A Glassy Lady: Coeur de Lyon: A Renaissance Flair 2 Read online

  At least Mr. T-Shirt was wearing blue jeans and work boots, not Bermuda shorts and toeless sandals.

  Unable to tear her gaze away from the two mutants who apparently thought it was the middle of Summer, Harper pursed her lips in pure appreciation at the broad backs and rather tight, muscular asses revealed by both men as they headed beneath the overhang leading to the forge across the broad stone path from her place. She watched in silent fascination as they unloaded the crates and their bags, with Mr. T-Shirt helping Mr. Hawaii-Bermuda, who he called pappa.

  Hearing the older man groan as he straightened up and rolled his shoulders, Harper fought back a grin as the Mr. T-Shirt teased him with, “Considering how ancient and decrepit you are?”

  Then Mr. T-Shirt stretched, twisting slightly from side-to-side, and Harper's eyes widened. The black t-shirt rode up, revealing a sinfully narrow waist, and a flash of pale, creamy skin as the powerful muscles of his lower back flexed, revealing the potent strength straining the limits of the poor cotton fabric of his shirt. His jeans cupped a truly incredible ass, and those thighs...

  Harper bit her lower lip to stifle a whimper as that ass and those massive thighs flexed.

  “I’m just glad sorry there wasn’t any pretty ladies around to witness our display of manliness," Mr. T-Shirt said teasingly to his father, and it was too good an opportunity for Harper to pass up.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, only slightly exaggerating her accent. “But if only you had announced you would be performing, I would have been sure to appreciate all that sheer manliness appropriately.”

  Instantly, both men spun to face her, doing that silly thing where men throw their shoulders back and puff out their chests in a display of manliness or whatever. Like peacocks with their tails, only men lead with their chests! You'd have thought they were the ones with breasts they felt the need to present on platters or something. Having worked steadily with quite a few professional football players over the last few years, Harper had seen plenty of that.

  ...although, she did have to admit, both of these men could have given any of those professional athletes lessons on masculine presentation.

  Hot heck, even Bodybuilder Santa is built like a brick outhouse! What the H-E-Double-Hockey Sticks are they feeding the Uncannies out here?

  Because there was absolutely no doubt in Harper's mind that both men were supernaturals, particularly since their eyes flashed with that weird incandescence that only true shifters seemed to possess.

  Harper wanted to gawk a bit more at Bodybuilder Santa, but the taller one, Mr. T-Shirt, had seized her full attention.

  He had an arresting face, with a long, narrow nose, high cheekbones, and eyes that rivaled the morning sky in the intensity of their utter blueness. His hair was shaved to nothing but a light golden peach fuzz on the sides of his head, while the ash-blond hair on his crown had been left long, but was pulled back into a "manbun" tail, that should have looked ridiculous, but combined with the thick golden beard and his massive build, just reinforced the whole "Viking" thing he was rocking like he had invented it.

  If Chris Hemsworth was the pretty Thor who'd sweep you off your feet and make sweet, sweet love to you, Mr. T-Shirt was the bad ass biker Thor who'd toss you over his shoulder, spank your ass while you struggled, and then kissed it better while he made you beg to pillage and plunder.

  Thirty seconds ago, Harper would have told you she preferred the first.

  Now? Harper knew she'd never be able to accept less than the "Full Viking Experience."

  Fucker.

  Still locking gazes with Mr. T-Shirt, Harper's breath left her chest in a whoosh when they ignited from within, flawless aquamarines suddenly aflame; the same blazing, icy blue eyes from her dreams. Instinctively, Harper stepped forward, her hand lifting, stretching up.

  "Heksa! Witch!"

  The old, ornery bastard probably hadn't meant to roar those aloud, but the pure spite and disgust in his voice had Harper instinctively flinching back. Likewise, it was instinct for her to curl the fingers of her right hand just so as she brought her left hand up in a warding, protective gesture. The force of her magic nearly staggered her as she felt the tendrils of energy wrap about her, undulating and ready for anything.

  "And we're done," Harper declared, instantly drawing her haughtiest, coldest attorney guise about herself. "I remind you both, we are within the boundaries of a Sanctuary. Any act of aggression will be instantly turned back upon the aggressor, and I have no wish to draw undue ire. Stay out of my way, I shall stay out of yours."

  Pinning both men with her iciest glare, Harper sniffed, tilting her chin so she could look down her nose. "It was...interesting...making your acquaintance. Now please, have a lovely morning, gentlemen."

  And with that, Harper stalked off. Head held high, back stiff, filled with righteous indignation...and not a little disappointment at the knowledge that Mr. T-Shirt had apparently been raised by a bigot.

  Chapter 10

  No.

  No! NO! NO!

  This was not how it was supposed to go!

  Bard had never really put much thought into if, when, or even how he'd ever meet his true mate. Although he was over a century old, and though he had by no means been celibate during that century, his pack and his family had always filled that need. Or so he had thought.

  In that moment, though, Bard realized he had been wrong. Knowing that this one woman, out of the more than seven billion other living humans (and supernaturals) on this planet, out of the countless individuals in Otherworlds, held the key to his soul?

  He wanted it all. He wanted her. He wanted pups of his own. A lot of pups.

  Witch, Shifter, Fae, even if she had been a Mortal or worse, she had been made for him just as much as he had been made for her.

  And his thrice-damned father was already fucking it all up!

  With a growl that contained the combined wrath of both man and wolf, Bard did something he never thought he would do.

  SLAP!

  Yep, he took a page from his mother's book and slapped his idiot pappa upside the back of his head!

  "Odin's cock, pappa!" Bard gritted through clenched fangs as Roar spun around to confront him.

  Chest-to-chest, the two men glared into one another's glowing eyes, muscles straining against their shirts as their wolves responded.

  For once, Bard didn't automatically cede dominance. For once, Bard let the full force of his wolf's true nature stare out through his eyes. He may not want to lead a pack like his eldest brother, had always preferred to just go with the flow and left to do his own thing. But for this? For her?

  If it had been a few years ago, before Roar had stepped down as pack leader, the two may have actually come to blows, regardless of the consequences of violating Sanctuary.

  But Roar had retired, his rough edges smoothed out by his mate, his younger children, his new life.

  Staggered by the fire in his son's eyes, Roar was the first to step back, to turn his eyes away. Reaching up, plaintively rubbing the back of his head, he just prevented himself from sounding like one of his youngest as he muttered, "You did not need to hit me. Why did you hit your pappa?"

  Still burning, fighting against his wolf straining to be released, Bard took a purposeful, calming breath before he replied, "Because, the heksa... that witch... is my fucking mate! So, you need to back...the fuck...OFF!"

  Okay, Bard wasn't able to hold on to that moment of calm, because that last word came out as a howl probably heard back at the Lodge.

  Roar staggered back from his...well, roaring...son.

  Holding up placating hands, and for the first time in Bard's memory, looking truly apologetic, Roar said, "Unskylld, unskylld. I am sorry, my son. I thought...."

  "No," Bard shook his head. "Don't care. You can apologize—to her—and mean it, if I can actually manage to get her to let me claim her now. Until then, just keep the family out of my way."

  Satisfied, if barely, by his father's begrudging
nod, Bard only fully backed off when he realized his wolf had already turned its attention elsewhere—after the path their mate had taken as she stormed off.

  Without another word, Bard followed his wolf's guidance.

  Each step he took after his mate, Bard moved a little quicker, just barely managing to restrain himself from fully transforming and letting his wolf get them to her quicker. While the glamour would have prevented the Unaware from realizing what they were witnessing, Bard held on to his self-control just enough to realize that his mate would probably not appreciate being chased by a wolf. Yet. If he were lucky.

  Fuck, I don't even know her name yet!

  Thankfully, the crisp air made tracking her scent easier, and although there were already people milling about the Village, there was nowhere near the number of people that would be present during an actual Faire Day.

  Yet, despite his mate only having gotten maybe a two-minute head start, and despite the fact her scent was as clear to him as crystal, Bard couldn't seem to catch up to her. As a matter of fact, her scent seemed to be leading him in circles; which, granted, given the spiraling layout of the Village was entirely possible, but when he passed Café au Faé for the third time in as many minutes, even his wolf stopped in confusion.

  It took both man and inner wolf a shamefully long time to actually realize what was going on.

  Damnit, she's a witch! Of course she's protecting herself from being followed!

  There were as many different types of witches as there were shifters; probably more, considering some were true solitary practitioners, with abilities and traditions all their own. That was what made many of the other supernatural races wary about dealing with witches as a group, since it was difficult to predict what their strengths and/or weaknesses could possibly be.

  His mate was almost a complete unknown. All he knew about her, besides the fact she was fucking gorgeous, was that she was a witch. And that for some reason, his father had gone on the defensive almost immediately upon scenting her. Which was strange.

  Yes, his father wasn't overly fond of witches, but given the Faire attracted supernaturals of all sorts—and almost as many witches as Fae—his response seemed excessive. Even for Roar the Ever-Roaring.

  Bard would totally stress out about that later, however, finding his mate right now was a far more pressing concern.

  Closing his eyes, Bard closed out the world. He ignored the cool breeze ruffling his hair, the tickle of nervous sweat trickling down his spine. He blocked out the scent of coffee that would normally have him drooling, the smell of freshly baked goods, the colognes, perfumes, and deodorants worn by those moving around him. He tuned out the thousands-upon-thousands of little noises that were a constant distraction for those with heightened hearing. Man and wolf stilled, utterly and completely, as only true predators could, hunting.

  The idea that all living beings had a true mate, or mates, in some cases, was one shared across cultures, across races. They may call it different things. Some did not believe in it at all, or only paid lip-service to the idea. But for those who truly believed, it was something to aspire to, a glimmer of hope to cling to in the darkest moments of life. Sadly, only a fraction-of-a-fraction of people ever seemed to find their true mate. Even amongst the long-lived supernaturals, it was rarer than rare.

  To be in the same place, at the same time, in the same reality, was one-in-millions. Of course, it wasn't a guarantee, because nothing in Life ever was, but to even have that chance?

  Bard had never really thought too hard about finding his true mate, but deep down inside, in that part of his heart and soul that he—like a lot of men—kept hidden, he had yearned to find that person who he could truly dedicate himself to, with every considerable ounce of his being.

  And okay, Bard was honest enough to admit to himself, there was a certain satisfaction in knowing that amongst his brothers, he seemed to be the first to find his mate; his true mate. He was the youngest of the three, a fact no one ever let him forget, the last to be born, the last to undergo the First Change. He just didn't like to be rushed!

  Finally, fucking finally, Bard felt it.

  A pulse.

  A fluttering beat softer than the kiss of a butterfly's wings.

  Buried deep in his subconscious mind, deeper than even his wolf ever journeyed, there was a slender, quivering thread as delicate as spider's silk. That tenuous connection formed when the Fates had first woven the stories of their lives, that hint of a possibility of a chance encounter. It lived in the heart of that dark, empty place within his soul, glimmering with the first hint of illumination. A place that could only truly be filled by one person.

  Just as Bard's body began to move, instinctively following that connection, a loud voice broke his reverie.

  "Yo, Bard! Wake up, man, you're scaring the straights..."

  Snapping his eyes open, Bard blinked. A rapidly waving hand blocked his vision, but he knew that voice. Had even been looking forward to meeting up with him, but damn it, not now!

  "Ace, move it or lose it," Bard said with far more aplomb than he and his wolf were feeling.

  The hand pulled back to reveal the smirking, impish face of the thankfully one-and-only Alexander "Ace" Ceadd. The man was about average height, with a slender build, and could have passed for your typical frat boy, with his zippered gray hooded sweat shirt, worn and shredded blue jeans, and Converse sneakers. He looked deceptively young—granted, most supernaturals did not look their age, but Ace barely looked old enough to shave, going by the scruff on his jaw and the white-blond soul patch just beneath his lower lip.

  Not a glorious, properly manly beard like ours, Bard's wolf snorted.

  Flipping his ballcap around so the bill was backwards, Ace squinted up at the taller man. As sharp, dove gray eyes met Bard's own, Ace's widened at the expression he saw on the taller man's face.

  "Yeah, no problem, bro," Ace said, stepping aside quickly, though that damned smirk still danced about his lips. Yeah, Ace talked like a frat boy too, his voice that strange mix of California surfer boy and East Coast preppy, with just the hint of a Midwestern drawl thrown in, just to really fuck with people.

  "What's the rush? Are we hunting wabbits?" He asked, falling in beside Bard as the taller man immediately took off.

  "No," Bard grunted as he mentally struggled to regain a hold of that tenuous mate bond, one still too damned fragile for him to give it a serious tug. Even his wolf could barely sense it. "We're hunting my mate."

  Bard made it about another twenty feet before he realized Ace was no longer beside him. Impatiently, he shot a glance over his shoulder, to find the other man staring at him in open-mouthed shock. Bard rolled his eyes as Ace gave himself a visible shake and ran to catch up.

  "Ooh boy, you're mated?" Ace asked, laughing, "Congrats man! Who's the lucky lady?"

  "Yes." Bard growled, shoving a hand through his hair, tearing it from the restraining band so that he could get an actual good, thorough, frustrated scrub at it. "No. Not yet, and I don't know her. Just met her, but it's her!"

  "Wait..." Ace paused, then was forced to once more hurry to catch up as Bard continued striding towards that faint pulse in the distance. "So yes, you're mated, but no, you don't know her? You've met her, but lost her, and now you're hunting her down? Hunh?"

  "Yes." Bard reluctantly explained what had happened while Ace kept pace, and Bard appreciated the obvious effort it took the shorter man not to interrupt.

  "Okay, so your dad totally went all berserker growly because he's been witch-burned, and your mate's a witch who smells pretty, but you don't even know her name, and you're afraid your dad scared her off?" Ace made a strange sound, a sort of choking, snorting half-laugh that made it sound like he was being strangled. Which Bard was tempted to do at that particularly moment, if the other man didn't keep up!

  "Yes!"

  "Dude, you've gone monosyllabic..." Ace held up his hands in peace, "I thought my day was starting off rough. But don't stres
s it. You said she was in the shop across from yours. That means she's the new glassmaker, yeah? Which also means, she'll eventually end up back there, especially if she's staying up in the loft."

  Bard came to a sudden halt.

  Ace nearly crashed into his back, barely saving them both from going sprawling, considering that even with Bard's much greater bulk, at the speed they had been going, even Ace's slighter weight would've been enough to move the blacksmith.

  Tilting his head up to the sky, Bard squeezed his eyes shut and huffed. "Fuck. You're right."

  "Yeah, I get that a lot," Ace said, completely straight-faced although Bard's wolf huffed at the amusement radiating from the Traveler. "Besides, it may send the wrong message if she looks up to see you bearing down on her in your current state-of-mind. You've gone full Viking, bro. Dial it back a few notches, instead of running her down like she's dinner."

  But she will be, Bard's wolf thought, already salivating at the thought of his mate spread out and ready to be eaten.

  Who knew Bard's inner wolf was a bigger perv than he was?

  Chapter 11

  "Um...dear? If you do not mind me asking, just why are you hiding? Do you need some help?"

  Okay, so maybe Harper shouldn't have screeched and whirled around with her hands up in a martial arts' pose she had seen in some Jackie Chan movie when she heard that soft, lilting voice come from behind her, but when you're afraid you're being hunted down by a big, bad shifter, you'd be a little tense too!

  Blinking owlishly up through a pair of wire-rim spectacles, beautiful gray-green eyes regarded Harper with frank curiosity. The stranger was a young girl, probably barely out of high school, with a petite but curvy build. She was a little less than average height, with a mass of dark burgundy hair falling in waves around a pretty face. In some ways, she reminded Harper of Sam when they had first met as Freshman in college, but the stranger's complexion was a creamy ivory, opposed to Sam's freckled visage. Unlike Sam, who rocked her Lumberchick-Chic, however, this young woman dressed...well, the politically correct term would probably be "Eclectic."