A Glassy Lady: Coeur de Lyon: A Renaissance Flair 2 Page 10

  Bard cooled a little bit. Just a little. That still left...

  "And I saw your dad earlier," Hank offered in his quiet, deep, and molasses slow drawl, "He was muttering something about needing to talk to your mama, and was heading back towards the parking lot. Don't think you have to worry about him right now."

  Hank's expression turned thoughtful as he tilted his head to one side. "At least, not now, now. Later, yeah. And your mom. And your brothers. And your pack. I mean, you found your mate, yeah? So, yep. Not now, but you'll definitely have to worry about them later. But that's then. Now, now though, you need to worry about charming and claiming your mate, you know?"

  There really was no reason why Ace should be rolling on the ground cackling like a stoned hyena. No reason at all!

  It's the Alfar blood. Makes them crazy. Bard's wolf concluded with a huff, though to be fair, the wolf wasn't any less nervous than Bard.

  One had to keep a close eye on free-roaming Ulvfangs, otherwise they tended to get up to shenanigans. While it may technically be Aksel's job to keep the pack in line—yes, even their parents—it was a responsibility all three brothers shouldered, just in different ways.

  With a frustrated groan, Bard ran both hands through his hair, freeing it from the restraining band and just letting his long bangs swing forward to hide his eyes as he took slow, calming breaths.

  "Right. One thing at a time." Bard glared over at the still chuckling Ace, who had at least drug himself back upright, though the loopy-fucking-faerou was still smirking. "First, Ace, if you would be ever so kind, could you please and go get my sisters? I trust that your little pack of adopted gayrou are all good kids, but I think it's safer for the world if my sisters did not have access to a group of impressionable young guys to aid and abet them in their mischief."

  Hopping to his feet, Ace gave a smart-ass salute and click of his heels. "Aye, aye, sir!" Still chuckling, the smaller man darted off, theoretically to go round up the twins, though Bard had his doubts about just how Ace would accomplish that.

  Turning to Hank, whose placid, bored expression did nothing to hide the twinkle in those damned eyes of his, Bard huffed, "Laugh it up, pugmug. Let’s get all our stuff sorted and stowed, then if you don’t mind, I’ve got a mate to figure out how to woo.”

  Hank curled a lip, a hint of white fang flashing almost as bright as the glint in his golden eyes, “I hate when you call me that.”

  "Yeah, I know," Bard said smugly as they set to work.

  Despite the anachronistic outward appearance of the Village, and although both Bard and Hank did things the old-fashioned way while at the Faire, the Leon clan was intent that didn't mean technology and progress couldn't be worked in, as long as it wasn't a distraction. Hence the cleverly concealed cell towers, WiFi hotspots scattered throughout the Village, and an underlaying infrastructure that provided electricity, sewage, and water throughout the grounds.

  Theoretically, the entire Village could be self-sufficient, and with some of the plans Bard had heard rumored were in the works, soon would be entirely off grid.

  None of this really mattered to Bard at the moment, except that it just meant there was that much left to do in order to be prepared for inspections and walk-throughs coming throughout the week, and that it all kept him from tracking down and wooing his mate!

  After their third trip back to the vehicles, which took a more circuitous route than normal as Bard kept getting distracted and wandering off trying to follow hints of that scent that beckoned him, Hank had finally had enough.

  "You're getting on my last damned nerve, longmuzz," he drawled, "You're worse than a puppy that's slipped his leash."

  Bard sighed and cracked his neck, pointlessly trying to get rid of some of the tension thrumming through is body. "Yeah, I know. Sorry, man. My wolf is driving me crazy. He's impatient to track her down, now that he's scented her in the waking world."

  "I get that man, I really do," Hank replied, "But can you at least muzzle him long enough so we can get all this stuff taken care of first?"

  Carefully setting down the double-horn anvil he had been carrying, which even with his shifter strength and conditioning was still a strain on the back muscles, Hank stretched his back with a muffled groan of relief as he turned to face Bard.

  Noticing he had already lost Bard's attention, however, Hank leveled a flat-eyed stare only felines could really pull off. "Like a damned dog with a damned bone."

  "Cat. String. Kettle. Black." Bard returned automatically, though a grin played about his lips as he set down his own burden, a heavy crate carefully packed with bricks of the specialty coal both he and Hank preferred to use for their "natural" blacksmithing work.

  Tearing his attention away from the still damned empty glassmaker's shoppe, Bard caught the stare Hank was pointedly still giving. With a laugh, Bard held up his hands in surrender. "Sorry! Sorry!"

  Tilting his head, Bard's face turned into a rueful grimace. "Besides, sounds like the twins are almost here, and I think they wanted to get some social media stuff taken care of today."

  "Oh, time to gear up then, eh?" Hank said with a decisive nod. Then smirked. "You know that means they're going to want you to kilt up, right? Although if you start oiling up, I'm out of here."

  Pausing in the process of pulling his t-shirt up and over his head, Bard snorted a laugh. "There's no shame in being attracted to me, Hank, but I’ll admit, I prefer them a little less furry than you are."

  Hank just blinked. "Dude, you shaved your chest? What happened to you, man? Are you pretending to be Donar now?"

  Bard's response was to throw his sweaty shirt with enough force it rocked Hank's head back a bit, tearing both a groan of disgust and a burst of laughter from the typically stoic man.

  Turning to confront his sisters, hearing their tittering giggles as they approached, Bard was about to say something, when once more his breath left in an explosive burst.

  She was there. There she was. Is. Approaching. Towards him!

  Completely unaware he had sucked in his gut, instinctively highlighting every clearly defined ridge of his abdomen, or that he had flared out his chest so that his pectoral muscles swelled and biceps curled, Bard crossed his arms over his chest and buried his hands in his pits, resisting the wolf's insistence he snatch her up and run. Not only to claim her, but to get her away from the two little she-wolves who had no doubt been filling her head.

  Oh shit, she's been talking to the terrors!

  Bard's eyes widened, and the expression on his face must have been something truly to witness. Her steps faltered as his mate warily met his gaze, but with one sister holding each of her hands and insistently tugging her forward, even she couldn't resist the inevitable.

  "Come on, Harper, you've got to actually meet our brother! Well, one of them at least. The other two are probably roaming around here somewhere, but you don't want to meet them anyways," Tanja was going on at a mile-a-minute, par-for-the-course, of course, which explained her ability to do so without tripping over her own words.

  "And don't worry about our dad," Sanja said, her own voice calm and cool, in contrast to her twin's bubbly tones, "He's just old and grumpy. Mom uses a spray bottle or a rolled-up newspaper when he gets too bad."

  Great, now they're giving her ideas. Bard thought. Oddly, though, he couldn't get words to pass his lips. His thoughts, however, were spinning quicker than even Tanja's nattering.

  When his mate... his Harper... drew close, when her scent fully enveloped him, Bard went lightheaded, drunk on her sweet essence as much as by her presence.

  "Um," she finally said, drawing herself up to her rather impressive height as she adopted that cool, distant mien he had witnessed earlier. If not for the intensity in her eyes, however, and the heat spicing her scent, Bard may have had to go hunt his pappa down and tried to beat him raw for putting that hesitancy in her.

  "Hello, again. I'm afraid, we may have gotten off on the wrong foot," she said in that honey-smooth Southern a
ccent of hers as she offered her right hand as she boldly met his gaze. "I'm Harper Llewellyn, and I think you might just be my annwyl..."

  Bard's wolf heard the catch in her voice, the nervous echo of her heartbeat. Both man and beast saw the hesitancy, the mix of hope and fear glinting in those turquoise eyes of hers. They didn't know her yet, not really, but in that moment as she boldly met him eye-to-eye, offering her hand and her words, she carved out a little more room for herself in their heart.

  Chapter 13

  The Traveler camp wasn't quite what Harper expected. Granted, she didn't really know what to expect, but the reality of it was...different.

  They were in the process of setting up two very different camps. The first, the "open to the public" version, as Drey dubbed it, looked straight out of a movie set. The vardos were ornately decorated wagons, some easily tall enough for Harper to stand up in, with wooden frames heavily decorated with carvings, and painted in all the colors of the rainbow—and in some colors Harper wasn't even positive officially existed in Nature. Mixed in amongst the wagons were tents of all sizes, colors, and shapes, and wagons and tents alike were situated around a large, open circle where some people were clearing out a fire pit.

  Drey had explained that while vardos weren't "historically or period accurate," they were stereotypically associated with the British Romani, which, according to Drey, "Are a completely different ethnic group from the Irish Travellers, and we're not quite really either of those ourselves since we're Uncannies and all that, but for the purposes of the Ren Faires and the public, we just go with it. We don't even get too upset with the word gypsy, although I'd definitely try and avoid using that particular word for any Rom, Tinker, or Traveler, just to be on the safe side."

  Trying not to gawk as they passed through the Faire Camp, they slowly walked along a small cobblestone path that led through a copse of trees that delineated the edge of the Fairegrounds and one of the Estate's permanent camp grounds and RV parks, where the Traveler's true camp was buzzing with just as much activity as the other.

  "This is our main camp," Drey said, flashing Harper a small, amused grin. "It's not much, but it's home for the next few months."

  The entire RV lot and campground was filled with a variety of RVs ranging from small, older models hooked to the back of old trucks, to new, top-of-the-line live-ins that rivaled high end trailers. Once more, tents of all sorts were being set-up around the camp, but unlike the ones in the Faire Camp, these were all a lot more modern and in a wider variety of designs, though the colors tended more towards the traditional blue, red, green, or gray.

  Kids ran around, shrieking and playing games, going wild as they chased each other through the camp, under the watchful eye of a group of surprisingly muscular, if scruffy, young teenage guys and a couple of pretty girls, were occupied setting up still more tents.

  Harper felt a tingle passing over her, through her, as she followed alongside Drey. There was old, potent magic throughout the camp, but despite the fact the camp was far from Harper's expensive (former) condo or the Llewellyn Plantation she had grown up in, she felt the energy surrounding and permeating the camp was oddly welcoming.

  As the two wove through the organized chaos, Drey returned greetings but otherwise maintained her course, steadily leading Harper towards one RV in particular. It was one of the larger RVs, one that was a dark, deep indigo with glittery silver shooting stars and entire constellations painted along the side. There was even a huge rainbow-maned and winged unicorn—Pegicorn? Unipeg?—rearing up and prepared to leap into flight, straight out of a 70s album cover!

  Using the head of her cane, Drey ratta-tat-tatted the RV's door and waited. And waited. Just as the shorter woman was lifting her cane in a white-fisted grip for another, harder, rapping though, the door was flung open with enough force it slammed against the RV’s side with the bang of a shotgun.

  Everyone in the camp stopped at the bang and it fell silent; that weird silence, when even the wind seems afraid to whisper for fear of drawing attention from the rampaging beast.

  Or in this case, the slender, tall woman who tumbled out of the RV wearing only a pair of boyshorts and an oversized black t-shirt with the neck and sleeves cut off, all revealing a startling amount of ivory skin.

  Not pale Anglo-Saxon skin. Not even Irish pale skin. No, her skin was paper white and unblemished, which made the shock of wild, messy, seafoam blue hair all that much more startling as the woman shoved it back to reveal beautiful, aristocratic features, with a long, narrow nose, high cheekbones, and thin lips currently pursed in a scowl. Her eyes were a strange, nearly colorless blue, although they were currently bloodshot they were nearly glowing crimson as she glared at them.

  “Oi, would ya’s quiet the fuck up? I’m trying to get a kip in and you know what I’m like when I don’t get my beauty sleep! Makes me pissy!”

  Suddenly realizing she was the center of attention, not only for Harper and Drey, but for the whole, already silent camp, the woman jerked her attention towards the gawkers. Thrusting her chin up, she took an aggressive stance, and opened her mouth.

  “Oi! Ya’s all need to quit yer squizzing ya fucks and get back to it!” She bellowed, and she had a set of powerful lungs on her, since Harper would bet she had been heard clear back at the Château!

  Once she was satisfied the rest of the camp had returned to whatever they had been doing before, she turned back to face an exasperated Drey and a speechless Harper.

  Harper squinted. Does her shirt say… Faebitches?

  Yes, in bright, glittering script that shimmered iridescently across the woman’s chest, Faebitches.

  Harper’s attention went back up as the pale woman drew herself up to her full height, though she was still a few inches shorter than Harper, and tried to assume a more dignified mien. Despite the boyshorts and t-shirt.

  The woman cleared her throat and spoke in a more modulated voice as she met Drey’s pointed glare, “G’morn, Drey. Sorry, I got blind fucking drunk last night and whose this bitch? She’s a bit… shiny, ain’t she?”

  Harper suddenly found herself under the intense scrutiny of the strange, pale woman, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. Before she could interject, however, Drey put a restraining hand on Harper’s arm.

  “Sorry for waking you up, Ash, but Harper here is having a wee bit of trouble with her magic, and we need to get it under some semblance of control before she draws the attention of the Sanctuary guardians,” Drey explained, her soft, lilting voice an odd counterpoint to Ash’s sharper accent.

  Once more under intense scrutiny, it was Harper’s turn to draw herself upright with as much dignity as possible, as Ash walked around her, expecting her like a curious bug.

  “Ah, righto. Well, she’s right witchy, that’s for sure,” Ash said thoughtfully, “But her magic is all twisted up.”

  As Ash came around, she turned and met Harper’s level gaze. Harper found it oddly unsettling to meet Ash’s odd eyes, but she didn’t flinch. Too many years facing down judges for that.

  “Do you know your bloodline?” Ash asked bluntly as she canted her head. “Or are you an orphan?”

  Gasping in outrage, Harper glared. “I’m not an orphan! My fraternal lineage is Llewellyn and my matrilineal is Morgan.”

  “Oooh, a Welshy, ain’t ya?” Ash laughed, shaking her head. “Well, that’s your damage then.” She waved a finger at Harper, “Morgans are natural witches, always have been and always will be, but if I remember correctly, the Llewellyns turned their back on all that and went ritualistic, all hoity toitty and proper. Two different styles entirely, and their mojo followed after.”

  Waving her hand to indicate all of Harper, Ash continued, “So your problem is that you’ve been trying to tame a dingo, your Morgan blood, by making it act like a tea poodle, your Llewellyn side. And vice versa. You got two different magics in you, and they’re having a right go at each other. Instead of dealing with them, or getting them to work together though, you’ve pro
bably been bottling them both up…and they’ve decided to chuck a sickie and leave you holding the proverbial tail.”

  Harper wanted to object, but found that she couldn’t. Hellfire and damnation, she recognized the truth in even her two inner personalities, the Southern Belle and the Raging Bitch.

  “But what set it off? Why now?” Harper found herself asking, only to be met by two sets of incredulous eyes.

  “Do either of us look like fucking soothsayers?” Ash waved a finger between her and Drey. “I’m just a familiar whose fucking witch happens to be on walkabout and decided to drag me along.” Casting a glance at the RV she had emerged from, Ash narrowed her eyes and muttered, “Bludgie-bitch, sleep through the bloody apocalypse, she will.”

  Hunh, now that was rather surprising. Familiars were supernaturals that mystical bound themselves to a witch in a symbiotic relationship that enabled them to share powers. It also allowed the witch to draw on greater power, without straining their own resources, while enabling the familiar to likewise draw on the witch’s innate magics. Unfortunately, during the Inquisition, many witches started forcibly enslaving familiars, turning the relationship parasitic instead of symbiotic, draining and discarding familiars in order to save themselves from the witch hunters. Few witch families could claim to have formed any familiar bonds in generations.

  Supernaturals never forgot and rarely, if ever, forgave.

  The witches had been left to fend for themselves during the Witch Hunts. Entire families had been slaughtered, bloodlines lost forever, and it was only in the last century or so that the witches had managed to earn a place once more in the supernatural communities in Europe and the Americas. Sadly, it was an often unspoken, and rarely acknowledged, fact that it was due in no small part to the Orisha, the “Sidhe” from Africa, and African-American practitioners of witchcraft and the occult, that the European witches had once more been able to practice more openly and be accepted.