Blood Moon (32 page)

Lukas’ hand slid over her shoulder to cup her cheek, and she felt the full weight of his gaze on her. His touch made her heart soar. “You are full of surprises, Aria.”

She choked on the bubble of laughter that threatened to break free. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

His mouth captured hers, his teeth nipping at her lower lip until she opened her mouth. His tongue swept inside, replacing her sadness with a smoldering desire that shot straight through her body and left her wanting.

A throat cleared overhead. Aria ignored it, returning Lukas’ kiss with vigor. A hand tapped her shoulder, and she finally moved away from him, glaring into Thaddeus’ amused face. Her scold died on her lips as she realized they sat in a circle of people, including a tall, dark-skinned man who flashed Lukas a blinding grin.

Lukas gathered her close, mindful of her healing ribs, and cuddled her. Tired and sore, she let him. She could be brave and independent some other time.

“Glad you could make it, Kemnebi.” Lukas seemed genuinely glad. Beneath her hands, his body relaxed a tiny bit.

The newcomer cocked his head and looked them over. “Believe me, it was most interesting.”

Aria couldn’t help her fascination. He was tall, maybe even taller than Lukas, and narrowly built. His eyes slanted upwards ever so slightly, and his face was long and finely featured. He brought to mind the image of a great cat—watchful and poised even when relaxed.

You aren’t too far from the truth. Kemnebi is the Head Councilor for the Werecat Council. I asked him here to observe.

Aria frowned.
We really need to work on our communication skills, Lukas.

His gaze flicked from her stomach back to her face.
You really want me to elaborate on that one?

She blushed and peeked a glance at Kemnebi. He winked at her. “You two are quite a pair.”

Tessa stepped forward, her entire body quivering. Apparently, she did not like being any closer to him than necessary.

“This was a most unorthodox Challenge.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Aria muttered, rolling her eyes.

Tessa ignored her, though her frown deepened. “In light of the circumstances, the Council declares the requirements of the Challenge were met, despite many broken rules. Lukas MacLeod, you are free to True Mate with Aria, and you are both free to leave.” She turned to Kemnebi. “Please tell the Great Council we will send a replacement for Jonas as soon as one is voted on.”

Tessa fled as fast as her dignified walk would carry her. The other members of the Council, shell shocked, followed. Without even stopping to gather their belongings, they quickly ordered the Council Guards take charge of breaking down tents and packing.

Haemon’s guards lifted his body and started to their own tents, leaving Aria, Lukas, and their Pack with Kemnebi.

The larger man crouched, holding out his hands, palm up. “Will you allow me?”

“I would be honored,” Lukas told him, gravely.

The other man started to remove Aria’s hand from Lukas, and she balked. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He’s a healer, Aria. Let him work.

Kemnebi stopped, amusement curving the corners of his mouth. Aria tilted her chin and gave him her hand. “You’ll excuse me, but it’s been a very long year.”

He laughed, an uplifting sound that made her feel better. Warmth tingled through her body as he went to work.

“She’s a good choice, Lukas.”

Aria sniffed. “
She
is glad you think so and appreciates the help.”

Kemnebi patted her hand and released her. “The babe is fine. Your ribs were nearly healed anyway. Good as new.”

He stood and Lukas followed suit, helping Aria to her feet. She may have been healed, but she was also tired. Through their restored connection, Aria could sense the same in Lukas. He clasped hands with Kemnebi. “You’ll tell them what happened?”

“I will. It will be interesting to see how they handle things.” He bowed slightly to Aria and turned. “Until next time, Wolf.” He stepped into the darkness of the woods and melted away.

Lukas tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers caressing her cheek. “How about we go home?”

Home. Her happiness made her cheeks ache. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”

Epilogue

Cernunos, Lord of the Hunt, Master of Beasts watched as Aria and Lukas walked hand-in-hand through the backyard. Aria glowed, a slender hand absently caressing her protruding belly. Lukas watched her as if the sun shone from her eyes. Maybe in his world it did.

With a sigh, he moved farther into the shade of the forest and drew the silver chalice from the pouch at his waist. He turned it in his hands, admiring the handiwork one last time. It was a shame, really, to destroy such fine work. With a mental shrug, he squeezed his hands around the metal, grinding the bowl to a fine powder. A breeze whipped up the grains in a light swirl and his eyes followed it to the sky.

Finally, one debt paid.

* * *

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ellen Keener is a high school teacher by day and writer by night. She lives in rural Virginia with one cat and enjoys long walks on the beach, good books, and big drinks with little umbrellas.

Visit Ellen’s website at:
http://www.ellenkeener.wordpress.com

Steamside Chronicles

Copyright 2010 by Ciar Cullen

Emily Fenwick, formerly with the NYPD, is now the reluctant defender of 1890 New York. Unfortunately for Emily, who hates “the creepy stuff”, ignores her inner voice, goes to a carnival in Central Park, and enters a Victorian tent in hopes a psychic would have some encouraging news about her woefully boring love life. The guarantee she receives of meeting a tall, dark, and handsome stranger comes with a huge catch—he lives in an alternate dimension of the past. 

Jack Pettigrew leads a quirky band of lost souls in a battle to save New York circa 1890. Nightmares have come alive and threaten to terrorize a fragile era. Jack leads the “punks”, who have been sucked back in time through a vortex. Each has a fleeting memory of their own death–or near death–and must determine for themselves why they have been chosen for this mission. Is Steamside their Purgatory? Could an Egyptian obelisk in Central Park be the cause of the time rift, or is Emily herself to blame for the goblins, zombies, and other nightmarish scenes plaguing them?

If the Punks want to return to 2010, they must ensure there’s going to be an 1891. If they conclude they’re really ghosts, then it might be time to party like it’s 1999.

Excerpt:

Since the night I traveled to 1890, I’ve tried not to obsess over where I might have turned left instead of right, or not opened a door that should have stayed closed. Perhaps if I were a
Sex in the City
kinda girl, things would be different. I can’t imagine ever chatting about shoes or my romantic escapades over mojitos. I don’t think I’ve even had an escapade—aside from being thrown back in time. I don’t drink mojitos, whatever they are.

It’s not that I never had a boyfriend or alcohol, but the guys I met and beer were alike—you knew what you were getting into, and that the effects wouldn’t last long. You were best to combine the two. You could blame the sex on the booze and pretend you didn’t care about the guy. A loathsome existence, I know. My theory was, a female cop’s odds of meeting a straight, attractive non-felon in New York were about as good as a large meteor dropping into the Hudson.

I went to Central Park on a hot August Saturday night fantasizing about a Tom Hanks
You’ve Got Mail
type guy strolling with his dog—not that I ever thought Tom Hanks was hot. Yeah, that’s just how it worked out. I met a guy all right, and he’s way hotter than Tom Hanks. 

A few of my friends were moonlighting as security guards at a festival, so I had a good excuse to wander and mingle. New Yorkers love a feel-good event, especially in a year when a recession has a death grip on everyone’s nerves.

I typically avoided festivals, carnivals, and oddities. I hate the stuff—freak shows, clowns, and carousels with their creepy music. The older I got, the worse it got, and I chalked it up to work stress manifesting in a weird way.

This event was full of the creepy stuff; it had an historical theme, a lot of Victorian stuff. I wandered alone for a while away from the crowds, hanging on a bench near the Needle, an Egyptian obelisk, watching the Ferris wheel lights twinkle in and out above the trees.

I finally grew bored and joined the throng. I strolled by one striped tent, intrigued by the vague smells of old lady, old liquor, and recently snuffed candles. Annalise Pettigrew’s hand-lettered poster pronounced her purveyor of the finest crushed mummy for both cures and pigments; retrocognition, hypnotism, and séance for enhancing the understanding of the spirit world; proven herbal remedies for all disorders; and finally, soothsaying, with a specialty in questions of a romantic nature. The last one hooked me.

The woman was a hoax, I reminded myself, and wouldn’t know anything about my future love life. But I was bored, a little desperate, and there were worse ways to get gypped out of a twenty.

Ha.

Expecting an aging New Yorker with the voice of a lifetime smoker, I had to force my mouth closed when I saw Miss Pettigrew, or Petti, as I call her these days. She was not only young and not a gypsy, but she looked a lot like an alternative Mary Poppins.

She sported a crisp white shirt and vest, a long black skirt, a pocket watch, and a little top hat. Her short hair stuck out in magenta and black points, like she stepped out of a Japanese cartoon. She smiled and patted the table with her black lace gloves in a merry fashion.

“Huh,” I managed. I surveyed the tent and wares—strange metal loops, dials, and gears soldered in complex configurations. It looked like an antique science lab gone awry.

“Huh, indeed! Are you enjoying the festivities, Miss Fenwick?”

She was good. Better than the chick at Coney Island who told me I’d be married with two kids by twenty-five.

“How’d you get my name?”

“Have a seat.” She pulled off her peculiar little round glasses and tucked them in her vest pocket.

Here it comes
, I thought.
Cough up a twenty. Buy a crystal
.

“The name on your badge. That is your badge? Emily Fenwick.”

Miss Pettigrew giggled, dimples popping into life on her rosy cheeks. She was cute, I had to admit. I don’t think I was ever cute, not even as a toddler, so she’d already pissed me off.

“Yeah, it’s my badge. Aren’t you clever?”

“You are ‘moonlighting’, as they say?”

“No, I’m not working tonight. I got the badge so I wouldn’t have to pay to get in.”

“Are you able to use firearms? You can handle yourself in a prickly situation?”

“I’m a cop. How prickly are we talking?”
What the hell?
Perhaps it was the woman’s attempt at sounding mysterious or foreign. Maybe she was a theater student. I wasn’t going to tell her how well I could shoot, that my father had resigned himself to turning his daughter into his son by taking her to the range. No, Detective Fenwick, retired NYPD, never got over having a girl. I probably joined the force as a kind of penance. That my mom nearly died giving me life and couldn’t have more children, cemented the disappointment.

“Shall we get right to it, then? I’ve prepared a few questions to help guide us.” She pulled out a leather bound notebook, flattened it open to a fresh page, and dipped her quill pen in a bronze inkwell.

“How much to get you to predict I’m going to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger?”
Wow.
I generally wasn’t so upfront about my sad personal life. Something about Miss Pettigrew was bringing the pathetic out into the open.

She met my eyes without offering an answer. Her stare chilled me. I was tempted to call off the reading, but didn’t want her to think she intimidated me. The things we do to avoid the judgment of complete strangers.
God, to have that moment back
. Would I do anything differently?

* * *