She faced toward the breeze blowing from the west, strong and warm, her hair loose and free behind her. She wore a simple silk gown the rich saffron color of the togas worn by Hari Krishna monks. As the gale pressed against the front of her body, the garment conformed to her curves like a second skin. The back of the skirt was a train formed by yards and yards of the marvelous fabric that was, at one time, as precious as gold. Against the backdrop of the storm, it looked like liquid sunrise when the breeze caught the silk, making it dance in the wind like a watercolor come to life, billowing like a sampan at full sail.
To her right stood a tall, beautiful, dark-haired man, shirtless, with enormous black wings - at rest, the tips of the wings skimmed the ground. As he was talking to her, he swept one hand across the horizon as if to illustrate a point he was making about the panoramic event unfolding before them. In her dream, she absorbed a whisper of the words 'storm angel'.
Suddenly and without explanation, as often happens in dreams, there appeared in her hands a bow and arrow. As the angel stood by watching, she aimed toward the clouds, seventy degrees above the horizon. She tried to pull the bowstring taut, but did not have the strength to do it. She turned to tell the angel that she was not up to the task, but when she looked into the piercing intensity of his black eyes, watching her quietly and calmly, she decided to try again. This time she added fast resolve and the metaphysical force of spiritual commitment to her physical strength and the string drew back easily, responding to her command like a virtuoso playing a violin.
When released, the arrow, aimed at the darkest gathering of clouds above the horizon, flew along its foreordained trajectory cutting a path of visible electricity in its wake across the sky. When it reached its mark, there was a deafening clash of thunder followed by a series of rolling rumbles that could be felt vibrating the earth beneath her feet. Clouds parted at the point of arrow strike revealing a patch of blue sky and impossibly fluffy white clouds whirled into peaks like meringue. The dark and angry ocean below the precipice was overtaken and forced out to deeper sea by waves coursing a friendlier hue of Pacific blue, calming the churning to quiet tidewater lapping at a coastline garden thick with floral blooms.
The bow disappeared from her hand as her attention was redirected to a miraculous display of grape vines sprouting upward from the earth all around them. They were rapidly maturing into healthy, thriving plants as flowering, low growing, yellow mustard blooms blanketed the earth beneath them. She laughed and looked at her companion whose wings were gone. The figure standing next to her was a man whose intense, black-eyed gaze was focused on her so completely she felt as if nothing else existed apart from the two of them. His presence gave her a sense of peace, contentment, and belonging. Even in her dream, her heart cried out for that. Longed for that. She reached out to touch his face with her fingertips and woke to a crash of thunder, her arm outstretched in the air.
With drapes left open, there was enough light in her third story room to see the myriad images covering her walls; art renderings of a pink Italianate villa with a slate roof and red bougainvilleas blooming profusely, trailing from big iron pots set on the steps of terraces as the vineyard stretched down toward the sea. She knew the place well and had been recreating it from memory for years in every medium imaginable: oil, watercolor, paint marker, charcoal, pencil, even crayon. She supposed the casual observer would think her obsessed and, objectively speaking, she would probably have to agree.
Her thoughts wandered back to the dream she'd been having just before she woke. There was something about it that she wanted to remember. She had tried to hold onto the images and the feelings, but they swirled and pitched and, within seconds, both had evaporated like smoke.
.
***
CHAPTER 3
The Palace at Derry, Ireland
Happy mating had quieted Ram’s emotions. It had been so long since he’d felt the rise of his notorious hot temper that it seemed foreign, like it was no longer a good fit with his body. Especially when aimed at Elora. Being angry with her felt wrong and feeling guilty made him glower at her even more.
“You said you could never be mad at me!” Elora didn’t have to play the lady anymore. She could yell and scream and pound on walls if she wanted to, though that would be extremely ill advised since her strength might weaken, if not bring down, even palace walls.
“When I said that, how could I know that we would be makin' babies together and that one day you would propose somethin’ so f**k-it-all stupid as puttin’ yourself and our little one in harm’s way?”
“It’s supremely simple, Ram. If the baby’s father is going, the baby’s mother is going. Baby’s father stays home, baby’s mother stays home. Your choice.”
Ram's color reddened as he turned to face the wall to shout frustrated Gaelic at the top of his lungs.
She examined her nails nonchalantly, completely unfazed. “It will do you no good to curse in Irish. I can’t understand it.”
“You are the most fractious woman to ever walk the earth!”
“Nonetheless.” She rolled a shoulder in a pretty shrug indicating she would not be moved in this. “You know I’m good with dogs.”
Ram’s mouth fell open and he gaped at her with wide eyes. “Elora! Werewolves are not dogs.”
“If it looks like a canine…”
“It does no' look like a canine, Elora. It looks lupine.”
“Oh, what-the-hell-ever.”
Ram laughed. “Pub speak, my girl? Where’s Ms. Perfect Princess Propriety now?” He stopped and grinned. “Say that three times fast.”
She gave him a pointed glare. “Off topic, Rammel.”
Ram faced the closed suite door raising his arms and his voice in a mock plea of distress. “Help! She’s callin’ me Rammel. I'm in trouble now!”
“You know you are asking for it.”
Very slowly he turned his head and gave her a lupine smile if ever she saw one. In the spirit of giving credit when due, she had to hand it to the love of her life. He didn’t need to say what he was thinking out loud to be clearly understood.
There was no one near the east wing of the palace who didn't know an argument was underway between the prince and his soon-to-be bride. Not being used to the way the newly mated couple interacted, the staff gave each other poignant looks and donned personal listening devices to keep from eavesdropping.
Of course, the staff was aware of Ram's temperament or, rather, temper inherited from his mother. When he was a child, he had fought constantly, sometimes with his father, sometimes with his older brother, Aelsblood. When the environment of conflict became too much, even for him, he would run away to an uninhabited hunting cottage in the New Forest Preserve and stay for long periods of time.