Weregirl
Authors: Patti Larsen
Weregirl
Book One of The Lychos Cycle
Patti Larsen
Kobo Edition
Copyright 2013 by Patti Larsen
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Purely Paranormal Press
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Cover art (copyright) by Valerie Bellamy. All rights reserved.
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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
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Weregirl
Book One of the Lychos Cycle
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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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.