Feral Magic (11 page)

"Paris?" asked Dak.

"A very sophisticated city many miles across the continent and an ocean from here."

He grunted.  Brandy didn't mind.  She knew he hurt over giving up his nephew and sending him home while Dak remained here, trapped in an alien world.

"Come on," she said.  "Let's get out of here."  She examined her car.  It didn't seem too damaged by the futile attack on the white tiger.  "Looks drivable to me."

While he dressed and stowed his stuff in his invisible cache, she maneuvered the car back onto the road.  Thank God for new tires.  Then she got out and led Dak to the car, pulled the seatbelt across him, although she imagined that even in man form he was tougher than most humans.  Stronger.

And, for the moment, hers.  She would help him, but didn't think either of them would allow him to become dependent on her...for more than sex, or loving.  A partner.  Maybe.  For a while.

"We'll work on getting you acclimated here."  She calculated the amount of money it would take for two tickets to Paris.  A lot.  But Dak had gold.  They'd have to be careful about selling that, though.  And she didn't speak French and didn't have a handy translator spell.  She didn't even know if he wanted to go hunting Bretine.

Yet, all in all, she felt buoyant.

One glance at Dak's impassive face showed he masked hurt.

"You can stay with me," she said quietly.  Clearly he wasn't ready to make definite plans – or to integrate with human society.  She didn’t think he’d want to learn to live like a human Denverite.  Instead he’d be focused on whatever he believed he had to do.

Now he remained silent.  Once in the town they'd passed earlier, Idaho Springs, she made an executive decision and drove up to a lovely bed and breakfast.  Her cats would be fine for a day or two.

She left Dak in the car while she checked in, then opened the car door and took his hand.

"I hope you have that handy backpack in that personal aura storage space of yours."  She slanted him a wicked glance.  "Though you won't need pajamas."

Blinking, he pulled away from his deep thoughts.  "What are we doing?"

"Staying here for the day...and the night."  Denver wasn't very far in mileage, but a far ways in altitude…and attitude.

His eyes widened and slight smile curved his lips.  His fingers laced with hers.  He scanned the area.  "An inn?"

"Yes."

"The room has a bed?"  His voice had deepened.

"Pretty much all it has.  We have a place by the stream.  It sounds great."  She smiled up at him.  "Though the bed is a regular mattress and box spring, not a water bed."  She frowned.

His mouth turned down, then it seemed as if he forced his lips to curve.  "I sleep in the ancestral bed."

"Oh."

She used the keycard on the room, drew him in.  It smelled of cleanser, but not overwhelmingly so.

He glanced around the room – a bed, bedside table with lamp, table, refrigerator, desk, bathroom.  Simple but pleasing.

She pushed him toward the bed and he went and sat.  The heavy door closed behind her.  She stood before him, all sorts of tender emotions – respect, affection, pride – swirling inside her.

"Sshh, sshh," she soothed, stroking his head, enjoying the thick strands sliding through her fingers.  "You did the right thing."

He blinked, glanced up at her seriously.  This time she knew he
saw
her – her, Brandy Svensson.  He nodded.  "Yes, I did the right thing.  For Favel and Cret and the Dark Panther Klatch, I returned Favel."  He reached out and wrapped a still-brawny arm around her waist, drew her to sit beside him.  "For the Dimensional Collective, I destroyed the anchor."  Muscles by the side of his mouth worked.  "Who knows how that affected Earth's unstable portal, but other portals remain safe.  I sensed no tear in space or time where the gate was."

"No," she said.  She wouldn’t know one way or the other.

"I did the right thing by myself and by you, remaining here."

"Yes, you did."  She let him see her wicked smile.  "And I plan on rewarding you for that."  She tugged at the neck of his tunic.  It was different than the one he’d worn before.  "How do I get this off you?"

He smiled back at her, and she decided she'd snagged his full attention.  He touched a seam at his shoulder.  "You pull it, so."  He demonstrated and she heard a rip like velcro.  Couldn't be that, but the tunic peeled down to fold around his hips.

"Ah."  She smiled, this one not nearly as calculated, but in sheer female appreciation.  His torso was leaner, muscles more sharply defined.  Brandy figured any excess weight went into the changes.  Slowly she set her hands on his shoulders, ran them down his arms – very lightly haired.  Took his hands and set her own palms against his.  Sizzles connected them.  Her own breath came fast and his chest rose and fell more quickly, too.

Leaning down, she kissed him, his lips softer than she'd recalled.  His taste tempted, so unique.  Drugging.  Maybe even addictive.

When she was finished with his mouth, she found herself straddling his lap, his hard shaft rubbing her just where she liked.  Her body heated, readied.  "Dak," she whispered.

"Yes.  You are very good to me, Brandy."

Too serious once more.  "I'm just very good," she said, ladening her tone with innuendo.

"Yes, you are."  He lifted her, and she was too surprised to lock her feet around his back, and then he moved fast, peeling her jeans and panties down her legs and off, opening his own pants, sliding her back onto his cock.

"Oh!" she exhaled at his penetration, the fullness of him stretching her.  The pleasure of it.  Her hands went to his shoulders, now touching the sensual dampness of his perspiration.  Her breath hitched.

Then she met his eyes, deep purple, remaining serious, and her breath caught.  This wasn't just simple sex for him.

Or for her.

This was connecting, building a bond.

Maybe more.

They stared at each other, tension rising, arousal spiraling.  He was inside her, but not moving.  His hands circled around her upper arms, her blouse was still on, so was her bra.  Her mind dipped in slow swoops at the sexuality of it all.

Time stretched, their breathing matched.  He swelled inside her, and the urge to move became unbearable.  She suppressed it, wanting to keep gazing at him; to see into him as far as she could when he was sheathed in her so deeply physically.

She couldn't.  Much of him was like human male, but he was warrior and stranger – and she shied from the warrior.  Her breathing turned ragged.

He leaned forward and kissed her and the exquisite sensations of him inside her weakened her.

"Brandy," he breathed.

"Yes."

"You let me in.  In your home.  In your body."

Hearing the words sent frissons of passion spiraling down her nerves.  They weren't moving but pressure built within her, soon she would come apart.  Soon.  Soon.

"Yes," she whispered, already forgetting what she was answering.

"You are a treasure.  To be treasured."  He angled his hips, just
so
and her climax wrenched through her.

But he was plunging, saying desperate words that had no meaning, promises, maybe, and they were rolling on the bed and he was over her, eyes wild, hair turning into a mane and it was fascinating and frightening and she thought she would die of the pleasure ricocheting through her and she was gasping and he yelled and they collapsed together.

She came back to herself slowly, slower than ever before.  She was lying on her side facing him.  She put a hand on her racing heart.  Still alive.  Painfully, wonderfully alive.

He was so good for her.

She'd be good for him.

He opened his eyes and pinned her with his purple gaze.  Twilight seemed to wrap around her in the middle of the day, filling this moment with unexpected and unexplained meaning.

"I can stay with you?" he asked, eyes shaded with a hint of vulnerability.

"Yes.  For as long as you like," she responded without thinking.

And they seemed caught together.

Together.

For a time, and here in her own space and in this reality.

For a while.

Enchanted Ever After

Chapter One

Mid September, Denver, Colorado

Life was not a game.  If life were a game, Kiri Palger would ace it...or reach level sixty-five with massive amounts of gold, arms and armor, not to mention a fabulous wardrobe.

But real life doesn't come with do-overs.  She couldn't go back two years and
not
take the energy and soul draining computer support job with a national company in downtown Denver. 
Big
mistake.  Especially when she trudged home at seven-thirty on a Friday evening too exhausted to enjoy the thought of the weekend.

Though buying this house in Mystic Circle had definitely been the right thing to do.

Her hands were full of key and keycard and she was punching in the security code when her phone rang.  She swore and went in, laid the keys and workbag on the rickety console table next to the door.

The phone was not in its proper pocket, but had migrated to mix with stuff at the bottom of her tote.

She found her cell after the call had gone to message.  Her best friend Shannon had called—all right, her
only
good friend, someone she talked to a couple of times a week.  Kiri could always count on Shannon, and her friend could always give her a lift.

"Hey, Kiri, it's Shannon.  Sucky that you had to work late at the sucky job and can't play Fairies and Dragons with me tonight.  I know how much you want that new job so remember you
promised
me you'd go to your block party tomorrow and meet Jenni Weavers. 
Don't
duck out of it!  And, no, I can't make it, Averill has a family thing.  Tell us all the deets Sunday Brunch, smooches!"

Kiri's smile faded.  She always liked backup when entering a new social situation.  She squared her shoulders.  Much as she might want to, she wouldn't skip the party.  It was important on two levels—really interacting with her neighbors and meeting Jenni Weavers, Kiri's heroine.

Her gaze went to her computer set up in the bump of the side bay window.  She'd stay out of the game, Fairies and Dragons, tonight—sometimes the game beckoned more than reality.  And once you began spending more time in the game than anywhere else, you were in trouble.  Not in control.

She sighed.  Her living room was bare—she had a lot of house and not much anything else, like furniture.

But quiet and peaceful.  Her shoulders relaxed more than just from the release of the bag's weight.

A soft golden sunset slanted through the window.  The smack of an early autumn had already swatted summer evenings gone for the year, but there was still enough light to walk around the cul-de-sac, Mystic Circle, to wind down from work.  Get the kinks out.  She was at the age, twenty-six, where she considered how wide her ass would spread if she stayed in a chair all day long every day.

And she'd check on the fabulous koi in the center park's pond.

 She'd recently moved from concrete and asphalt near Capitol Hill and the beautiful fish captivated her.  With a smile, she slipped back out into the cool evening.

Hers was the first house of the cul-de-sac, Mystic Circle number one, located on the southeastern corner.  The Craftsman bungalow was the smallest home and slightly more than she could afford.  If she could land that new job, maybe . . .  She wanted to love her work.  To live her job, not do it.

Like much of Denver, the homes in Mystic Circle were a variety of styles, each house different.  She'd passed the small house named "Fanciful," the Spanish-influenced two-story with orange-tiled roof, the red brick four-square with the many window-paned porch and neared the top of the circle and the Castle.  She walked quickly, the day dying faster than she'd anticipated with thick gray clouds blocking the sun.

A movement caught her eye and she glanced toward the center park.

The first thing she noticed about the pale man with the pale hair was that he was tall.  The next was that he had pointed ears . . . like a Vulcan . . . or an elf . . . and a certain shimmer like a famous vampire.

Halloween was a month and a half away.

He stepped from the shadows of the tall pine, almost if he'd come from the pond, but there was no splashing.

"Kiri Palger?"

How did he know her name?  She hadn't seen him before, and though she hadn't met all her neighbors, she knew them by sight.

Kiri scanned the area.  No one was around.  Mystic Circle was safe, but . . .   He didn't live here and he'd been lurking in the dark shadows of the park.  She backed up to the far edge of the sidewalk.  No help from the Castle residents—the owners were never home.

"I was told to approach you tomorrow, but since you’re here tonight . . ." He shrugged elegant shoulders under a thick capelike coat.

Not overly broad shoulders, a runner’s body.  And not threatening, but she'd moved from a rather dangerous neighborhood and was wary.

Should she yell?  The houses were old and nearly soundproof.  There were lights in several of the homes, and if she zoomed . . . .  But the guy had a runner’s musculature.  She didn’t think she could beat him.

"Pardon me."  He dipped a hand in his pants pocket.  When he brought it out—something funny about his hand, too, like he might have more joints than the norm or more flexible bones—he held out a card.  "I’m with Eight Corp.  Human resources."

He put an odd spin on "human."  Had some sort of soft, lilting accent she couldn’t place.

"Eight Corp," she murmured.  The parent company of the game Fairies and Dragons, where she'd applied for the job she yearned for, to create new stories for the game.

He turned his body so he looked at the two-story red brick Denver square where Jenni Weavers lived.  "Jindesfarne Mistweaver Emberdrake will vouch for me."

Again the unfamiliar accent.

Jindesfarne Mistweaver Emberdrake?  Kiri slid her glance to the house he'd indicated.  Jenni Weavers' house.  Did he really know Jenni?  Kiri had never heard the "Jindesfarne" bit.