Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply (15 page)

Or maybe I was only dreaming.

•   •   •

“Another human?” The gruff male voice practically barked. “Can our sons find no one among their kind?”

“What kind would that be?” asked a much more soothing female voice. Her tone held patient amusement. “Demigods aren’t easy to find in these modern times. And Moira? You are dreaming.”

Huh. This was new. I rarely remembered my dreams—“a blessing, child” my grandfather had once said to me, when I was older and complaining about my lack of imagination. Apparently I’d suffered terrible nightmares after my mother died. Well, duh. Death had taken her from me, and then left me with a grief so awful I couldn’t breathe. I was five, for fuck’s sake.

“It might help,” said the man, “if you opened your eyes.”

Oh. I opened my eyes, and found myself within a circle of trees so tall that their thick branches nearly blotted out the moon overhead. Something about this place seemed mystical and out of time. I felt the way I did right before I entered a new site, my fingers scraping rough stone, my lungs inhaling dusty air. Mostly, though, was the wholehearted feeling of hushed wonderment as I traversed the sacredness of the ancient past guarded by time and by ghosts.

I looked down. I wore the lavender dress I’d fallen asleep in, if it had been altered into the style of a Roman noblewoman’s garment. My feet were bare, and I felt the soft tickle of grass beneath my toes.

Sooooo . . . I was definitely not awake. I’d been kidnapped by vampires, commandeered by werewolves, and zapped to some middle-of-nowhere town, but I couldn’t fathom this scenario being at all real.

Then again . . . what was real anymore? Real had packed its bag, waved good-bye, and left the moment Karn demanded I dance with him. Or maybe it was when my formerly staid colleague Doriana had punched him in the face.

“Hello, Moira.” Sitting on a throne carved from gleaming dark wood was a woman so beautiful I was reminded of the great known beauties of ancient times—Helen of Troy, Queen Nefertiti, Xi Shi. She had in real time (er . . . dream time?) those ethereal qualities that I could only imagine as I stared at effigies unearthed from the sands. She had long black hair coiled in tight ringlets that fell like silky ribbons to her waist. Her skin was perfect, as creamy and pale as cold milk. She wore a blue T-shirt that read,
LYCAN THERAPY: ROCK BAND CHAMPIONS
. And she wore a pair of faded jeans. Her feet were bare, too. She saw the direction of my gaze, and she wiggled her toes, which were painted neon pink.

“I am Aufanie and this is my mate, Tark. Drake is our son, as are Darrius and Damian.”

My gaze was drawn to where the woman’s hand rested on the jeans-clad thigh of a man who stood next to her throne. He was built like the Rock. He, too, wore a T-shirt proclaiming
LYCAN THERAPY: ROCK BAND CHAMPIONS
. He looked like Drake—not only that familiar green gaze and amazing waterfall of hair, but also the warrior vibe. Well, I should probably say that Drake had Tark’s appearance and manner, since Tark was the father. The confusing part, of course, was that they looked like they were about the same age as Drake and Darrius.

Also . . . Drake had another brother?

“You may be wondering why we’ve entered your dreamscape,” said Aufanie.

Actually, I hadn’t wondered at all. A dream was a dream, right? Although since I wasn’t used to remembering my dreams, much less actively participating in them, what did I know?

Aufanie shared a look with Tark, who leaned down and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We feel we should convey certain information about the pyramid,” he said in that gruff voice. “It is not particularly pleasant news.”

“Wonderful,” I muttered.

Aufanie nodded, and lifted her gaze to mine. “Tomorrow, you must be the first one to enter the pyramid.”

“Whoa. You don’t just go into a pyramid,” I said. “You have to examine, plan, measure. Sometimes it takes weeks before we’re ready to—”

“This is not the kind of pyramid you are used to excavating,” interrupted Tark. “This one protects two Ancient vampires who went to ground more than three thousand years ago. These vampires are prophesied to return and rule the undead.”

“Vampires,” clarified Aufanie. “Not zombies.”

“I believe zombies are dead-dead,” mused Tark. “And do not fall under the purview of vampire rulership.”

I didn’t even know what to say. How on earth could I contribute to such a bizarre conversation? “I know that part . . . the part about the pyramid, not the zombies. “

“Yes,” said Tark. “Karn wishes to kill the slumbering vampires, Amahté and Shamhat, and lead the vampires himself. Also, he wants to drink the ambrosia that was buried with them.”

“And then he wants to reveal supernatural creatures to humans,” I said. “I understand all of that.”

“We once lived in harmony with humans, but they eventually turned against us,” said Aufanie. “Even in these enlightened times, we would risk too much—if we reveal ourselves too soon. But with Amahté and his mate returned to the world, we gain ground toward the goal of revelation—and peaceful accord with humans.”

“It’s imperative to our world, and yours, that you ensure their safe return,” said Tark.

I hadn’t even seen the pyramid yet, and here I was being made responsible for its contents. Which were vampires. How did I get into this mess? I scrunched my toes in the grass and sighed.

“Drake will insist that he go in ahead of you,” said Tark. “You must not let him. Your blood opened the first lock and made the pyramid appear. Drake cannot be the sacrifice.”

I thought about Drake, about his eyes, and that body, and those plingy lust vibes . . . oh, wow. “Have you met your son? He doesn’t seem the type to be bossed around.” I blinked. “Wait. What do you mean, ‘sacrifice’?”

I studied their concerned faces. Maybe Drake’s parents were trying to protect him. Patsy had said the pyramid was booby-trapped. So, save him and sacrifice me? I was only a human, after all. Still, it seemed an odd thing to rescue me from Karn so they could use my archaeological expertise to trigger traps. Anyone could be thrown to the wolves . . . um, so to speak. “Why do you want me to prevent Drake from entering the pyramid?”

Aufanie offered me a gentle smile. “You must go in first, Moira . . . because it’s imperative that you die.”

“D
ie?” I said.

“Oh, it won’t be right away,” said Aufanie. She took a look at my expression and added hastily, “Nor will it be forever.”

“The blood of the person who opened the tomb is required to get through the traps. That would be you,” said Tark. “If Drake enters first and tries to be the key, the pyramid will reject him and disappear again.”

“And you know that how?” I asked. “Because I thought these vampires were lost, or something.”

“We had a very enlightening conversation with the vampire who helped create the pyramid and its protections,” said Tark.

“And whoever found the damned thing and unlocked it had the dubious honor of being a sacrifice?”

Tark and Aufanie exchanged a look. “Not necessarily.”

“Well, that’s not vague at all,” I said, annoyed. “Can we have some further discussion on the sacrifice part of this business?”

“You will slowly be drained as you progress,” said Tark. “It is your blood that will begin to awaken the Ancients. When you reach the end of your journey, you will be rewarded with the ambrosia.”

“So it’s really ambrosia? Food-of-the-gods ambrosia?” I asked. “Make-me-immortal ambrosia?”

“Yes.” Tark looked at me as though he were questioning my sacrifice candidacy.

“Why would you come to me in a dream? And not tell Drake directly about not going in ahead me?”

“My son is stubborn,” said Tark.

“All of our sons are stubborn,” said Aufanie. She glanced at her husband and smiled. “I fear they come by it naturally.” She patted her husband’s hip.

“Drake will insist on coming with you.”

“Our son is very fond of you.”

“I’ve known him for two seconds,” I said. “Granted, he’s aces at the white-knight stuff—well, so far—but why would he care about some archaeologist he’s never met before?”

“Oh. Well.” Aufanie’s smile crinkled, as though she was trying to prevent a secret from spilling out of her lips. “We know you have questions.”

“Does she ever,” muttered Tark.

“More will be revealed to you, I promise,” said Aufanie. “But for now, we must have your answer, Moira. Will you enter the pyramid first, of your own free will, and traverse time and traps to bring forth the new hope of parakind?”

Her eloquence was moving, as was the sincere gaze she bestowed on me. Tark, for all his rough-tough exterior, seemed to be holding his breath as they awaited my answer. Well, what was I supposed to say? Good luck with Karn, and your pyramid, and your paranormal problems. Nice knowing you. Also, I apparently started this whole process . . . and I didn’t remember any of it. And if I could believe them, my grandfather had been involved somehow in all this before he died. In any case, how the hell was I expected to go back to my life knowing what I knew now? How could I ever look at another pyramid, another sand dune, another campfire, and not think of this moment?

“Well, the blood-draining thing doesn’t sound like an optimal experience,” I said. “But . . . I’m in.”

“Excellent,” said Aufanie.

“You are brave,” said Tark. He studied me. “I hope you are strong as well.”

“Votes of confidence are always welcome,” I said.

Tark cracked a smile.

Then the forest and the dark and the trees shattered . . . and so did I.

•   •   •

I woke up with a pounding headache and my mouth so dry it felt like I’d been eating sand. For a moment, I tried to remember how much tequila I’d slammed and why on earth I’d let Ax talk me into another stupid drinking contest.

I propped myself up on my elbows, and moaned. “Someone kill me. Please.”

“Never, my treasure.”

The voice startled me so much my eyes flew open and I yelped. Drake stood next to the bed holding a delicate china cup.

“What the hell are you doing hovering over me like some kind of . . . of . . . stalker?” I sounded as cranky as I felt.

One dark eyebrow winged upward. “Not a morning person?” He glanced at the darkened window. The shade had been raised and the curtains opened to reveal the last vestiges of dusk. “Or should I say not an evening person.”

I dropped my head to the pillow and put the back of my hand on my forehead. “Ouch.”

“Lenette said that you might suffer some aftereffects.” He sat on the edge of the bed and offered the cup. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

“Says you.” I sat up slowly, and took the cup, peering at the amber liquid. “You drug my food, and expect me to drink whatever you put in my hand?” I snorted.

“I understand,” said Drake. “Would it help to know we are protecting you?”

“Not really, no.” My head pounded. I sniffed at the tea, or whatever it was. It had a cinnamon fragrance. “Well, what could happen?” I took a sip.

“You could grow a tail and horns,” said Drake.

Anyone else—anywhere else—I would have accused of being sarcastic. Instead, I stared at him suspiciously.

“I’m kidding,” he said, offering one of those patented wicked grins. “One sip won’t do anything.”

I waited for Mr. Werewolf to say something else. He remained silent, so I drank another sip of the delicious brew.

“I remember now. It’s two sips.”

“You’re hilarious.” I tried to hand him the cup. “Forget it.”

He pushed it gently back toward me. “Please. I promise the tea will help.” He removed two pill bottles that had been tucked into his pocket. “Dove mentioned you need these.”

Embarrassment clogged my throat. I took the bottles and looked away from him. “I’m a little crazy,” I said. “Rough childhood.”

“Your mother’s death.”

“Yeah, that was part of it. But there was something else, inside me, that was dark and angry and just . . . Well, I lost myself for a while. Anyway. The pills keep me from picking up sharp objects and embedding them in people.”

He was staring at me, but not in a judgmental way. “I would like to hear your story,” he said. “I want to know why you believe you are crazy.”

“Well, having three psychiatrists tell me I was nutballs contributed to the idea,” I said. “Although they used words like ‘delusional’ and ‘psychotic breaks.’”

“My sister-in-law used to be a psychotherapist,” said Drake. “She never uses the term ‘nutballs.’”

“Because she’s probably kind.”

“She is. And as are you.” The teasing gleam in his eyes had disappeared, replaced by sincerity. Whoa. Serious Drake was even more effective than Sexy Drake. “Take your pills, Moira, and please drink the tea.”

I popped open the plastic bottles, plucked out my pills, and took them by drinking the tea.

By the time I’d finished the cup, my headache had disappeared.

“What now?” I asked.

“Shower. Clothes. Breakfast.” He plucked the teacup from my grasp, then stood up and offered a half bow. He glanced at me, that damnable gleam back in his gaze. “And then, my lady, your pyramid awaits.”