Romance: Wanted by the Alpha Lion (A BBW Paranormal Suspense Romance) (Heroes of Shifter Creek Book 2) (102 page)

“Luca? Brother?”

That is him, now. Prior Alexy. I hear his limping step behind me. He crosses the floor and comes to sit beside me at the desk.

“Prior.” My voice is grating and harsh. When did I last sleep?

“Brother?” His voice is gentle. “I repeat my offer. Tell me what torments you.  Please, my friend.  Trust me. There is nothing so terrible that it is not redeemable, you know.”

Can I tell him? I am certain he would think my love a sin, would condemn these longings of the flesh. And yet he is a good and holy man, a learned scholar, not a bigot. I can trust his opinion.

I tell him.  Everything, almost as it is set down here. Leaving out the bit about bears, of course. And about immortality. I love my friend and would not scare him so.

At the end of my story, he looks up at me, his eyes clouded with pain.  “My brother, that is a hard story.”

I incline my head. It helps to hide the tracks of tears that weave across my cheek.

“I believe you are right in your choice.” He says, his hand covering mine. “You should say farewell to your sweetheart. Return to your vows.”

“I know.” I choke. I cannot bear to say it.

“You will leave now, to say your goodbye?”

I nod. I cannot say it.

“When you return, perhaps we can discuss a pilgrimage?” he asks, his voice soft. “I have documents to deliver to a brother in Constantinople. Perhaps you would take them?”

He must believe the traveling would be good to help me forget. He does not say it, but it is clear that that is why he asks.

I nod, my throat closed with my reined emotions. “Thank you, Brother.” I manage. The kindness he shows me is a fresh cut to my heart. I did not know we were so close, that he feels my pain as I do.

He nods gravely and squeezes my hand. Then he leaves, his steps slow and echoing in the silence.

So it is I come to my decision.

              I end my account, close the bindings, and find my feet on the road towards the farmhouse.

It is the first day of summer. I have had all spring to love her, and now I must leave. Turn my steps to pilgrimage and a long, slow life without her.

I kiss the leather binding of the book, pack it carefully, and set off on the path.

***

Kiryla is at Alena's house.  Still light, this summer evening passes without scene. They have been discussing a case of Alena's, but Kiryla is not listening.

“What is it, dear?” Alena's voice is soft.

“Nothing.” Kiryla's voice is dreamy. She is silent a while, considering, and then continues. “Actually... I would like to tell you.  To share this pain.”

And she does. She tells her teacher all of it. Her meeting, her loving, the depth of her feeling. And why she is so sad.

“He is immortal. He told me so last time I saw him. I can do nothing about that.”

“No.” Her teacher looks at her from the corner of her eye.  She pauses for a while, then carries on.

“There are things I have not told you, Kiryla.” She says. “One of these, is that life is truly endless, when we move beyond form.”

              Life is eternal, beyond form and after death; she knows that. It is scant help, and sounds trite. Kiryla looks up, as if stung.

“I know all souls may persist eternally.” Her voice is harsh and cold with hurt.

“Quite so, Kiryla.” Her teacher nods.

Kiryla looks down then, immediately regretful.

“Thank you, teacher.”

Alena only nods.

They are quiet a while, and then Kiryla rises.

“I must leave. Let me take those jars and collect more celandine.”

“Thank you, dear.” Her teacher inclines her head, her flawless skin pale in the dying light. She has forgiven the earlier outburst, and is serene as ever.

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Kiryla.” Her teacher nods farewell.  Kiryla nods back, and walks, stiff, from the hut.

Life is truly endless, beyond form.

The words play through Kiryla's mind, again and again, as she walks. The basket of bottles hits against her leg with each step. She uses the anger of that sudden bruising pain to spur her on.

Yes
, she thinks angrily.
I know that
! Life is truly endless, beyond form. Truly endless...

She stops. Almost walks into a tree.
Oh, heavens
!

She almost screams it. She feels euphoria rush through her, lift her up so that her soul sings with the stars.

“I have it!”

I must tell Aurelius.
Aurelius is at the monastery
. 
Her feet find themselves running up the path towards the church in the woods.

“Aurelius. Aurelius!”

Just shouting his name is a joy.

After ten minutes of breathless running, she stops to catch her breath. As she starts forward, she runs straight into a man in gray robes.

“Aurelius?”

He stares at each other. His gray eyes are filled with horror. She is laughing, not noticing the graveness of his expression.

“Aurelius! Are you alright? I have something to tell you! Something wonderful.”

“And I have something to tell you.” His voice is low.

“Very well.” She says. Her smile teases him, her eyes warm and entirely unreadable. “You go first.”

***

I say my farewell. I remind her why I have to go, now.  I cannot look up at her face. I feel her thoughts creeping towards me, her memories in our time since passed. The life she has lived without me all these days begs for my attention and I steel myself against what I know she has been thinking.

“I leave this for you Kiryla. It is a poor tale, my life, but you have filled it with light.” My voice chokes back on the words, and I pause, then continue. My hands, holding the book, are shaking. “Care for it, will you? It is all of me there is. My life is good as ended, knowing I am without you.” I place the book beside her, gather my things, turn to leave.

I am about to leave the clearing, when her voice rings out behind me. It is light as spring air.

“Aurelius! Wait! You have not heard my words.” And she is laughing.
Laughing.

I am afraid my words have touched her sanity. I turn back, gentle.

“Kiryla, dear...”

“Aurelius!” She is laughing, still. And sobbing. “Aurelius. Listen to me.”

“I know what you will say.” I shy away from her reaching thoughts. “Even when I am not with you, I am always with you now.” If my words appeared cryptic, her smile did not reveal so. “Kiryla, I know you think we can stay together.”

“But I can stay with you. Forever.” Her eyes shine as she steps forward. “If you already know my account, you know that truly I am always with you. Listen, Aurelius. Feel my heart.”

I think about what she has said and what she has thought. As water from a stream, I allow in her account, unhampered in its flow. It sounds almost too wonderful, too fantastic for belief. But I am dubious.

              “That sounds very... dangerous, Kiryla,” I caution.

“No, it's not!” Her eyes flash, voice sharp. “And even if it was, I would do it. What is my life without you?”

“And mine?” I ask. “I would not see you harmed. I would rather never see you again, than see you perish for my sake.”

“Perish.” She is smiling. “My dear, I love you. But I have never before heard you sound ridiculously dramatic.”

“I'm not dramatic.” I say, wounded. “I love you, too.”

We smile. We have never said it before. Then we laugh.

“I love you!” I say it louder. It feels so wonderful to say that. My arms are around her, and my lips on hers.

We spend hours in the woods, together. Our love is as it ever was, and deeper.  For now we can be truly free to love.

***

It is the first day of Winter. We are in my cave.

I am about to change form. I know the feeling now:  it feels as if my skin were transparent, the other form a hand's breadth from me. It heralds my transformation.

The sun slants through the cave-entrance while we make our preparations. It is a pale, ghostly light, threaded with mist off the water of the neighboring stream.             

We are ready now and the day is drawing to a close.

All the things Kiryla needs for ritual are laid out on the floor. In the center is the book I gave to her. The love with which I made that makes it a bridge between worlds, she says. It is a powerful object, imbued with care. She says it forms what she needs to complete the magic.

It is garlanded with flowers. Other things mark out a circle on the floor. A feather, clear water in a carved stone bowl, a bright, reflective stone.

Then she is ready. She stands in the circle, before the entrance of the cave. The last light, blue-edged, slants through the opening behind her.

She starts to sing.

Near the end of her song, she raises her arms.  I feel the air change around her, grow cold. She is a picture of impossible loveliness. She glows. Bright light fills the cave.

In the midst of that burning halo, I see a face. It is her face, yet not her face. This image is truly her, the beloved my heart has known down all the ages.

My soul knows her. I see in her eyes the moment when that soul sees mine. She smiles.

Then, she changes. There is a blinding glow of light. It pulses, stronger and stronger. It fills the cave with its radiance, explodes into a splendor so fierce I almost recoil from it, as if the interior of a star had touched the earth burns us away with its brightness.

Then she is gone. But she is everywhere. The air is her sweetness, the river is her voice. The tree below the waterfall has golden flowers.

Goodbye, Aurelius. I hear her voice, the faintest echo. I will see you next year.

And with that, and the faint scent of honeysuckle—her scent—I find myself drifting into sleep.

***

Springtime. I feel the light lancing into the cave. My head aches.

I close my eyes again and listen. Outside, I can hear the singing of the water as it cascades free of ice down the rocks.

With the song comes memory.  My heart sinks.
Where is she?

I need not have asked. With the song of the river comes also the sound of her voice.

Aurelius
? It thrums from the air around me, as soft as a moth's flight, permeating the air of the cave.

It is not in my memory, but present now. It is truly her voice.

Kiryla.

My eyes open.

There is a haze in the air, a soft diffuseness, like light reflecting off the mist. Except there is no mist inside the cave. This glowing light is something else, not of this world.

It shimmers and hovers. It gathers. And then, suddenly, just as I am expecting that nothing else will happen, it condenses.

“Aurelius!”

It is her. At least, it is her form. It pulses and glows, as insubstantial as the mist. I strain to reach it. My heart aches.

Then, the sparks of light pull together and are gone, and the warm, soft form of a girl stands before me, as natural as if she had just walked in through the door.

“Aurelius? My love?”

“Kiryla!” My heart feels as if it will burst.

My arms find her waist and wrap around it. Her body is against mine. And, suddenly, the flesh knows its urgency and its desire.

I am still so weak.  I find myself laughing, if a little hysterically, as my wasted body teeters backward, far too weak for anything at all.

I notice suddenly in that moment that my form has changed. I am in human form again. No wonder I feel so weak! I have never shifted so soon. Have never had the motivation, I suppose. I have it now.

“Shall we go outside?” She smiles at me. “The sunshine will help us to get stronger.”

I nod, fervently agreeing.

“Come, then.”

We walk out of the cave together, into the light of the spring morning.

We spend each day together, and each night we sleep, sated, in each other’s arms.

Each winter and each spring we change and transform back. And with all you know, we may be here forever. Life is cyclic, after all. And hearts eternal.

THE END

Chapter 1

On any given day, I could expect to go home with snot, urine, and tears soaked into my clothes, having been touched by at least thirty pairs of hands.

Such is the life of a kindergarten teacher.

I had known from a young age that I wanted to teach children. Both of my parents were schoolteachers, so it made sense. Furthermore, growing up in a small, rural town, I didn’t see many opportunities to spread my wings. Once I accepted that teaching was the right path for me, it seemed pointless to question it, to rock the boat. I liked teaching. I loved it, really.But deep inside, there might have been some part of me that wondered what life would be life if I had ventured out and tried something different.

We were nearing the end of the school year and on Friday, as with every Friday, my three girlfriends and I washed the child-residue off, put on our favorite unprofessional clothes, and hit the bars for Happy Hour. On this night, we were at The Bandit, a favorite of ours because it had cheap drinks and good music. It was a biker bar, full of rough-and-tumble men and their girlfriends. Most of the time they minded their business, choosing to play pool instead of bother anybody. 

“I am almost positive that Sean is gay,” said Meredith. We all worked at the same school, so we mostly gossiped about students and coworkers. The topic of students’ homosexuality was common. We had a running list of kids we thought would grow up to favor their own kind.

“Definitely,” said another friend. “I just worry about him when he gets older and figures it out. His parents are so conservative. I think they go to church every day.”

“Well, in any case,” Meredith said, “he’s a good argument against people choosing to be gay. He doesn’t even know what it is, but he does it better than most of my adult gay friends. He could write a book on it, once he finally learns his damned alphabet.”

I liked to think I was the least catty of the group. The girls loved to talk about who in the office had body odor or a nice butt or bad dishwashing habits in the teacher’s lounge. I worried that it meant they talked about me when I wasn’t there. They were harsh enough when I joined them.

“The real subject we need to discuss,” Meredith said, switching gears from work-based conversation, “is finally getting Lauren laid.”

“Meredith, stop. I don’t want to talk about that again,” I said. They brought it up every time we went out. Kindergarten teachers, as a rule, loved to drink, cuss, and fuck. All of the pent-up energy from being G-Rated all the time needed a release, after all, and they couldn’t stand that I pretty much lived my teacher life outside of school too.

“Come on, girl. You need to loosen up eventually,” Rachel said, teasing but serious. “For God’s sake, you’re drinking a virgin margarita. I know you’re horny, and I know you get mad sometimes. One of these days all of that pent up anger and sexuality is going to burst out at once, and I’m telling you, it won’t be pretty.”

“I’m telling you, I’m fine.” I was tired of having this conversation every time we went out. “Just because I’m not with a different guy every Friday night doesn’t mean I am repressed.”

“Ooh, where did this bitchy side come from?” Meredith gasped with laughter. “Rachel’s right. That anger is showing. You’ve got to loosen up”

The harder they pushed me, the more stubborn I felt. In truth, I did want a man in my life, and I did have my fair share of unresolved frustration. My parents, both of whom taught young kids, persisted in treating me like a child, even when I moved out and became a teacher myself. The difference here was that I wanted to decide when I found the right guy. I didn’t want the girls to make the decision for me.

By the end of the night, Meredith and Rachel had gone home with their chosen men. The other left early because she coached girls’ soccer on Saturday mornings. I was still at the bar, staring into a bowl of pretzels and wondering if they all had a point. I wondered if I should just get it all out of my system.

I wasn’t a virgin—at least not in the technical sense. Some teenaged fumbling in the shed behind my church with a neighbor boy had gotten me past that hurdle, however unpleasant it was. Considering the splinters and the usual pitfalls of associating with teenage boys, that experience was so awkward and uncomfortable that it didn’t send me running to find my way into another boy’s bed.

In the meantime, I was perfectly satisfied to take matters into my own hand, as it were. Watching my friends deal with all of their relationship drama helped me reach the conclusion that boyfriends simply weren’t worth the complications.

I was gracelessly shoving a handful of pretzels into my mouth when I noticed that I was no longer sitting at the bar alone. I turned slowly to my right, cheeks full of dissolving junk food like a squirrel watching the SuperBowl. To my right, smiling amusedly at my state, was the most statuesque biker I had ever seen.

I had noticed him before. Actually, in all honesty, I noticed him every time we came here. His height dwarfed most of the other bikers, and his shoulders were almost broad enough that he had to walk sideways through doors. His narrow waist gave him that upside-down triangle shape that men are supposed to have, or so I was told in my high school art class.

All told, his magnificent physique managed to make him much less intimidating than he should have been. With arms, neck, and hands covered in tattoos and steel-enforced boots that elevated him even more, the man was an imposing presence. I was intimidated, but intrigued.

“Settle a bet,” he said. “Would you call your hair strawberry-blonde?”

It was only when he spoke that I realized I had been staring at him like an imbecile and with my mouth still full of soggy pretzels.

I choked as I tried to swallow, which threw me into an awful coughing fit. He patted my back forcefully with a hand as big as a catcher’s mitt.

“Easy there,” he said, “Let me order you a drink.” He turned to the bartender. “Whiskey here, Ron!”

The bartender slid a glass of the brown liquor at my helper.

When he handed me the drink, I refused, using body language because I was still coughing.

“Here, Ron. Do you know what she was drinking before? Give me one of those.” He passed the drink back to the bartender.

The bartender knew my drink well because I only ever ordered the virgin daiquiris. He usually rolled his eyes as though it were beneath him to make a fruity drink.

My intimidating hero handed me the daiquiri, and I managed to calm my fits of hacking. When I finally settled, the embarrassment of it all set in, and I was grateful that the bar was too dark to betray my blushing.

“There you go. Better? What’s your name, darlin’?” he said, his hand still on my back.

“Lauren,” I said, unable to make eye contact.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lauren. I’m Mike.”

My hand all but disappeared in his as I gave a feeble handshake.

“So, as I was asking before, what color is your hair?”

I couldn’t tell if he was flirting, but I knew my girlfriends would think the question qualified. My face grew hotter. “I guess . . . yeah . . .strawberry blonde.”

“Ha! I thought so. Hey Scut!” He shouted to one of his friends, all of whom had apparently been dividing their attention between their pool game and this encounter. “It is strawberry blonde! You owe me a drink. While you’re at it, get the little lady one too.” He turned back to me. “How about we get you a real drink. You’ve looked like you need one all night, and these fruity things aren’t gonna do the trick.”

“I . . .guess?” I was failing miserably at seeming cool and confident.

“Ron, I’ll take that whiskey from before, and let me get a fresh one for Lauren here.”

Mike gulped his down all at once, but I nearly resumed my coughing fit when I sipped just a little.

“Lightweight, huh? That’s fine. Take your time. I’d hate to have you head home just as we’re starting to get acquainted. Tell me about yourself, Lauren.”

“Well, there’s not much to say, really. I guess I’m pretty boring, hehe.” Inside, I was screaming at myself to at least try to be attractive to this muscular, handsome man, but my mouth wasn’t taking orders. “I grew up here. I’m a kindergarten teacher. That’s pretty much it.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he said. “I’m sure there’s more to you than that. What do you do for fun, other than gossip with your lady-friends?”

Don’t say it, don’t say it
, I thought to myself. “Knitting?”

He’d better be careful
, I thought.
I might be a little too much for him to handle.

“Oh god,” I said. “I told you I’m not interesting!”

“Bullshit,” he said, laughing at my embarrassment. “That’s plenty interesting. I’m sure that comes in handy. I have to sew my gear all the time. Plenty of fights and the occasional motorcycle skid mean that I’m always patching up my clothes. I’m sure that’s why you knit too, right? A few too many torn sweaters from all your rough-housing?” He winked.

Coming from someone else, such teasing would have hurt. But he wasn’t mean-spirited at all. There was too much warmth, too much compassion in his voice, for me to do anything but smile and say, “I guess so.”

I found myself growing more comfortable, more self-assured as the conversation drew on. Eventually, I felt more confident and more open than I ever felt around my girlfriends, who really did most of the talking for me.

“Mike?” I said, stepping further out of my comfort zone, facilitated not only by liquor but by Mike’s open, accepting personality. “That doesn’t sound like much of a biker name. No offense.”

“My friends over there call me Ox, but I think they just do that because they always ask me to help when it’s time to move apartments or fix a bike. I like to work with my hands, to do physical work.So, it fits, but I’m happy with my given name.”

“Is that what you do for a living? Fix bikes and stuff?”

I could tell he got a little tense at the question. His shoulders raised slightly, and he pursed his lips. “Well, I guess you could say I’m between jobs right now. You said you were a kindergarten teacher, right?”

“Yeah. It sounds kind of lame, but I really like it. Hanging out with the kids all day helps me to get my own problems in perspective.”

“How so?”

“Well, for example, the other day one of my kids, Maggie, was distraught because I couldn’t find a crayon the color she wanted. She was drawing a picture of her family and their house, and she was inconsolable that I didn’t have a crayon that she wanted for her dad’s outfit. I thought it was silly, but to her it was a real problem. It pretty much ruined her whole day. When she came back the next day, she seemed fine, but the whole incident helped me to get a little more perspective on my own problems. They all seem so real and so awful to me, but in the scheme of things, they’re probably not much more important than not having the right crayon.”

I noticed that, while I was growing more comfortable, he seemed to be growing tenser, more removed. He kept looking at the door.

“What school did you say you work at?”

“It’s called East Ridge. It’s just up the road.”

“I see,” he said, more withdrawn than ever. “Hey, I’ve got to get going, but I want you to take my number. I’d like to see you again, if you’re interested.”

“Sure,” I said, giddy at being asked but confused by his sudden distance. “Is everything OK?”

“Fine, fine. I just see my friends are itching to head home. It’s been great, Lauren. I hope to talk to you again soon.”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling disappointed and mildly defeated, having opened up more than I had with anyone in recent memory. “It’s been really great.”

He went back to his friends and whispered something to Scut, who looked at me and then at the rest of the group. They abandoned their half-finished game of pool and left on their bikes.

I walked the short distance home wishing that Mike was there with me, holding my tiny hand in his enormous one. I imagined that I was wearing his leather jacket instead of my cardigan. I thought about how much safer I would feel with someone like him to look out for me, to hold me, to defend me.

Most of all, I marveled at how easy it was for me to take risks with him. Despite his size dwarfing mine, I somehow felt stronger around him, like I could sit up straighter and look people in the eye. Paradoxically, his intimidation made me braver. I wanted to call him. I wanted him to come home with me. I wanted to talk until morning, to get lost in his embrace. Ironic as it was, though, I worried I may have scared him off.