her company had sent her for three months.
“Good career move,” Vicky had explained.
“Bad for the heart,” Annie had muttered as the old wave of love for Vicky washed through her. Lately she’d started beating herself up again: should she have agreed to move cross country with Vicky all those years ago? Would they have stayed together? It was sad, but Vicky and Jade made a better match. Although Vicky was still her best friend, the friendship was laced with regrets.
Vicky’s small law firm had clients who were sometimes a three-hour drive away, dug into little valleys and hidden in the hills. Going south, Vicky had told her, she always stopped for lunch at Natural Woman Foods, did a little shopping to support them, and brought home one of Donny’s excellent cinnamon pull-aparts. Every year Vicky sent one for Annie’s birthday. It always made Annie’s girlfriend, Chantal, kind of pissy, because Chantal wanted the star attraction to be the cake her gay son, a baker, made. That Annie wouldn’t share her ex’s gift with anyone but Chantal, while she shared Ralph’s cakes with everyone Chantal invited over, was a sore point. Annie’s sore point was the party itself. She was vastly uncomfortable, her face glowing hot and red, as she opened birthday presents and gave out the expected thank-you hugs along with wisecracks.
They could smell the roasting turkey even before Chick, who Vicky said was the other half of the Natural Foods couple, opened the door for them at the top of a steep narrow staircase that ran up an outside wall. Chick’s hug and exclamation of delight welcomed them to a real home, perched though it was above the store. Outside she’d been chilly from the icy fog; in here, a living room woodstove pumped out the most genuine heat she’d ever felt. She wanted to melt into the couch, hang like a drape, stretch out like the braided rug, and hoped Donny and Chick never redecorated.
She’d left Chantal back in Morton River Valley with her daughter, son, and their families. Chantal Zak was an adorable pudgy fifty, and Annie didn’t know if she could stand another minute with her. Could she breathe better in Oregon because the air really was better, or was it because Chantal was on the other side of the country? Maybe she just wanted a little break; she so wanted them to stay together. She didn’t have to make a decision today, not Christmas Day. Or did she? She was waiting for Chantal to call at 5:00, after a long day with her kids’ grandparents.
Chick led Vicky and Annie through the kitchen, where a woman in overalls said, “Come on in! I’m Donny.” Donny slid the turkey out of the oven with the help of a radically short-haired younger woman who called, “Yo, dude, dude-ess, Jeep here.”
As the last arrivals, Vicky and Annie were introduced to a host of women, each of whom was engaged in some task: setting the table, playing with a little round-faced boy, braiding evergreen branches into a wreath, peeling foil off steaming bowls of potluck offerings, playing holiday songs on guitar, adding ornaments to the Christmas tree, lighting all the candles on a menorah. She immediately forgot most of the names, but let herself be seated, with some ceremony, at the long table, across from Vicky. She removed her tweed cap and shook out her shaggy fair hair.
The witchy-looking woman who’d been making the wreath stood by what looked like a round pig trough, the kind Annie had seen at county fairs. It was big enough for a prize hog to bathe in, but filled with gifts. The woman raised her hand, and as if by her power, all the lights went off, including those on the Christmas tree. Annie spied two assistants—or were they acolytes?—at the lights. The witchy woman, who seemed familiar somehow, spoke of coming home to celebrate solstice. She went on about the plant-themed gifts brought by all the guests (Vicky had provided handcrafted vanilla-scented sachets), and about Yuletide, Yule, and the heathen feast Jul. She placed the wreath in the center of the table, explaining its history over the centuries.
“The darkness gives us rest,” she pronounced, “and the light gives us life.” The woman lifted a long butane lighter, the kind used for barbecues, flame shooting to a candle set in the middle of the wreath. Annie glanced around for another exit and made note of the front door. Wasn’t anyone else worried about fire?
Immediately, that door opened and a tall figure loomed in it for a moment, then stepped inside and closed the door, silently, behind her.
“Jesus, R,” the newcomer said, with a quiet authority. “Are you trying to burn the place down?”
The woman called R raised her hands and the lights came on. The room looked dazzling now.
Donny said, “Come on in, Joan.”
Joan pulled off her cap, its Sheriff’s Department emblem matching the one on her jacket. She did not remove her gun belt or radio. “Sorry I’m late.” She took the empty seat next to Cat—not a name Annie would forget.
“We’re just eating,” Donny said and stuck platters of turkey on the table. “If R is done searing the wreath.”
The woman called R bowed her head and, with a smile that broadcast long-suffering tolerance and a humble superiority, sat.
All hell broke loose then, with bowls passing, serving spoons scraping, a splat of jellied cranberry sauce on the little boy’s lap, and everyone talking at once. This reminded Annie of Christmases when she was a kid, with the aunts and uncles, the off-color guffaws, the goosing, the spilling, the pouring of cider from a thick glass gallon jug—which Chick was doing for her right now.
Chick’s presence felt like the sun emerging on a gloomy day. Chick pressed her hand on Annie’s shoulder as she went by. Had Chick said “Hot
butch” to her?
There was wine on the table, but she didn’t want the scratchy-eyed feeling that came later, when it wore off. She stuck to cider and to figuring out who this R woman looked like. The woman next to her, Sarah, was saying she was an architect. How she and Jeep were from Reno, Nevada, originally and were going to Idaho to get married and would have a baby as soon as she could manage it, but they’d had no luck with that so far. Sarah sat with the smiling little boy between her and Cat. “Luke’s mom,” she explained, “is visiting her other kids in Mexico.” When Annie raised her eyebrows at this, Sarah stroked Luke’s head and added, “It’s complicated.”
Annie was reminded of Chantal and her kids. Why couldn’t she have gotten together with a childless dyke? She was with kids all day at work: driving them, teaching life skills to those who could use them, feeding and cleaning up those who couldn’t. Then to spend a weekend with Chantal fussing over her visiting grandkids, endlessly cleaning up after them—and corralling Annie to help keep the house spotless—it got a little much.
Chantal had always been persnickety. Now, though, Annie worried she’d become obsessive. She was still a terrific lover, but was more and more particular even about sex. Had Annie washed, you know, down there? Brushed her teeth? Locked the doors? Turned off the lights? There was little spontaneity, though the lovemaking was frequent and enthusiastic. At least their periods were over. That had entailed a whole other set of rules.
The woman, R, had stopped saying her weird kind of grace. Annie whispered to Sarah, “What’s R’s real name?”
“Oh,” said Sarah. “It’s Rattlesnake. I mean, maybe not her birth name; I hope not her birth name. Rattlesnake’s the only name I hear her called.”
“Does she use a last name?” She’d seen R before. She would have asked Vicky, but Jeep was speaking expansively to her about the secondhand shop she owned and her fiddle.