Weregirl Read online

  Weregirl

  Book One of The Lychos Cycle

  Patti Larsen

  Kobo Edition

  Copyright 2013 by Patti Larsen

  Find out more about Patti Larsen at

  http://www.pattilarsen.com/

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  Purely Paranormal Press

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  Cover art (copyright) by Valerie Bellamy. All rights reserved.

  www.dog-earbookdesign.com

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  Edited by Annetta Ribken, freelance Goddess. You can find her at http://www.wordwebbing.com/

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  Copy edits by Jennifer Wingard. Find her at

  http://theindependentpen.com

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  Weregirl

  Book One of the Lychos Cycle

  Chapter One

  My paws don’t even seem to touch the ground as I bound and race through the quiet forest. Muscles bunch and pull, the remains of my human form slowing me only slightly as I stretch out my gait and push myself to top speed. My front paws reach and grasp at the trees to propel me forward as my curved back legs churn faster.

  There are times I wish wearing the true form of a wolf wouldn’t steal my soul. Still, this hybrid human/beast shape has always served me well. Though I’ve laughed at Hollywood’s attempt to recreate us for film, I have to admit they are very close to getting it right.

  Wind stings my eyes, trees whipping past. My claws rend gashes in the bark of an evergreen as I use it to alter course, the slingshot effect propelling me faster. Three bounds and I come to rest on a rotting stump, crouching, muzzle hanging open, tongue lolling to the side as I grin into the still air and wait for the return of night time birdsong.

  It doesn’t take the local owls long to forgive my trespass, the who-who-who of their quiet communication so deep and beautiful to my wolf ears. The scent of dying vegetation mixed with the soft breath of coming fall filters through my sensitive nose, a winding pattern of scents carrying on the breeze. Prey animals, small and quick, poke their own noses out from under dying leaves before scurrying off to hide, not understanding I am not a threat.

  Moonlight filters through the towering branches, more than enough to illuminate my path. I hold my place as a grumpy wolverine snuffles his way past, out of respect for his touchy nature as much as my amusement at the way his round body, fattening for winter, waddles by.

  I love the forest, the ancient touch of it. I feel the most free here, unchained by titles and my grandfather’s constant prodding. Fall is coming to Ukraine, another year winding into the next and I have, as of yet, to satisfy his need for an heir of my own to the throne of the werenation.

  A delicate shudder ruffles my fur as I think of my friends, Syd and Meira. I’m not the only one who has faced these demands to mate, to make more of me for the continuation of my line. My witch friends endured their own torments before finding their true love. I’ve felt the culmination of their desires in them both. Smelled it, the sweet and subtle scent of happy pheromones stirring their blood, and felt prickles of jealousy, quickly suppressed. I have no right to envy them. Both Hayle sisters have suffered long and terribly to find their happy endings.

  I sigh and adjust my clawed feet on the stump, bits of crumbling, decayed wood giving way with rustling patter over the leaves below. Yes, I’ve suffered, too. But my lot has always been decided for me, my suffering orchestrated by those in power over me. Until recently. And now, here I am, expected to simply abandon two decades of training and indoctrination, and accept I’m no longer the servant, but the served?

  Air snorts from my snout, puffs of mist cutting across my vision. I hadn’t meant to think on these things tonight. This run was meant to clear my head, to be fun. I miss fun. As rare as it had been in my old life, it’s even more precious now. Princess Sharlotta, heir to the werenation, must be sober and stoic, on the inside and the outside. But Charlotte Girard?

  She’s had her share of fun.

  I shake my body, fur settling as I step off the stump and glide through the trees at a loping walk this time, unwilling to yet relinquish my werewolf form. I feel my most content in this shape, as though the woman I am is meant to be a beast, not a princess. But I find, at these times, I most miss my old life. Never the one I lived before I met Sydlynn Hayle. No, it’s the one that came after I long for.

  I catch their scent before I spot them, drifting like ghosts through the trees toward me. The large, white female is in the lead, as usual, the pack alpha, a handsome gray with a huge head and the bushiest tail of any wolf I’ve ever seen, close at her side. The pack leaders halt near me, their family spreading out behind them.

  My muzzle vibrates as I growl a greeting and the lead pair rumble back a hello. I’ve never been able to fully communicate with them past a simple “how are you” and “goodbye”, the language of wolves difficult for me in my half-human were shape. But they don’t seem to mind, my little pack, often tracking me down when I emerge from the palace to take a run.

  They first made themselves known to me when I returned to the werecapital to accept the heir’s throne, shortly after Syd healed us of the taint of the Black Soul sorcerers who created and controlled us. I scented the pack long before I met them that first time, a little nervous they might see me as their enemy, invading their territory.

  But, from the moment they emerged to greet me, they have shown me nothing but curiosity and kindness.

  The breeze picks up again, scent of a hot-blooded deer burning down my throat and firing my hunting instincts. The pack shifts as one, rising to their feet, waiting for me as though I am their real leader. I bow my upper body instead to the white female and her alpha and growl for them to proceed.

  Again I run, this time surrounded by the pack though I tower over them on my hind legs, feeling their heartbeats tied to mine, lost in the chase, the whisper of their paws over the ground, the sense of utter freedom and the savage need to run forever pounding like a drug through my veins. I could get lost in this, remain in my wereform forever and live among them, as one of them, content and blessed.

  Sharlotta. His deep voice breaks my joy, brings me to a bounding halt. I watch the pack go on without me, heart now heavy, the white wolf pausing to turn, watch me as I wave her on with one paw.

  Grandfather, I send, my tone as weighted as my corralled soul.

  You’re late, he sends in return, the sense of him on his throne powerful, the staleness of the indoor air he breathes choking me as I hold my ground and absorb the quiet night, saving up for later.

  I look up at the moon, bark a soft curse into the air. The baby shower. Such an odd tradition my witch friends have, brought over from the normals they seem to do their best to avoid.

  Ethpeal is here waiting for you, Oleksander sends with gentle admonishment in his mental voice, tied to the pressure of his disappointment. I cower where I stand, whining softly into the cold night air, a puppy chastised by her leader.

  Forgive me. I spin and race at top speed back toward the palace, this run more frantic and erasing my excellent mood entirely. I return at once.

  We will be waiting, he sends.

  The final touch of his mind holds love and forgiveness, but not enough to salve the burning guilt now replacing my
joy. I know better, that Ethpeal kindly agreed to come retrieve me and bring me to Wilding Springs so I can attend Meira’s baby shower. And I’d forgotten, put my grandfather in an uncomfortable position.

  Still berating myself for my selfishness, I cross the threshold of the trees and onto the broad lawn of the palace, the bright lights within beckoning me on.

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  Chapter Two

  The back of the massive building offers better climbing routes and more private entry, one of which I carefully covet, to my own quarters. I race around the side, paws chilly as the dew catches the first hint of frost.

  It’s simple to skirt the handful of wereguards patrolling the grounds, not that they would dare stop me. But I use these moments as training, a reminder I refuse to grow soft in my skills if not in my heart. While it’s probably silly to think I need to maintain the abilities I gained growing up as a bodywere, there is comfort in the old ways and I pride myself in maintaining my fitness as well as my particular talents.

  I pause by a dark bush as two guards move past, close enough I could trip them if I so chose. I frown into the night, reminding myself to mention this to my grandfather. We aren’t at the same level of alertness we used to be, but I fear our people grow casual about our safety and that I will not allow. The pride of the werenation demands nothing but our finest effort at all times.

  They move on and I’m alone again. I spin toward the building, sprinting for the towering stone. The front façade is polished and shining but the back of the palace, facing the massive interior courtyard as the horseshoe shape engulfs the grounds, is rougher stone. Perfect purchase for fingers and toes, and even for wolf claws.

  The first floor deck trestle leads to the old stone-work downspout and across to the thick, climbing vines and to my own balcony. My claws make clattering sounds on the stone as I bound over the edge and through the half-open glass door.

  My body aches as it reverts to human form, wolf eyes locked on my reflection in the full-length mirror as I shrink, fur retreating, muzzle collapsing into my face. It hurts like an old, dead tooth wanting to be pulled, but in a good way, too, muscles well used for fine purpose. When I’m done, I stare, not at a wolf-shaped woman, but at a slim and pale-skinned girl, blonde hair wild around her face, my blue eyes the last to reshape into more normal irises.

  My hand slides over my left shoulder, across the wolf-head tattoo I dared to have inked on my skin. Oleksander had nearly imploded when he saw it, but I adore it, mostly because my small rebellion is the first time I don’t feel guilt over doing something I wanted to do just for me.

  And, because of him. I shiver in the cold breeze coming through my door and turn to shut it with a solid thud, the gauzy curtains, far girlier than I am, settling to puddle their hems on the marble floor. The tattoo was his idea, and the artist, a friend he knew. Sage of the sea-green eyes and dark hair, with his strong hands and powerfully trained body. A warrior with the heart of a healer and the body of a god.

  I will not think of him, not now. Maybe not ever again. I must let him go, my normal love, no matter how he makes me feel.

  Smiling green eyes flash in my mind regardless of my wishes, and I smother Sage’s handsome face with a litany of duty, honor and pride as I turn to my wardrobe and begin to dress. The opulence of the room around me is lost, wasted on a warrior who struggles to adjust to being a princess. I would be just as happy in a plain, small room, without the accoutrement of wealth and position. But I have no choices now, as I had none when I was a slave to the Black Souls, trading one loss of freedom for another.

  The wardrobe door vibrates as I slam it shut, biting back my bitterness. I have a duty to my grandfather, to my people. I am free, but I will never be me.

  My eyes meet my own gaze in the mirror and I draw a breath to settle myself. A few more and I’ve released my emotion, drawing on years of protections against the stirrings of my heart. When I’m done, I’ve succeeded in at least dulling both my physical and emotional aches to a distant throb.

  Soft carpet muffles my long strides, carrying me quickly from my quarters and to the broad staircase leading down to the main floor and the throne room. I register and return the nods and greetings of the weres who pass me, wondering if they feel as out of their element now as I do. Yes, Syd did us a massive favor by healing us and giving us our freedom. But I can tell from the feel of my fellow weres, the sometimes awkward way they act, their hesitancy when faced with their own decision making instead of being directed, they, too, are still adjusting to not answering to anyone but other werewolves.

  I think that is why most have stayed close to the palace. Not that we don’t have room for the Ukraine weres in the massive building. But the need to serve is so ingrained in us, even I find myself looking to Oleksander, my king before he is my family, for guidance and the familiarity of order.

  The closer I come to the throne room doors, the more my eagerness returns. I’ve missed my dear friend—my former пов'язаний, my bonded one—with a pain I often marvel at. Her perceived loss is still agony to me, the severance of our bond one of the most painful memories I will ever bear. She tells the story as though I had a choice to return from death, when the gunshot I took for her laid me low.

  She still has no idea I had no choice but to come back to her. None at all.

  The weres guarding the doors bow to me as I glide past, my focus now on the two figures at the far end of the long room. I no longer see the elaborate décor here, either, if I ever did, raised to it as I’ve been since childhood. The Faberge egg appearance of the overdone palace has become blasé and invisible to me. But every once in a while, I notice again and find myself standing, staring, in wonder how far my people have come to have taken this place from the evil that created us and made it our own.

  My memories of living here as a small child are hard to chase away. Every time I walk this stretch of carpet to the throne, I recall the day I was given to the Dumont family, along with six other children of the werenation. And the memory still churns bile in my stomach. The ghostly, smiling image of Odette Dumont and her vile son, Andre, his eager anticipation terrifying me even then, winks into existence and out again as I banish the vision with a surge of raw hate.

  But the sight of smiling Ethpeal shatters the old pull of fear and loathing and warms me with the fire of her love. This is my new life and I willingly hurry toward it.

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  Chapter Three

  I stride to her, needing the comfort where once I shunned the care of others. I hug her as she opens her arms to me. I never expected to be so physically demonstrative, had taken years to break from my shell of rigid control. Syd’s family brings out the best in me, though I fear they have also made me weak.

  Not that I care, right now. The girl inside me is starved for love. I’m aware of her need and I can’t bring myself to deny her anything. Ethpeal’s lips brush my cheek before she pushes me back, hands gripping my upper arms, sly smile on her face. While she looks entirely different, her wispy white hair now lustrous black, wrinkled skin filled out into a rosy glow and faded blue eyes returned to the dark of her daughter and granddaughter, Ethpeal has always felt the same to me. Even her shift from witch to sorcerer hasn’t altered the intense touch of her spirit. I think I may have been the least shaken by her transformation when her sorcery claimed her.

  She smells of grapefruit and honey, her soul a rich purplish blue engulfing me as much as her arms.

  “Charlotte.” She flashes her white teeth in a big smile. “I’m early. Wanted to chat with your grandfather.”

  Oleksander bows his head graciously, and I marvel at Ethpeal’s kindness. She understands my guilt at being late and is giving me a way out of my embarrassment.

  “A most lively conversation it was,” my grandfather says in his deep voice, heavy beard unable to hide his smile or the sparkle in his eyes. He stands from his throne, towering over both of us, broad arms and shoulders more than large enough to embrace us in one big
hug if he chose.

  Which he would never do, out of fear he would offend the sorcerer next to me.

  “My darling Sharlotta,” he bends and presses his lips to my forehead, bristly hair tickling my face, “I know you will bring honor to our family in your return to Wilding Springs.” I lean back and nod.

  “Always, Grandfather,” I say.

  His gentle smile triggers my gratitude for him. Meira has told me some of her history with her own grandfather on Demonicon, his cruelty and short-sighted need for power. I know I am fortunate that Oleksander truly loves me and wants what’s best for me. But at times like this, feeling the pressure of his need to show only the best face of the werenation, I want to run away and never come back.

  I understand his nervousness, the anxiety he smells of often when important others—those he respects and whose respect he longs for in return—come to call. I feel it as keenly as he does. We’ve spent our entire existence at the beck and call of those who cared nothing for our wellbeing and everything for their own greed. Reshaping the reputation of the werenation will take the very best we have to offer.

  My grandfather bends beside his throne and retrieves a small bag, handing it to me. I’m already aware of the contents, having chosen the gifts for Meira and the baby myself. His heart is in the right place at all times, but he has no sense of the appropriate when it comes to gifts. I still shudder at the wood-burning of the wolf pack he gave Syd for her matrimonial gift. I’m almost positive it lives in the basement at the Wilding Springs house.

  “Please offer my love and excitement for Meira and her coming child.” He sighs softly, eyes sad. “How fortunate for her and her mate to have a healthy and powerful heir to look forward to.”

  My teeth grind together of their own accord. “I shall, Grandfather.” The need to escape is so strong I grasp Ethpeal’s hand in my own and squeeze ever so gently.