Page 33 of Blind Date with a Werewolf
But this dream had been different. This time her heart pounded so hard her chest hurt with raw fear and grief. Outside of those emotions, she didn’t remember what she’d dreamed at all. That didn’t matter right now. No doubt the horrible thing would happen and she’d remember, then, that she’d had a dream about it.
The dream wasn’t important right now, except that whatever forgotten horror that had left her sweating and trembling had also made her use her magic—the air reeked of old seawater and ozone. She didn’t even know what she’d done with her magic—maybe nothing at all except in her dreams. But her unconscious action had undone all the protection that living in the middle of Seattle had managed. The buildings of steel and cold iron could not keep her magic secret if she used it.
If she needed further proof, the tattoo on her wrist, both a sign of ownership and a tracking sigil, burned.
He was coming.
December 16
Dear Asil,
Goodness, our gift to you has certainly yielded unexpected results, hasn’t it? What fun we are all having!
For your information, we have decided your last date was a success for you. Congratulations! Our discussion grew heated at times, but eventually we came to an agreement. During the required two hours of your date, no one ran screaming into the night. All deaths happened after the required time, so we feel they were irrelevant. Good for you!
Three down, two to go.
Your next date is scheduled for Wednesday in Seattle. Please note the attached emails between “you” and your date from the Internet site HauntedLove.com, which, they advertise, is a site for ghost hunters who want to hunt with like-minded people who are still breathing.
She is worried about meeting a strange man alone, so your date will begin with a ghost hunting session with her whole team. Afterward, should you both choose to do so, you can take her out to dinner. Try not to kill everyone—at least not until your two-hour goal is achieved. They may come back to haunt you, and ironic twists generally should be avoided.
We are very happy you have emerged from your hermit-like existence and feel the credit should be given to us and our gift to you this holiday season.
Merry Christmas,
Your Concerned Friends
PS—We are getting used to dead bodies and have decided it would be better if we discard that part of the rules entirely, as you seem to be struggling with the concept.
Dear Concerned Friends,
“Irrelevant.” That is an interesting word for the results of the last date you arranged for me.
So.
I accept your gift which keeps on giving—though I feel itis relevantto remind you, again, that I am not a Christian. Giving me a Christmas gift seems inappropriate for this enlightened and woke era.
Asil
Dear Asil,
The gift honors the giver. And what, exactly, do you mean by “woke”?
A few wet snowflakes dropped onto Asil’s windshield, making up in mass what they lacked in frequency. Wipers squeaking, Asil drove up the narrow mountain road that led nowhere but the Alpha of the Emerald City Pack’s house in the wilds outside Seattle.
A log mansion sprawled half-hidden in a canopy of trees, blending practicality with beauty. He pulled in next to the only other occupant of the fair-sized parking lot, a battered Ford Bronco. The dented rust-red hood sported a layer of snow, indicating that it had been parked for a few hours but not all night.
Asil got out of his car and took a deep breath of the frigid air, testing the smells of the woods of the Cascades against the woods of his home. Against the woods of hiscurrenthome.
This forest smelled, not unpleasantly, of moist and rotting organic matter, even under its white coating. In Montana, fifteen below zero did not allow for much moisture in the air no matter how much snow was on the ground. He judged the current temperature somewhere in the high twenties because the snow was what his young friend Kara liked to call “fighting ready”—easily gathered into balls to pelt others with.
One moment he was casually thinking of a snowball fight Kara had initiated that had eventually enveloped most of the pack, the next he was ambushed by the memory of the scent of another wood, the unique smell of his home, his heart home. A scent that now existed nowhere in the world but was as real, here and now, as it had ever been.
His breath caught and he closed his eyes, imagining himself…home. His real home.
For a moment he almost had it. The warmth of the sun, the rich scent of flowers and fruits—his mate’s cooking filling the air. Ah, Sarai. He could feel the stone path under his feet, see the warm glow that leaked out of windows, knew that all he had to do was walk into the house and he would see her.
Part of him understood that the house that had been his home, the fields and groves surrounding it, had been gone for centuries. Understood that his mate, his Sarai, was dead.
