Authors: Michele Bardsley

Tags: #Self-Help, #Personal Growth, #Success

Broken Heart Tails (21 page)

BOOK: Broken Heart Tails

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“We will wait just a little longer,” he said, stroking his supplicant’s pretty face.

“Let me drink their beer and dance to their goddess, and get so very, very relaxed. You know who you must get to first?”

“Anna,” she said. “The Roma wife to the Crown Prince.” She smiled. “And we will be paid for our services?”

“Oh, yes. Lots of money. You will get many baubles, I promise.”

Her eyes flared with greed, an emotion Koschei knew well. But patience had always ruled him. And it would serve him now. They only needed to wait a little while longer…

#

“Koshei,” said Damian. “You honor us.”

The Ancient vampire nodded; his smile too thin to be friendly. Damian didn’t take offense. That had always been the Russian’s way.

“I couldn’t resist visiting your new village,” said Koschei. “Ruadan is very impressed with your efforts to create a pack with the Roma.”

“We are all the children of the Moon Goddess,” said Damian. He picked up the mug of beer from the table crammed with every type of lager available. The music played—happy tunes that encouraged dancing and laughter. He knew better than to offer the vampire anything to drink.

Though there had long been a pact between the Ancients and the lycans that forbid vampires to imbibe on werewolf blood, he didn’t want to issue an invitation Koschei might misconstrue.

“It is the Moon Goddess Festival tonight?” asked Koschei looking around with interest.

Damian nodded, recalling Alaya’s warning about blood on the moon. Was it a coincidence that Koschei had picked tonight to visit? Damian looked up at the bright, full moon. Was it just his imagination or was that a red edge around its white glow?

“How is your wife?” asked Koschei. “The babies are well?”

“She’s wonderful, and so are the babes.” Not even the vampire’s dour manner could erase Damian’s grin. “In fact, I should get back to my wife. We will talk later, old friend.”

Koschei nodded. “Of course.”

Damian drained the beer and put the empty mug onto the table. Foreboding pitted his belly. He didn’t know if it was Alaya’s warning, or Koschei’s cold presence, but he’d be a fool to ignore his instincts. Why hadn’t he listened to Alaya? At least he could’ve seen his wife to safety, and warned his men to be prepared.

Damian stopped at the circle of dancers, looking for his wife, who’d been swept off by Reiner. He worried about how tired she’d be, and if her feet were hurting. She was strong, but still … the next generation of their kind lived in her womb.

He couldn’t fail her. Or his pack.

He stepped through a gap in the twirling people, his gaze bouncing from man to man, trying to find the blonde head of his friend. Reiner was tall, much taller than Anna, and easier to find. Damian felt his chest get tighter and tighter, and had unsnapped his pistol before he could determine the source of his worry.

Then the world exploded.

The music and laughter just seconds before gave way screams and noise.

“Anna!” Damian held on to his gun and wound through the terrified crowd. Even as he looked for his wife, he noted his warriors getting the injured and the children to safety. Others were fighting, but Damian couldn’t determine the enemy.

He saw Alaya fighting, using the blades that she’d been training with since she was young. Smoke rolled over the melee. His gaze caught Koschei by the beer table, which had been overturned. The fermented smell of the beer mixed with ashy air. The Ancient was using his mind mojo to drive off attackers.

More smoke filled the air, and flames flickered in the distance. Houses were on fire. As he ran toward his own home at the edge of the square, he saw the fires reach the pines. Damn it.

“Damian!” He stopped and turned. Reiner, smoke stained and bloodied, ran toward him.

“We’re taking the children to the secure location.”

“Thank you.” Damian clapped him on the shoulder. “Is Anna with them?”

Reiner shook his head. “Lettie saw her go toward your house.”

“I’ll meet you in the woods,” said Damian. He unholstered his gun and ran toward his home. The minute he opened the front door, he knew something was wrong.

“Anna!” Dread poured through him. Why had she returned here?

Damian reached the bedroom and found his wife lying on the floor. Blood soaked the carpet, her clothes, her silken hair. She clutched a cloth bag that held the baby clothes she’d been making. One of their attackers must’ve followed her.

“No,” he sobbed. “No. Please.”

Anna’s clothes were tattered. Her throat slashed … and their babies. God. Her murderer had sliced open her belly. The babies spilling from his dead wife’s womb were mutated. Wolves were born in human forms. They didn’t shift until after their first year. But his children were…. He wiped the tears from his face. They wouldn’t have survived the birth.

“Damian!” His brothers Drake and Darrius arrived, both stumbling into the room.

“Merciful goddess.” His brothers knelt on either side of him. “Who did this?”

Damian shook his head. Grief tightened his throat, swelled his tongue.

“Come on,” said Darrius, helping Damian to rise. “We must go.”

“The village,” he murmured. “Our people.” He offered his brother a glazed look. “Alaya.”

Darrius shook his head. “I lost her in the fighting. No doubt she’ll join us in the woods.”

“The village is burning,” said Drake urgently. “We must go.”

Damian allowed his brothers to guide him from the room. Numbly, he followed them into the forest. But he carried with him the truth he’d tried so long to deny: The werewolves could never be saved.

* * * * *

Darrius handed the carefully scripted pages to Lorcan O’Halloran, vampire and friend. They sat at a table in the back corner of the Consortium’s extensive library. Lorcan preferred writing there, in script that hadn’t been used since the Middle Ages and on parchment. Darrius had thought that when he agreed to look over this part of the werewolf history, he wouldn’t feel anything.

But he did.

He was angry.

Not at Lorcan. Not really. His friend was trying to record the history of the werewolves the same as he did for vampires. The same as he did for all of parakind—at least the ones who would speak of their histories.

But this part of the werewolf story … this awful, soul-wrenching part … goddess, it cut him.

Alaya.

“Quite the dramatic ending,” said Darrius.

“It’s not an ending,” said Lorcan. “It’s only a small piece of the larger work. I took some liberties with viewpoints, though I think the details are correct.”

“They are. You would think seventy years was a long time. But it feels like the village was destroyed only yesterday.” And as though he’d lost Alaya only yesterday, too. The wound was not as fresh, perhaps, but it was there, open and painful—for all this years. No doubt for all his immortal life. He stared at those thick yellow pages with the flowing black words and resisted the urge to tear them up. He’d searched the woods for her then he’d returned to the smoldering village. The temple had been destroyed, and only the combined strength of his brothers had forced him to stop digging through the rubble.

They had buried their dead. Then they destroyed what the fire had not taken, and left, their packs scattered. Their hopes abandoned. He had never found Alaya’s body. For the longest time, he believed she was alive. He created scenarios about her being injured and having amnesia. He believed that if she breathed, she would find him. She would search as fervently for him as he had for her.

“I understand the village burned.”

Darrius swallowed the sudden tight knot in his throat. “You’re asking about the bodies. Most of them burned. We lost so many that night. Roma and full-blood. And poor Anna.” He offered a brittle smile. “My brothers no longer worry about ghosts from the past.”

“They focus on the present,” said Lorcan. “As should you.”

“And if you lost Eva?” asked Darrius because he was wounded and furious. It made him cruel, he knew, but Lorcan needed to understand. “If she were killed and burned … would you focus on the present?”

Lorcan went utterly still. His silver eyes glowed red, and his fangs emerged. It took a long moment for the vampire to reign in his emotions. He looked at Darrius. “I’m sorry. I had no right to presume your pain was unjustified.”

Now, Darrius felt like an asshole. He sighed. Then he tapped the pages. “It’s good, Lorcan. I’m glad you’re getting it all down. I don’t want anyone to forget the way it used to be. I want everyone to remember her. Alaya. You’ll make sure, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Lorcan. “I will make sure.”

Darrius nodded, and then he rose from the table. “See you later.”

“Mmm,” responded Lorcan, his fountain pen already scratching across new parchment. Darrius shook his head. Writers were even stranger creatures than vampires.

He wended his way through the massive tangle of bookshelves, and as he rounded a corner he smacked into something soft and female. He grabbed at her arms and kept her from pinwheeling back.

Darrius peered down. “Kelsey? I didn’t realize you and Drake were visiting Broken Heart.”

Drake was his oldest brother, the king of the werewolves, and Kelsey was his mate. She looked at him, her eyes wide and her pallor gray. He frowned. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is Darrius? Are the kids hurt?”

She blinked. “Yes. I mean, no.” She waved a hand. “We’re all fine. I wanted to talk to Lorcan about the histories and … well, I overheard you.” She grabbed his forearms and stared earnestly into his eyes. “You loved her that much, Darrius? Alaya was your one true love?”

“Since I was a pup,” he admitted softly. “My heart has never healed from the loss.”

Kelsey chewed her lower lip. “She felt the same, didn’t she? When two people love like that … it’s amazing. It makes you feel whole and beautiful and … it’s everything, isn’t it? Love is just everything.”

Darrius grasped her chin and looked her over. “Are you okay? Have you been drinking? You know that tequila is not your friend.”

“That was one night a million years ago,” she said. “I have since learned the folly of taking werewolf dares.” She closed her eyes briefly, and then nodded. “I’m breaking a promise,” she said. “For you. For her.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Alaya,” she said.

Darrius stared at his sister-in-law, and felt his stomach fill with acid. “What about her?”

Kelsey swallowed visibly, and took a step back. “Alaya didn’t die that day. She escaped the fire.” She placed a hand where his heart pounded like an ancient drum. “She’s alive, Darrius.”