Some Lycan Hot: Chapter 3

“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 ... Anna's 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….

Damian 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

Darrius returned the pages to Lorcan O’Halloran. He 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 for 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. It's been nearly a century, but it feels like the village was destroyed only yesterday.”

And it felt 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 these years. No doubt for all his immortal life.

Darrius stared at the parchment pages filled with Lorcan's elegant black script and resisted the urge to tear them up.

Alaya.

He’d woken up in the woods with his desperate brothers on either side of him, trying to drag him from unconsciousness.

They wanted him to go to the castle where there was safety.

But he couldn't.

His heart ached so badly.

He knew something had happened to Alaya. He could feel it to his soul.

He’d returned to the smoldering village. Most of the buildings had been destroyed, and only the combined strength of his brothers had forced him to stop digging through the rubble.

Days were filled with looking after survivors and treating the wounded.

They buried their dead.

Then they destroyed what the fire had not taken.

He watched as Damian's heart withered into stone. He wouldn't rebuild the village, and he decided to leave Germany. Where Damian went, they all went.

The werewolves, full-bloods and Roma, scattered.

He'd 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. 

"Is there nothing left of the village?"

Darrius swallowed the sudden tight knot in his throat. “No. Damian made sure of that.” He offered a brittle smile. “But now, 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 dead, if her body couldn't be found … 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 Damian were visiting Broken Heart.” 

Damian was his oldest brother, the king of the werewolves, and Kelsey was his mate. The queen. She looked at him, her eyes wide and her face pale. He frowned. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it Damian? 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 someone’s else 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. Her hands twisted together, betraying her nervousness. “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.”

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