Touch of Evil - Cecy Robson Page 0,6
so will I.
I crinkle my nose. If Ted is a member of Aric’s pack, he’ll be dealt with and it won’t be pretty. If Celia finds him first, it will be worse. Pregnant or not, Celia is scary.
No need, Celia. And please don’t think about returning home. Enjoy your weekend with Aric. Please. I’m safe and I’ll be all right.
The extra please is necessary and what it takes for her to agree to let it go, at least for now. The part about being all right isn’t exactly true. But I will be.
I return my phone to its pocket and continue my walk. The breeze from the lake bats at my white flowy skirt. I shudder, although it’s not from the magic the lake carries. Celia was always sensitive to the lake’s magic. Me, I’m just cold.
It’s cooler for July than I’m accustomed to and my sleeveless dress exposes my arms. I would have brought a sweater had I known the evening would mimic fall instead of summer. I glance over my shoulder when something pokes at my senses, alerting me that it’s not just the temperature causing me to tremble.
Well-kept walkways that lead to small boutiques and casual bistros stretch out the length of the block. As far as company, I remain the only guest at the party. I maneuver around another puddle. My feet barely reach the other side when I quickly turn, expecting to find someone lurking close by.
There aren’t footsteps or voices, just a presence. I stop, waiting for someone, anyone, to appear; a shop owner locking up for the night or a resident skipping out of her apartment to take advantage of her youth and the nightlife.
There’s nothing. But something all at once.
It’s a different sensation than what I felt at Ted’s apartment. There’s no fear alerting me to run or that primal warning that screams of danger. Whatever I feel isn’t evil or hateful. It simply is.
I glance back more than once. Tahoe isn’t generally considered a largely ghost-inhabited region. There are certainly hot spots for paranormal activity and wandering spirits have a way of making their presence known. But a spirit isn’t what I feel. It takes another block and a few more cautious steps before the feeling of being tracked lessens and ultimately fades away.
Rain had come and gone earlier this afternoon. The remains of the steady showers that threatened to turn into storms only apparent in the moist air and along the small pools of water reflecting the full moon’s dull white rays.
Ahead of me, a couple crosses the street holding hands and speaking quietly. Their night only just began. Mine may come to an abrupt close if I don’t find who I’m searching for.
There are single women in my position who would give up after an experience like I had with Ted. They’d call it a night and go home. I can’t blame them. Not long ago, I would have, too. I’d have taken Shayna up on her offer for ice cream and returned home, binged watched Netflix alone while she churned butter with Koda.
Except home doesn’t feel like home anymore. It hasn’t for a long, long time.
Through their ups and downs and terrifying ordeals, my sisters found their mates. Or maybe it’s better to say, their mates found them.
Mate. I initially shied away from that term. It sounds sexual and primordial, more lust than love. It wasn’t until we met the weres that I realized how sacred and precious the word is.
It’s magical. A love so deep and binding, one mate typically can’t survive without the other. I was always a fan of love. Lust, not so much. I’m not a virgin. I’m just experienced enough to recognize love is forever and lust doesn’t last.
Seeing how my sisters are with their mates, it’s my constant desire to have one too, or at least someone close to that. I suppose that’s why home has lost its comfort. My sisters and their wolves are so connected, so bonded, I’m more of an outsider looking in instead of a family member who belongs with her pack.
A car speeds by me, blasting Cardi B and muffling the excited chatter of the passengers. I try to smile in their direction and be happy for them. I don’t quite manage.
Smiles don’t come easy anymore, except when I’m around that one werewolf I know. Perhaps it’s because like me, Bren knows what it’s like to be alone.
Goodness. I wish I wasn’t so depressed and that every