Defensive Magic: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy Tale (Lost Library Book 3) (10 page)

Looking at her intently, he jerked his head once, quickly in the affirmative.

“And it won’t make me look weak? As your mate, I mean.”

“No. That won’t be an issue.”

“Okay.” She paused, chewing indecisively on her lower lip. She wasn’t sure what to say and she could see another SUV approaching. In a rush, impulsively, she said, “Everything will be okay.”

He was certainly not convinced by her words, but he smiled slightly, kissed her cheek, and got out of the truck. His enforcers had made a full circuit of the clearing and they now closed in, flanking John, as he approached the second car. As he walked the final steps to the challenger’s vehicle, Lizzie was struck by how imposing, how powerful John managed to look in a pair of beat-up jeans and a T-shirt. And yet, she still feared for him.

In short order, the men had worked out whatever last minute details remained, and the four enforcers—the challenger brought two of his own men—were spreading themselves out evenly around the perimeter of the clearing. John and the challenger, standing at some distance from one another on opposite ends of the clearing, stripped and changed in seconds. It was a testimony to Lizzie’s level of stress that her cheeks didn’t flush at all with embarrassment when she was, however briefly, presented with the naked form of a stranger. She was much more interested in the stranger’s wolf shape. His coat was primarily black—a deep, shiny ebony over most of his body, but in a few places it faded to a very dark brown. He was solid, shorter and with denser muscle than John.

And then it began. Unlike the fight with David, that seemed to have hovered on the precipice of a beginning for several minutes, Lizzie couldn’t pinpoint the first move—who made it, what it was. They were standing apart, evaluating one another, and then they were a tangle of bodies. She made a small noise as she rapidly inhaled; then she set about the task of picking out John from the seething mass of fur, muscle, and fangs. There—the silver of John’s coat. Once her gaze caught on that lighter flash of fur, she realized she could track him. The bright flashes of his coat showed up clearly against the backdrop of Carlos’s darker fur.

She’d remembered the black wolf’s name. Scott had mentioned on the drive that the challenger was Carlos and that he was the Arizona Pack’s top enforcer. She tried to shove his name back out of her mind again. Easier to deal with a dead or maimed big, dark wolf, than a dead or maimed Carlos. The alternative—John dead or maimed—was unthinkable.

Shit. While she’d been contemplating worst-case scenarios, the fight had escalated. This was much faster paced than with David. A fine sheen of sweat popped out on her forehead. Nerves, heat, both? Her pulse jumped when she caught a glimpse of blood. She forced a slow breath through her nose. Red stained John’s muzzle. So the blood wasn’t his—she hoped. She strained, trying to find a wound on either wolf. Nothing. She tried to regulate her breathing. Periodically holding her breath and then gulping in short gasps of air was making her head spin.

The wolves tore themselves away from each other, mouths open and tongues lolling as they eyed each other warily. She dragged her eyes away long enough to hop in the driver’s seat, stick the keys in the ignition, and roll the windows down.

She moved as quickly as she could, but even so, they were already entangled and rolling on the ground. She’d missed something. Carlos’s shoulder hung awkwardly and he moved slowly enough for her to see the dislocated joint.

John gave no quarter. He risked snapping jaws to grab at the injured leg. Oh, god—blood sprayed into his face. A torn ear. But he’d gained his prize and wasn’t letting go. His head thrashed viciously from side to side until Carlos was pulled to the ground by the force. And still John jerked savagely, pulling at the now useless forelimb, dragging the darker wolf.

Lizzie could see the black wolf’s sides heaving, even at this distance. The snapping of his jaws had long since stopped. She blinked, wiping the sweat—no, tears—from her face.

Suddenly, John stopped and spat out the gashed leg. He backed slowly, deliberately away. Then he stilled, posture stiff, head lowered, and stared at the black wolf—waiting. Nothing. Carlos lay, gasping, unmoving. John let out a low, chuffing sound like a bark cut off before it started. She couldn’t interpret the strange sound, but all the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Carlos, the man, appeared in place of the wolf. Instantly, John jumped on top of him. He raked his massive claws down Carlos’s chest, groin, and thighs. Her body jerked, and the sour taste of fear choked her. John bounced away, demonstrating a fitness Carlos could no longer dream of matching. Again, John stared intently, waiting.

In a flash, the black wolf was back. Lizzie frowned. How many times had he changed? Carlos’s sides heaved, foam speckled his muzzle, and still he didn’t move. He was clearly in serious distress.

Why was Carlos still alive? She’d seen John fight before, and this was all wrong. John was skilled, efficient. He was calculating. But today, today he taunted and teased. He drew blood at every turn. This was— Her eyes blinked rapidly, filling, and spilling tears down her face Yes. Yes, this was cruel. John was fast, efficient. He usually killed with a proficiency that she truly believed reflected compassion. That compassion was wholly lacking today.

She sank back into the seat cushion. This was why he’d wanted her to stay home. She was an idiot. This scene was staged for whoever was walking away today. She wasn’t sure whether that number would include Carlos or just the Arizona enforcers. But either way, this fight had never been about winning. Lizzie understood that now. This was about visual effect, demonstrating the vast gulf in power, shaming his opponent. This fight had been about reputation. The message to the Lycan community couldn’t be clearer. “Don’t fuck with John Braxton.” It made her sick that a man was being humiliated to send a message, necessary as it might be.

Carlos tried to stand and staggered, his forelegs crumpling under him. He struggled to rise, and then, suddenly, he simply stopped, completely still. John’s intent gaze never left him. As soon as Carlos gave up, John let out a high-pitched, yelping bark. Carlos shuddered at the sound, his muscles rippling and twitching—but he didn’t stand. John darted in close and muzzle-punched his exposed neck, backing away quickly. A low and persistent whine grated in Lizzie’s ears. She didn’t want to watch any longer, but to look away would be to say she was ashamed of John. And she wasn’t. She was incredibly sad, but she wasn’t ashamed of him.

The whine stopped a fraction of a second before the human form of Carlos appeared again. In a low, strained voice, he said, “End it. For god’s sake, just end it.”

John spared a quick look at each of Carlos’s enforcers, then he took the man’s neck in his massive jaws—almost gently—and with one sharp movement Carlos was gone, his spinal column severed.

John walked in the direction of the truck, changing forms as he moved, never breaking his stride. She’d never seen him change so fluidly, moving from one form to the next with such grace. He usually stopped a moment to accustom himself to his new shape. Her eyes narrowed. This was still part of the show. It was a power display. John’s enforcers joined him, again flanking him, completing the picture.

When the two groups of men converged, they were only a few feet from the truck. John spoke first—or, rather, the Arizona enforcers deferred, waiting for John to speak first.

His tone was polite enough in a detached way, but the words were calculated to inspire fear and respect. “I wouldn’t want anyone to say Texas was less than generous. You’ve got a half hour to bury your dead. After that, if either of you are seen doing anything but driving out of the state, we’ll have a discussion.”

As John spoke, Scott had retrieved two shovels from the back of the Escalade. There were also jugs of water and trash bags stowed neatly in the back.

How had she missed something so prophetic as trash bags and shovels mere feet away from her in the truck? Her nostrils flared slightly in disgust as she thought about the secret stash of cleanup supplies stored directly behind her on the drive here. Better she hadn’t known. She grappled with several emotions she knew she shouldn’t be projecting right now. She finally settled on one distracting and hardly relevant thought: Why was it always the small details that made the most traumatic events even more real?

John, Ben, and finally Scott joined her in the truck.

As Ben started the car, Lizzie asked, “So we’re not staying until they’re done?”

John hadn’t made eye contact with her for more than a split second since he’d gotten in the car. He looked out the window as Scott answered her question. “They wouldn’t dare do anything but what they’re told.”

Good point.

“When are the Perrys back in town?” Scott asked.

Ben answered, “Two weeks, I think. But they won’t be out on the property for at least another month.”

“What the…?” Lizzie said before she even realized she was speaking. “I thought this was private property?”

“It is. No one said it was
our
private property,” John said. He glanced over at her, and she saw him take a visibly deep breath. She suspected that he was trying to gauge the state of her emotions. That was okay, because her primary reaction to what had happened was relief that he was still alive.

“You bury dead bodies on someone else’s private property?” Lizzie asked incredulously.

“What—we should bury bodies on our own property? That doesn’t seem like a bright idea.”

Okay, now John had to be messing with her. She would not point out all the ways what they were doing was horribly wrong and how it might create huge problems for them in the future. Like, go-to-prison problems, she thought with a shudder.

And in the moment that she realized she was more disturbed by the fact of the property not being the Pack’s than she was about the fact of the burials, she knew she’d permanently entered whackadoo land, otherwise known as the land of magic and mayhem. Her moral compass? Officially skewed.

Chapter 13

J
ohn shifted in his seat, and he could hear the plastic covering the leather interior crinkle. He should probably explain the whole burial thing. Bad enough that Lizzie probably thought he was a bully, possibly even a murderer. Although, over all of her varying emotions—shock, fear, anger—he could sense her profound relief blanketing and masking them.

“It’s tradition to put the body of a deceased Lycan in the ground immediately. The theory is that you minimize the possibility that a loved one will return when you bury him or her quickly.” He contemplated how the Matyldas of the world might have played into the development of such a tradition. “Since we know ghosts are real now, it seems a lot less like superstitious BS than when I was a kid.”

“But what if he’s found at some point?” Her eyes were wide.

She smelled primarily of curiosity, surprisingly. Who knew all it would take to distract her from the events of today was a little body disposal conversation?

“Not a problem. We’ll wait a respectful amount of time, long enough for any remaining energy, magic, soul—depending on your spiritual beliefs—to have detached from the body.” His tone lightened. “Then we dig him up and burn him.”

She swallowed a gasp. “Seriously? No—” A small giggle escaped. Shifting in her seat, she said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. Not kidding,” he clarified.

Ben interrupted, looking askance at John. “It’s not nearly as gruesome as you’re thinking.” He hesitated, cleared his throat, and pushed on. “Ah, decomp is, uh, slower with Lycan, you know, corpses.”

Lizzie blew out a small breath. “Thanks, Ben. You don’t want to know what I was envisioning.”

“That’s okay—I can imagine.” Ben looked at John in the rearview mirror and clamped his mouth shut.

John knew he really shouldn’t leave explanations of dead bodies and Lycan tradition to Ben. His only excuse was that he was drained, emotionally and physically. Turning to Lizzie, he said, “Outside of tradition, it’s not really an option for them to travel cross-country with a body in the car.”

And that was the end of their discussion of bodies—thankfully. John shifted, trying to keep as much of his bulk on the plastic as possible. Ben loved this car and would definitely kick his ass later if he stained the leather interior with blood.

On the rest of the ride home, John tried to decide if he owed Lizzie an apology—probably. And, if so, what exactly for—not trusting that she’d support him even when he was acting like a psychopath?

By the time they’d arrived home, the sun was low in the sky and clouds had rolled in, lessening the oppressive heat. But plastic directly on his skin had produced sweat, which mingled with the blood he hadn’t been able to rinse off before getting in the car. He was a mess. Thankfully, his driveway and front door were well protected from prying eyes by tree cover and a little distance between neighboring houses. He looked down at the smeared remnants of blood. He couldn’t talk to her looking and feeling like this.

Peeling himself out of the car, he rolled up the garbage bags that had protected the interior, thanked Ben, and followed Lizzie to the house. Ducking his head, he said, “I’m gonna hop in the shower. Be out in a minute.”

By the time he joined Lizzie in the bedroom, he had gained some perspective—and put to bed what little unease he had over his actions today. His very necessary actions.

She was unpacking clothes, his and hers, when he walked in from the bathroom. She sat on the bed and looked down. Her eyes were focused on her left hand. “The whole bizarre burial ritual conversation reminded me of Matylda.”

She had started wearing Matylda’s sapphire ring on her left hand—the ring finger. He’d always been clear about his level of commitment. In his mind, they were more than married, and he was confident she understood that. But he also knew that when Lizzie decided she was fully committed to the relationship, she’d want to get married. She grew up in a family and a culture where committed people typically married. Too soon, too fast, and she’d just say no. Clearly, not his preference, so he’d wait. But in the interim, he was happy for her to be wearing a family heirloom in lieu of the engagement ring he wasn’t sure she’d accept from him.