Blood Enchantment (11 page)

“I am Tahlia, Princess of the Lanarre pack from the Redwood.”

Confused, they regard one another then their attention razors on her like sharp slits. The one with the abused crotch stands, slowly shaking his head, giving Tessa a hard glare.

Shit.

“The chosen has arrived ahead of Drek. We do not know who
you
are—but your impersonation of the chosen will
not
be met with tolerance.”

Tahlia's mouth drops open.

What?
Tessa turns her stunned expression to Tahlia.

His eyes move to Tessa's. “And your cavorting with a horned one?” His smile lacks warmth.

Tessa's cheeks heat. Hell, she'd punched him in the dick
and
had a demonic in tow. She wasn’t winning any popularity contests.

Like ever.
“He's gone now,” Tessa whispers, hoping Laz will stay gone, Redemptive or not.

The Lanarre’s grin is toothy, though the smile never reaches his eyes.

Tessa scents Tahlia's confusion and, underneath that, her fear.

Amen.

“But that doesn't matter. The demonic was
here
, escorting two Were females”—his gaze flicks to Tahlia—“one a Lanarre—on her own.” His eyebrows rise significantly.

“So what? Females can't travel together?”

He shakes his head. “A Lanarre female of any repute would have male escorts or if she were royalty—her family guard.”

His chin lifts. “You are not
she
.” His slick black eyebrows drop over molten-silver eyes. “But we will get to the bottom of who you
really
are.”

“I am Tahlia,” she seethes. “You ridiculous Lanarre, can you not scent my purity?”

Uh-oh.

He rushes her.

Bravely, Tahlia plants her feet wide. She has obviously never felt the hand of a male against her.

His nose goes to her crotch and Tessa blanches.

Tahlia chops her hand on the back of his neck in a hard stroke of such instinctive quickness, he rolls to the side.

He kicks her in the stomach, and she yelps, hands to belly as she falls slowly to the forest floor.

Tessa steps forward and chin-checks him against the side of the tree.

The Lanarre close in.

It takes six males to subdue them. In the end, they do more than that. They steal Tessa's hope.

The Lanarre of the Hoh region isn't a sanctuary.

It's a prison.

Drek

Drek lands steps from the healing Were on the ground.

He barks.
Explain
.

Drek watches understanding flow over the Alpha's features. The Alpha knows Drek is Lanarre royalty after one inhaled chuff.

“Forgive me, prince,” the Alpha grovels.

A ripple of power, stolen from the moon, tears through Drek. He pushes it over the Alpha, blanketing him in Drek's will.

The Alpha flattens on the dirt. Only a thin layer of skin covers the pulsating wounds of his stomach. Drek's lip lifts, and a low growl hums through the space between house, driveway, and barn.

The horned one whirls, looking as though he'll come for Drek.

Bowen moves through the assembled but scattered Singer population, and the horned one steams from the holes of his evil body, but he does not draw nearer.
Clever creature.

He cannot take two full werewolves. He's decided to cut his losses.

Drek allows Bowen the lead so that he might change into wolfen. He scents that Tahlia's fragrance is no longer fresh. Staying in werewolf form offers him no benefit. Drek rises on his hind legs, melting the things of wolf to the part-form of wolfen. He tamps down on the relief of shifting in reverse, which is always easier and less painful than becoming his beast. He ignores the murmurs from the Singers and levels his attention on the horned one.

“I have no quarrel with you, Lanarre,” the evil one hisses. He swings a mallet-like tail above his head.

Drek takes in the spiked appendages at its end. He is a fearsome creature, but Drek is unafraid. He and Bowen will prevail.

Drek has not come face to face with a demonic in many years. That he has today, with Tahlia in such close proximity, causes a profound unease to creep over his skin. In the presence of evil only a few yards away, the fine silver hairs of his wolfen stand on end.

“We have no quarrel
yet
, horned one.” Drek feels the potential simmering between them.

The red horror of the demonic grins, his black teeth causing his mouth to appear as a yawning hole inside his face. Low vapor rises, sucked by the light breeze of night succumbing to dawn. He throws his head back, laughing.

Drek does not see the humor.

“I have business here that has nothing to do with our cousin, the Lanarre.”

Drek jerks his jaw back, voicing his displeasure in growling words, “We are not relations, demonic.”

“
Au contraire
,” he wags a finger. “You are very much under the call of the Master, if you possess even a bit of Red in those blueblood veins of yours.”

Low murmurs from the assembled Singers become louder, but Drek ignores them. The demonic before him poses a greater threat than they do.

Drek wonders suddenly where the leadership might be for the region, but he takes charge of the conversation at hand. “Then rest easy, demonic—for I do not have the necessary blood to cause me to be a malleable specimen for the devil.”

Bowen comes to stand beside him.

His presence strengthens Drek. Where three of their kind come together, as with all magics, they become more powerful than if they stood alone. Still, two will do.

They warily and loosely circle each other. “Then why are
you
here—for I scent my chosen.”

The Were at his feet blanches.

Drek refocuses a sharp look at the Alpha. “What do you know, Alpha of the Western?” At least, he smells like the west.

The Alpha's nostrils flare. “I have not touched your chosen,” he nearly wails.

That,
Drek believes. Tahlia would have this male for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She's classically trained, like all Lanarre royalty. In theory, she should be an impressive female in all areas.

“Speak,” Drek commands in a low voice.

The demonic inches closer.

Bowen growls, his lips peeling back to showcase the razor-sharp teeth of his wolfen form.

The demonic halts. Steam pours from his mouth and nostrils; additional vapor covers his revealed skin like a layer of smoke.

The Singersʼ voices rise. Drek gives them a cursory sweep with his eyes. They appear human, but that can be deceiving. His understanding is complete. They have talents that rival the strength, nose, and speed of Lycans. But they are not a species at direct odds with the Lanarre. He returns his attention to the cowardly packmaster of the west, who is attempting to stand while holding his writhing guts inside his body.

“I have been seeking my intended for twenty years! She has led me  here,” the Alpha mewls.

Drek reins in his temper to extract additional information just before a loud female voice interrupts. “She didn't want to go with this guy!”

All heads turn to a taller female Singer.

Drek's nostrils flare. She is Were, as well, though changed, not born.
Interesting.

“This numbnuts came charging in here after she'd only been here a day, and she took off like the devil was chasing her.”

Drek blinks, deliberating on the pun within her words. Her modern way of talking and lack of elegance is shocking. However, she
is
changed. That can make all the difference. Tall but slight, she has longish blond hair and piercing emerald eyes.

“And this fire prick?” she goes on, pointing at the demonic, “He
pretended
to be a Singer! But really? He tried to hurt Jules—I know it. And we're really fucking sure he killed Jason.”

The Singers break out in screams and shouts, surrounding the demonic.

Drek will not be a referee in supernatural matters between species who are meaningless to the Lanarre. He raises a palm. “Thank you, female.”

She purses her lips, nonplussed by his dismissal.

Drek feels a shrug coming on.
You cannot win them all, as the humans say.
He scans the faces of the Blood Singers of Region One. His scenting tells him many things.

Death clings to Region One.

A battle or massacre of epic proportions took place here in the recent past. If the demonic have been loosened in this realm, whatever is afoot will affect them all. And why an Alpha would seek his legitimate intended for two decades reeks of foul play and the breakdown of the Western.

But none of these factors are enough for Drek to concern himself with.  “I am looking for my chosen. She is a Lanarre princess.”

Blank looks answer him.

Her scent is here. Someone has interacted with her; Drek is sure of it. He ignores the demonic, who seems to be searching for a handy escape route. Drek gives equal inattention to the Alpha at his feet.

Drek is keenly aware of Tahlia’s appearance. Photographs have been exchanged. “She stands this high.” He holds the edge of his hand just beneath his shoulder. “Black hair that is curled to her waist, with eyes the color of twilight meeting night.”

Silence.

Then the part-Were female says, “Listen, pal—she took off with this jerk's intended.” She makes funny little curls with her fingertips as though plucking the word out of the sky. “So she's gone. And this demon guy's side-kick? She took off with the Alpha's
intended
”—she says the word with clear distaste—“so since you don't want to join the party in helping keep these guys in line, they went thataway.” She points due north.

Drek smiles. He supposes she's helpful—in her way. “Lanarre do not engage in altercations with other species. Tahlia will be in need of our protection.”

Drek sinks to his haunches beside the Alpha male from the Western, who cringes away. “If you follow my chosen, for any reason,
supposed
intended or not, I will tear the guts that have just healed out of your body and hang you with them.” Drek’s voice remains deadly with intent, never changing in modulation.

He stands.

The female Were crosses her arms, glaring at him with disdain. Bowen and Drek exchange a look.

The demonic's face is hard, cunning and determined. “My subordinate is with the group that accompany your chosen.”

Frowning, Drek says,
“That is not a consideration of the Lanarre.”

The demonic smiles. “It is to me!” he says with a hiss. In a flash, he's blurred like a red smear to the tree line and beyond. The collective gasp of the crowd is a hushed bomb of surprise.

Drek's frown turns to a scowl. He wants nothing to do with the demonic, but he will do whatever is necessary to protect Tahlia.

If he must dance with the devil, then he shall.

The crowd parts as Drek and Bowen step over the fallen Alpha.

*

Bowen scoops the gravel from the shoulder as his nose hovers over slightly damp gravel. He sifts it between his fingers.

“She was here.”

Drek is impressed. He does not believe that Tahlia ever got out of the vehicle that was used in the quick exit they made from Region One. Bowen would have to smell her, layered underneath fossil fuel, manmade asphalt of indeterminate origin, forest, vegetation, and the indigenous wild animal population.

His head turns sharply in Bowen's direction. “Do you think Tahlia might be heading toward the den?” The thought process makes sense. She's probably frightened and unsure. Seeking Drek's pack is solid thinking.

Bowen considers, tossing the gravel away from them. “Not sure.” His wolfen snout points in a generally northwestern direction. His spinning silver eyes find Drek's. “If she does, that benefits us.”

“But not her companions.”

Bowen gives him a look of disbelief and a snort so finely executed, it sounds almost exactly as it would if he stood before Drek in human form. “Does that matter, really?”

No.
Yet, they somehow had a hand in Tahlia's rescue. Or Tahlia somehow helped
them
. Without the details, Drek is not happy dismissing their lives so quickly. And one is a female Were. He scented her. Unfortunately, the demonic, like the vampire, are scentless.

“I suppose
no
,” he finally answers, “but I believe this female rogue was the one who Tahlia assisted back at the highway. And as I put the pieces together, I further postulate that the Alpha who was so neatly gutted at Region One is part of her capture. And Tahlia interrupted it.”

“That Alpha is bad news, Drek. I don't want
that
following us to Lanarre country.”

Drek sighs, knowing he should have finished gutting that one. However, it would have been cowardly to kill a defenseless Were without clear reason.
And in front of witnesses, when no transgression was made against the Lanarre? No. A bad move.

“We own the Hoh. It is ours.” He misses thumping his chest by a hairsbreadth. “It is the Lanarre who has kept the western half of the United States free of problems among Lycan. The alliance between the southwestern Lanarre region through my mating with Thalia would have solidified that further.”

“Come on, Drek. You know that's not true. There's been unrest. And I don't believe you want the ancient status quo any more than I do.”

He gives Bowen a hard glance but keeps his misgivings to himself. Bowen is right. Small packs keep popping up. They don't feel the need to formally align with the Lanarre, preferring an outlaw lifestyle to the strength of unity. It's troubling. But that further solidifies Drek's ideas about progressing Lycan culture into a more modern direction.

“Listen”—Bowen claps Drek on the back—“you can't take all this bullshit political evolution on as your singular mission to save everyone. You just have to make the Lanarre pack the very best of us. We worry about the rest later, yes?”

Bowen is wise.

Drek is fraught with obligation, responsibility, and thoughts better left unsaid and not dwelled upon.

However, Drek
does
dwell. He dreams of a better life, more communicative between packs, agreement on inter-pack matings, and a cessation of rites that leave females in precarious positions of being fought over. That is not a healthy environment for perpetuating the breed.

At least that will not be Tahlia's end. No Were would want the cast off of a prince. She can live out her life in peace, without being forced to wed Drek—if, and only if, he is able to effect change.

Without change, the muck of tradition will weigh them down like boulders in quick sand.

“Lead on,” Drek says.

They run.

*

Drek slows, his lungs on slow-burning fire. The Hoh receives more than a hundred forty inches of rain per year, and the forest is slick with trailing moss and undergrowth.

Wolfen flesh has a coating similar to a duck’s; the rain wets the tips, and the hair sheds the majority of the wetness. Still, the rain dampens the pair, making the travel wet and chilly, even in their partially changed forms.