Mysteria Nights

For S.L.,

with a smile and a wink.

Thanks for the . . . inspiration.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank Berkley, and especially my talented editor, Christine Zika, for publishing this author-created anthology. It’s wonderful when your publisher believes in you.

Thank you to my agent and friend, Meredith Bernstein, who said, “Absolutely!” when I called her with this idea.

And a big THANKS GIRLFRIENDS to Gena Showalter (my partner in crime in the inception of this anthology), Susan Grant, and MaryJanice Davidson. It was such fun to work on this with the three of you. Let’s do it again soon!

One

“Godiva! Wait—wait—wait. Did you just say that you and your sisters called forth the dead two nights ago?” Candice said, rubbing her forehead where it was beginning to ache.

“Yeah, but you missed the important part. Romeo was . . . spectacular,” Godiva said breathlessly into the phone. “Who knew that poor, wounded wolf would turn into something—I mean, someone—so delectable.”

“So he actually did more than hump your leg this time?”

“Candy Cox—I swear you haven’t been listening.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Fine. Candice, you haven’t been listening,” Godiva said. “He’s not just a wolf. He’s a werewolf, which means he has an excellent tongue and he humps a lot more than my leg.”

Candice kept muttering as if Godiva hadn’t spoken. “It’s not like I don’t get enough of that name crap at school. Why I ever decided to attempt to teach high school morons I’ll never know.” She cringed inwardly, remembering the countless times some hormone-impaired sixteen-year-old boy had made a wiseass remark (usually replete with sophomoric clichés) about her name. God, she was truly sick and tired of Mysteria High School—Home of the Fighting Fairies.

“You could have kept one of your ex-husbands’ names,” Godiva said helpfully.

“Oh, please,” Candice scoffed. “I’d rather sound like a porn star than keep any reminders of ex-husband numbers one through five. No. My solution is to change careers. As soon as I finish my online master’s in creative writing I can dump the fucking Fighting Fairies and snag that job in Denver as assistant editor for Full Moon Press.”

“Honey, have I told you lately that you have a very nasty mouth for a schoolteacher?”

“Yes. And I do believe I’ve told you that I have said nasty mouth because I’m a schoolteacher. Uh, please. Shall we take a moment to recall the one and only day you subbed for me?”

Godiva shuddered. “Ack! Do not remind me. I take back any form of criticism for your coarse language. Those teenagers are worse than a whole assortment of wraiths, demons, and undead. I mean, really, some of them even smell worse!” Just remembering had her making an automatic retching sound. “But Candice, seriously, I don’t want you to move!”

“Denver’s not that far away—we shop till we drop there several times a year. You know I need a change. The teenage monsters are wearing on me.”

“I know,” Godiva sighed. Then she brightened. “Hey! I could work on a spell that might help shut those boys up whenever they try to speak your name. Maybe something to do with testicles and tiny brains . . .”

“That’s really sweet of you, but you know that magic doesn’t work on or around me, so it probably wouldn’t work on my name, either.” Candice sighed. It was true. As a descendant of one of the few nonmagical founders of the town (his name was, appropriately, John Smith), Candice had No Magic at All. Yes, sadly, she lived in a town full of witches, warlocks, vampires, fairies, werewolves, et cetera, et cetera, and her magic was nonmagic. It figured. Her magic worked like her marriages. Not at all. “Men are such a pain in the ass.”

Without losing a beat at her friend’s sudden change in subjects, Godiva giggled. “I agree completely, which is why I know exactly what you need—a werewolf lover.”

“Godiva Tawdry! I’m too damn old to roll around the woods with a dog.”

“A werewolf is not a dog. And forty is not old. Plus, you look ten years younger. Why do you think high school boys still get crushes on you, Ms. Candy Cox?”

“Put boobs on a snake and high school boys would chase after it. And don’t call me Candy.”

Godiva laughed. “True, but that doesn’t make you any less attractive. You’ve got a killer body, Ms. Cox.”

“I’m fat.”

“You’re curvy.”

“I’m old.”

“You’re ripe.”

“Godiva! Do you not remember what happened last time I let myself commit matrimony?”

“Clearly,” Godiva said. “It took ex-husband number five less than six months to almost bore you to death. And he seemed like such a nice guy.”

“Yes, I admit he did seem nice. They all did at first.” Candice sighed. “Who knew that he would literally almost kill me? And after my brush with death, I decided that I. Am. Done.”

“Okay, look. You accidentally took an unhealthy mixture of Zoloft, Xanax, and pinot grigio. It could happen to anyone, especially when she’s being bored to death by a man scratching himself while he incessantly flips from the History Channel to CNN—”

“—And pops Viagra like they’re M&Ms and thinks that the telltale oh-so-attractive capillary flush constitutes foreplay,” Candice interrupted. “Yeesh. I’m going to just say no from here on out. Truly. I’ve sworn off men.”

“No, I remember exactly what you said. ‘Godiva’—here you raised your fist to the sky like Scarlett O’Hara—‘I will never marry again.’ So you’ve sworn off marriage, not men. And anyway, a werewolf is not technically a man. Or at least if he is, it’s only for part of the time. The rest of the time he is the most adorably cuddly sweet furry—”

“Fine.” Candice cut off Godiva’s gushing. “I’ll think about it.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” No, she thought. She hurried on before Godiva could press the point. “I’ve really gotta go. I’m deep in the middle of Homework Hell. I have to turn in my poetry collection to the online creative writing professor next week, and I still haven’t figured out a theme for the damn thing. I’m totally screwed if I can’t get rid of this writer’s block.”

“Well . . .” Godiva giggled mischievously. “I don’t know how it’d work on writer’s block, but Romeo sure unclogged me last night.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m just saying—a little werewolf action might fix you right up.”

“You’re still not helping.”

“Sorry. I’ll let you get back to your writing. Remember, you said you’d think about a werewolf lover.”

“Yeah, I’ll think about it right after I think about my poetry theme. Uh, shouldn’t you and your sisters be frolicking about the graveyard checking on the dead or whatnot?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Our little screwup actually ended up being a good thing, what with those horrid demons on the prowl; the town could use the extra protection. And anyway, it’s only temporary and the dead have already quieted down. Uh, but since you mentioned it . . . are you planning on going jogging today?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you could take a spin through the graveyard and keep your eyes open for my broom? I must have forgotten it in all the excitement that night, between Genevieve scampering off into the woods with Hunter—whose eyes, by the way, were glowing bright red—and my Romeo morphing from wolf to man rather unexpectedly. Anyway, if you see it would you please grab it before somebody flies off with it? You know a good broom is hard to find.”

“Yeah, sure. If I see it, I’ll get it for you. But wait, isn’t Hunter Knight supposed to be dead?” Candice said.

“Well, kinda. Actually, he’s a little undead.”

“Isn’t that like being a little pregnant?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. It’s embarrassing enough for me to admit that my sister’s getting some vampire action. God, I wish the girl had better taste in men, alive or dead.”

Candice sighed. “Hey—don’t be such a prude. If I’d chosen one of the undead I might not be unmarried.”

“Candice, honey, I love you, but you are a hopeless piece of work. Now be a doll and go find my broom. Bye.”

Godiva hung up the phone and sat tapping her chin with one long, slender finger. Candy was getting old before her time. Goddess knew, she really did need a lover. A young lover. A young werewolf lover. A hot, naughty affair would be the perfect thing to keep her from moving to Denver. Her fingers itched to swirl up a little love spell, but magic wouldn’t work on her friend. Godiva’s eyes widened and her full, pink lips tilted up. Magic wouldn’t work on Candy, but it definitely would work on a werewolf....

Two

Candice would never get this damn assignment done.

“You’d think after teaching for almost twenty years I wouldn’t have any problem doing homework.” She grumbled at herself and ran a frustrated hand through her thick blonde hair. “Poetry themes . . . poetry themes . . . poetry themes . . .” Death, time, love, heartbreak, the soul, happiness, sex . . . “Sex,” she muttered, chewing the end of her well-sharpened #2 pencil. “That’s one I can’t write about. Like I’ve had sex in—”

She clamped her lips shut, refusing to speak aloud the ridiculous amount of time it had been since the last time she’d been laid. As if the last time even counted. Ex-husband number five had been, in politically correct terms, penis impaired. Spoken plainly, he’d had a pathetically small dick, and an incredibly large wallet. Unfortunately, one did not make up for the other. Candice grimaced. Quite frankly, women who said size didn’t count had clearly never been with a man with a small dick. And, as if their, well, lack of substance wasn’t bad enough, SDM (small-dicked men) had the same problems short men had. They were mad at the world. Like it helped to make up for said unfortunate shortage by being a jerk? Sometimes men just didn’t make sense.

“Theme!” she said, forcing her thoughts back to the blank notebook page. She wanted to create poetry that would dazzle her professor, replete with complex symbolism, witty phrasing, and possibly even a few clever slant rhymes. What she had come up with was exactly—she glanced at the naked page—nothing.

She was, indeed, screwed (figuratively speaking).

“Okay, so write something . . . anything . . . write what you know. . . .”

What the hell did she know? She knew she was sick of teaching the Fighting Fairies and she knew she would never get married again. Well, she certainly didn’t want to write about high school, which left . . .

“What the hell. At least it’ll get me writing.”

She drew a deep breath and let her pencil begin moving across the blank page.

Keep your Errol Flynns, Paul Newmans, Mel Gibsons

all puppets—empty masquerades.

She blinked and reread the first two lines. Not Shakespeare, but it did have a certain ring to it. Candice grinned and continued.

Tom, Dick, and Harry, too

the boy next door

I want no more.

Wasn’t that the truth! Her pencil, with a mind of its own, kept moving.

You ask, what now?

Well,

And the self-propelled pencil stubbornly stopped. What now? What now? What now? She jumped as the clock in her study chimed seven times. Seven o’clock already? How long had she been on the phone with Godiva? Now she’d have to hurry to get in her five-mile jog, complete with graveyard detour, before the sun set. Crap! She absolutely didn’t want to be outside alone after dusk. Weird things had been going on around town lately—and it took some doing for anything to be classified as “weird” by a Mysteria native. Candice put down her pencil and began pulling on her running shoes.

The beat of her shoes against the blacktop road was a seductive lure. The sound beckoned to him. He’d heard it while he was still deep in the woods. It had called him away from the young thing he was still licking. She snarled after him, disgruntled and unsatisfied at his premature departure. He called a hasty apology and promised to meet her and her twin sister later. Right now he had to follow the beat of her running feet, even though it was unlike him to leave such a delicious tidbit. He prided himself on his ability to satisfy. Like a modern Don Juan, his lovers could count on him for romancing as well as consistent orgasming, but the steady slapping sound seemed to somehow have gotten into his body. It pulled him away from his lover with an incredibly powerful singularity in thought.

You (beat) need (beat) her (beat). You (beat) can’t (beat) stay (beat) away (beat).

The rhythmic lure thrummed with his pulse . . . his heartbeat . . . it pounded through his loins, making them feel hot and heavy. He scented the warm evening breeze. Woman . . . hot, sweaty, and ripe. And not far ahead of him. He wanted her with a single-minded intensity that he hadn’t felt for anything or anyone in years. Growling deep in his throat, he hurried to catch her.

Jeesh, gross. Candice kept glancing nervously from side to side as she sprinted through the graveyard, totally annoyed that she’d promised Godiva she’d look for her broom. Not slowing down, she gritted her teeth and peered into the creepy shadows that flitted past the edge of her vision. Nope. No broom. Also no walking corpses, trolls, goblins, or fairies (whom she disliked with an intensity she knew was unreasonable—they hadn’t asked to be made the school mascot and she shouldn’t hold it against them, but she did). Nothing untoward at all. Just lots of spooky graves and silence. Thank God. Sometimes it was damn disconcerting to be normal in a town filled with abnormals. She shivered and increased her pace, wanting to leave the graveyard and (hopefully) anything that wasn’t 100 percent human behind her.

Lengthening her stride, Candice thought that the burn in her muscles actually felt good. Godiva had been right about one thing—she did have a killer body. Sure, she’d like to lose a few pounds. Who wouldn’t? But thanks to her lifelong love of jogging, her legs were long and strong. She also still had excellent boobs. No, they weren’t as perky as they had been a few years ago, but they were full and womanly, without boulder-hard, anatomically impossible enhancements. And—best of all—she had seriously big blonde hair that was light enough to hide the encroaching gray without requiring too many touch-ups.

With a burst of speed, she shot out of the graveyard and pounded down the empty blacktop road that would eventually circle around and lead back to her house, which had been built, log-cabin style, at the edge of town. Maybe she could keep up this pace the rest of the way home. Hell, she might even run an extra mile or so!

Which was a lovely thought until the cramp hit her right calf.

“Shit!” She pulled up. Hobbling like Quasimodo she looked around for anything that might resemble sanctuary. Breathing a sigh of relief, she realized that the little rise in the road was the bridge that covered Wolf Creek. She could sit on the bank and rub her calf back into working order. So much for sprinting home.

She had just pulled off her shoe and thick athletic sock when she heard the growl. Low and deep it drifted to her on the breeze, tickling up her spine. It sounded too big to be a dog. It was probably a werewolf. Sometimes the damn things were thick as rabbits in the mountains around Mysteria. Candice rubbed harder at the cramp. She wasn’t actually afraid. Werewolves were rarely more than annoying. They tended to come and go in packs—unerringly drawn to the town’s preternatural nature, but except for a couple of gainfully employed families (surprisingly, werewolves tended to be excellent restaurateurs—must have something to do with the whole pack mentality and their love of meat or whatever) they usually didn’t stick around long, and didn’t interact with Mysteria residents, especially while they were in their wolf forms. They certainly didn’t pose a danger, unless one was made nervous by big dogs. Candice didn’t mind big dogs (as evidenced by her choice in ex-husbands one and two).

“Did you hurt yourself?”

His voice was deep, with a rough, husky sound that was very much man, not wolf. She swiveled around in time to see him step from the edge of the pine trees. And her mouth flopped unattractively open. He was easily six-foot-four and probably 230 pounds. At least. Broad shoulders seemed to stretch on forever, and a wide, scrumptious chest tapered down to a well-defined waist. And those legs . . . even through the relaxed jeans she could see that they were lean and muscular. His face was in shadow, so all of her attention focused on his body and the way he stalked toward her with a strong, feral grace that made her breath catch and her mouth go dry.

Then, as if he’d walked into an invisible tree, he stopped. He hesitated, and seemed almost confused. She could see him run his hand through his hair. He wore it long and loose and it framed his shadowy face as if he was an ancient warrior god that had only partially materialized in the modern world.

“Ms. Cox?”

“Yes!” she said on a burst of breath, totally surprised that the warrior god knew her name.

“It’s me, Justin.”

He started toward her again, and she blinked up at him as his face emerged from the shadows. And what a face it was! Strong, well-defined cheekbones and a rugged, masculine chin. His sand-colored hair was thick, with a sexy, mussed curl. His eyes . . . his eyes were an unusual shade of amber and were almost as inviting as his beautiful mouth.

“Justin Woods. You know . . .” He hesitated, then flashed an endearingly warm smile that was just the right mixture of mischievous and nervous. “. . . I had you for sophomore English.”

She mentally recoiled. What the hell had he just said? An ex-student! So the warrior god was really a fucking Fighting Fairy. Didn’t it just figure? Candice frowned, trying to pull her thoughts from the bedroom into the classroom.

“Oh, that’s right. Wow. Time sure flies,” she said with forced levity, feeling suddenly old and as out of date as an eight-track tape. She looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the setting sun with her hand. Yep. She vaguely recognized the echo of the gawky teenager within the man. “What was that, five years ago?”

“More like ten.” He crouched next to her and nodded at her bare leg. “Did you hurt yourself?” he repeated.

“Oh, no. It’s nothing. Just a cramp.” He was so close to her that she could feel the heat of his body and smell him—young and virile and masculine. Holy shit, he was one wickedly sexy young man!

“I can fix that,” he said. “I like to jog and I’m prone to leg cramps, especially when it’s hot out like this. I know just what to do to make it go away.”

Without waiting for her to respond he took her foot and propped it in his lap. Then he began to massage her cramping calf. His hands were strong and his touch was warm and experienced.

“Lie back. Relax.” His voice had dropped to the deep, throaty tone he’d used when he’d first come into the clearing. “Let me take care of you.”

She stared at him. She should tell him to take her foot out of his crotch and take his hands off her leg. But his touch was doing the most amazing things to her body. His fingers were sending little ripples of shock from her calf up the inside of her thigh and directly to her crotch, filling her with an unexpected rush of heat and wetness.

“Don’t fight it. There’s no reason to. It’s just me,” he said. His breath had deepened and his eyes kept traveling from her mouth to her breasts. She glanced down at herself and saw that her aroused nipples were clearly visible through her damp T-shirt and sheer white sports bra.

What would it hurt? It had been years since a beautiful young man had rubbed anything on her body. Years . . .

The thought of realistically just how many years it had been since a man this young had touched her had Candice sitting straight up and pulling her tingling leg from his warm hands. She flexed her foot and refused to meet his eyes as she pulled on her sock.

“Thanks!” she said with considerably more perkiness than she felt. “That’s fine. Good as new.”

“Well, at least now I know how you stay in such great shape.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Miss Great Shape.” She cringed. Miss Great Shape? What the hell was she saying?

“I had a huge crush on you in high school,” he murmured.

Her eyes widened with surprise and finally lifted to meet his. He had leaned back on his elbow and he was watching her with an intent expression that was anything but boylike.

“I thought you were the sexiest woman I’d ever seen,” he said.

Candice was trapped by his frank, masculine appraisal, and the fact that he clearly liked what he saw. Her mouth felt dry and she couldn’t seem to find her voice.

“You’re still the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

She felt excitement slither low and hot through her belly. Lord, he was delicious! Her gaze slid from his beautiful eyes to his lips. He smiled, confident and handsome and just a little bit teasingly.

Candice blinked. Reality, girl! Snap the fuck out of it!

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said in her best teacher voice, forcing her gaze from his lips and pulling on her shoe.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re my ex-student!” she blurted.

He flashed the smile again and scooted forward. Brushing her hands gently aside, he began slowly tying her shoe.

“I’m of age. Well of age. I’m twenty-six.”

“Twenty-six!” her voice sounded shrill. “I thought you were twenty-seven.” As if one year actually made a difference. He was an infant! Practically a teenager.

“I’ll be twenty-seven if you want me to be,” he added huskily.

“Uh, no. A year really doesn’t make that much difference.” Thank God, he was done tying her shoe. Candice started to stand, only to feel his strong hands under her elbows as he helped her to her feet.

“I agree with you. A few years don’t make much difference.”

He kept his hands on her arms, holding her close to him. He smelled so damned good. She could feel his thumbs rubbing slow, soft circles above her elbows. That simple caress spread electric sensation from her arms all the way down to her crotch. He was wearing a plain gray T-shirt, worn thin and soft by many washings. The outline of his chest was clearly visible beneath it. He was strong and firm and deliciously big. She wanted to lean into him and lick him through the damn shirt. And then bite him. Yeah, she’d like to nibble her way down his body.

What the fuck am I thinking? She stumbled back out of the seductive cocoon of his arms.

“Our age difference is more than a few years, Justin.” She tried for her teacher voice again. Unfortunately she sounded more like a breathless Marilyn Monroe.

He shrugged broad shoulders and grinned at her. “You’re really cute about that.”

“About what?” Her mind didn’t seem to be processing correctly, and she inanely added, “And I’m not cute.”

“About our age difference. And you are cute about this one thing. Other than that you’re sexy and beautiful.” He brushed a strand of thick blonde hair that had escaped from her ponytail out of her face. “May I walk you home?”

Candice batted at his hand. “No, you may not.”

“Why not? And don’t say it’s because I’m too young. My age should work for me when it comes to walking.” He grinned and added, “Or jogging. I don’t imagine many older men can keep up with you.”

“Actually, they can’t,” she said. Despite herself she was thoroughly enjoying their flirty banter.

“Just as I thought! So there’s no reason why I can’t walk you home.”

“Yes, there is. I’ve sworn off men,” she said firmly.

He threw his head back and laughed, a sound that was as seductively masculine as it was youthfully exuberant.

“That’s perfect, because I’m not a man.”

“Exactly the problem,” she countered, finding that she was unable to keep herself from smiling in response. “You’re a boy, and I don’t go out walking with boys.”

His amber eyes darkened. With a quick movement that was feral in its grace he closed the space that had grown between them. He took her hand in his and, without his eyes leaving hers, he turned it over, palm up, and kissed her at the pulse point on her wrist. His lips were so close to her skin when he spoke that they brushed her arm, making her shiver with the warmth of his breath. “I’m no boy.” Then, eyes shining, he nipped her gently. “But I am a werewolf. So you can go out walking with me—or anything else you might like to do—and still be sworn off men.”

Three

What harm could letting him walk her home cause? It wasn’t like he was a stranger, and he was right. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. Really. He was twenty-six. And a half.

Plus, she was having fun. Justin was making her laugh with stories about botched meat deliveries at his family’s restaurant, Red Riding Hood’s Steak and Ale House, which bragged it was “the best darn steak place this side of Denver.” She hadn’t remembered him as being this charming or witty in high school. Little wonder—the only thing more self-absorbed and boorish than teenage boys were teenage girls.

Laughing, she made squeamish noises as he finished the story about the fist-sized hunk of fur that had been found in a package of ground buffalo meat, and how his dad hadn’t figured out that it was really buffalo fur and not wolf fur until after he’d sheared the pelts off of each of his brothers.

“Thankfully, I was out of town on one of my many buying trips for the restaurant.” He rubbed a hand through his thick hair. “I know it grows back, but still . . .”

“So, that’s what you do? You work at your family’s restaurant?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

“I guess.”

She studied his handsome face, wondering at the sudden change in his attitude. And then an old memory surfaced. “Wait! Aren’t you an artist? Don’t I remember you winning the PTA Reflections Contest at the state level your sophomore year?”

He moved his shoulder and looked uncomfortable. “That was a long time ago. I don’t do much art anymore.”

“Why not? I remember that you were very talented.”

“Just lost interest. It started to feel like just another chore—like washing dishes at the restaurant. Whatever.” Then he seemed to mentally shake himself and his expression brightened. “Enough about that. I want to hear about you. So you’re still teaching?”

“Not for much longer, I hope,” she said.

He laughed. “How are you going to escape from the Fighting Fairies?”

“Ironically, through education. I’m working on my MFA. As soon as I finish it, I’m off to Denver to snag a job as an editor.”

“Well, it’ll be the Fairies’ loss.”

“Right now it doesn’t feel like the Fairies need to worry. I’m in the middle of a poetry class that’s trying to kill me; sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever get through it.”

“Really?” He rubbed his chin, amber eyes shining. “Let’s see if I remember. . . .” He cleared his throat and gave a quick, nervous laugh.

She raised her brows questioningly. What was he up to? Then he began a recitation. At first he spoke the lines hesitantly, but as he continued his confidence grew.

If it be sin to love, and hold one heart,

Far ’mongst the stars above, supreme, apart,

If it be sin to deeply cherish one,

And hold her rich and rare as beams the sun

Across the morning skies,

Then have I sinned, but sinning gained

A glimpse of Paradise.

His voice was rich and deep and his eyes lingered on hers, causing the poet’s words to seem his own. And he effectively rendered her speechless for what seemed like the zillionth time in just the short while they’d been together.

“Did I get it right?”

“Yes!” The word burst out of her stunned mouth. Get a grip on yourself and say something intelligent before he starts thinking he’s talking to a prematurely aged teenager. “Yes, you did,” she said in a more grown-up voice. “That’s ‘If It Be Sin’ by DeMass, isn’t it? Are you a poetry fan?”

Laughing, he took her hand and planted a quick, playful kiss on it.

“What I am is a man with a pretty good memory who had one hell of a hard sophomore English teacher who terrified him and pounded poetry into his head so thoroughly that more than a decade later it’s still stuck there.”

“Oh, God. I did that to you?”

“Yes, Ms. Cox, you certainly did.”

Unexpectedly, Candice blushed. “What grade did I give you?”

“A ‘C,’ and I was grateful for it. And I do believe you might have also given me an ulcer as well as several painful hard-ons that semester, too.” He laughed. Then, before she could sputter a reply about the C, the ulcer or (embarrassingly) the hard-ons, he glanced around them. “Isn’t this your place?”

Surprised, Candice realized that they were standing in her driveway. “Yes, it is.” She smiled at him and had to press her palms against her legs to stop her hands from fidgeting. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Entirely my pleasure.” He studied her for a moment, and his charming smile faltered as his expression grew more serious. “I’d—I’d like to see you again,” he said quickly, then held up his hand to cut her off when she automatically opened her mouth to tell him no. “Wait. Before you shoot me down I’d like you to answer one question for me. Did you enjoy talking to me?”

“Yes.” The answer came easily.

“Because I’m an ex-student or because you think I’m a man who is interesting and maybe slightly charming?”

“That’s two questions,” she said.

“Nope—it’s the same question, just with two parts. Kinda like some of those hellish essay questions you used to torture us with.”

She smiled begrudgingly at him, and decided to tell him the truth. “Because I find you interesting.”

“And maybe a little charming?”

“Maybe . . .”

“Then why not agree to see me again?”

“Justin, I’m forty.”

He waited, looking at her as if there had to be more to it than that.

She sighed. “Justin,” she tried again, “I’m forty years old and you’re—”

“Yes, I know. I got a C in English, but I did better in math. You’re fourteen years older than I am. You’re also smart and funny and easy to talk to and very, very sexy. Seriously, Candice. Try finding all those qualities in girls half your age. It’s next to impossible.” When she looked like she wanted to argue with him, he took her hand and said, “Okay, if our age difference bothers you that much, how about let’s not call it a real date? Let’s call it . . . an exercise appointment.”

“An exercise appointment?”

“You jog every day, don’t you?”

“Almost.”

“Will you be jogging tomorrow?”

“Probably.”

“Then how about we make an appointment to jog together tomorrow?”

“Okay,” she heard herself say. “I’ll jog by Wolf Creek at about sevenish.”

“You’re awesome! See you tomorrow.” He shot her a blazing smile, kicked into a youthful, athletic jog, and disappeared into the fading light of dusk around the curve in the road.

Awesome? She cringed. Like, wow. I am, like, totally awesome.

Laughing softly at her own silliness, she skipped lightly up the stairs into her house. Refusing to berate herself for being a horny middle-aged letch, Candice poured herself a cold glass of water. She had the whole day tomorrow to consider if she really was going to show up for their “appointment” or not. She wouldn’t think about it now. And anyway, her eye caught sight of the notebook and pencil sitting on her desk where she’d left them. She had homework to do.

Candice grinned.

She also had lines of poetry unexpectedly popping into her mind. Godiva had been partially right. Being in the presence of a werewolf had certainly unblocked her—even if an evening of conversation hadn’t been exactly what her witchy friend had been recommending. Eagerly, she sat down and put pencil to the unfinished page, taking up easily where she’d left off.

You ask, what now?

Well, love comes with the night,

in the most inexplicable places

leaving the most unexplainable traces.

Candice giggled, and kept writing.

You see . . . a wolfman is the man for me!

Hmm . . . maybe she would meet Justin tomorrow.

Four

He thought about her a lot more than he’d intended to. He was supposed to show up at a keg party in the forest—rumor had it that several of the not-so-innocent high school seniors from the cheerleading squad were curious about just how well werewolves could use their tongues . . . not an invitation he had declined in the past. But tonight it felt, well, wrong to be rolling around the forest with girls Candice had probably taught in English class—and not a decade or so ago.

Actually, if he was being really honest with himself, his life had begun to wear on him. Or, more accurately, to bore him. He hated the restaurant. His older brothers were already firmly ensconced in management positions—hence the fact that he had been relegated to making purchasing runs for them. Not that anyone expected more of him. He’d always been “that Justin—so incorrigible and handsome!” He’d never been taken seriously. But, then again, it hadn’t really mattered to him. He’d always been into having fun . . . feeling good.

When had that started to change?

He wasn’t really sure. But he knew he hadn’t been giving Candice a slick line tonight when he’d told her that she was smart and funny and sexy. Very, very sexy. And that he hadn’t found that combination of qualities in twenty-something girls. She challenged him. She made him think. And she turned him on. He’d had no idea what a lethal mixture those things were before he spent an evening in Ms. Cox’s stimulating company. He wanted to see her again. Badly. More than that, he wanted her to want him. If a woman like that could want him . . . what couldn’t a man accomplish if he won the love of a woman like that?

So tonight, instead of joining the orgy in the woods he was much more interested in searching the back of his closet for an old textbook from a freshman lit class he’d taken before dropping out of the Denver Art Institute. Funny . . . he hadn’t thought about his failed attempt at an art major in years. But those eyes of hers. They’d made him remember. They were mossy green—a color that cried to be painted.

Those eyes . . .

Justin grabbed the literature book and then flipped open his laptop. A few simple clicks took him to the website of Mysteria High School—Home of the Fighting Fairies. He smiled triumphantly. Sure enough, there was a complete list of faculty phone numbers.

Candice jumped when her cell phone made the little three-tone sound it did when she had a text message. She wiped her eyes, stuck her reading glasses on top of her head, and reluctantly took her nose out of Tanith Lee’s Silver Metal Lover.

“Why do you insist on reading and rereading this book? You know what happens, and you know it makes you cry. You,” she told herself sternly before blowing her nose, “are a ridiculous romantic. And you’re old enough to know better.” She sighed. Ridiculous or not, she truly loved the story of a robot finding his soul through loving a woman. Not that it could really happen. Even putting aside the fact that it wasn’t possible to make humanlike robots, it was an impossible dream that a man could really become . . . well . . . more simply through the love of an exceptional woman. After all, she was exceptional (wasn’t she?) and she had the unquestionable proof of ex-husbands one through five being total turds—despite her loving attempts.

Of course, a little voice whispered through her conscience, maybe she hadn’t really loved any of them . . . maybe true love did have the power to create souls and make miracles.

“Please,” she scoffed aloud at herself, “grow the fuck up.”

Then, remembering what had interrupted her, Candice reached for her phone. Flipping it open she keyed up the one new text message.

Looking forward to our “appointment” tomorrow @ 7:00. J

P.S. you have beautiful eyes

She felt a rush of sweet excitement—a heady, intoxicating feeling she hadn’t experienced in years. No matter how ridiculous, she had a date with a twenty-six-and-a-half-year-old man.

It took forever for it to be evening. Candice had chosen, vetoed, and rechosen what she was going to wear. Then she’d cursed herself over and over. Why the hell hadn’t she agreed to a normal date? One where she could drive up in her chic Mini and meet him at a nice restaurant somewhere out of town. (Way out of town.) She’d have chosen her sexy little black dress that displayed all of her assets and hid most of her imperfections. Her makeup would have been meticulously applied. And her hair would have been Truly Big and Ready for Flirtatious Flinging About. She could have dazzled him with her experience and good taste in choosing excellent wine, and then ordered from any menu with the confidence and flair that can only be earned through maturity and experience. She, in short, would have had the upper hand.

Instead she was trying to figure out which of her rather old sports bras was the least tattered, and which cotton panties weren’t totally grandma-ish. As if there was such a thing as an un-grandma-ish cotton workout panty. Why, oh why hadn’t she bought new sports bras at the last Victoria’s Secret sale? Oh yeah, she remembered . . . they don’t have real, usable sports bras at Victoria’s Secret!

Oh, God. Would he see her bra and panties? Just the thought made her feel like she wanted to puke her guts up.

No! Of course he wouldn’t see her panties! She was meeting him for a quick jog, not a quick fuck.

Regardless, somehow she found herself in the bathroom. Naked. Staring through her fingers into the full-length mirror at her body as if she was watching a horror flick.

Looking at myself totally naked and under fluorescent lights just can’t be healthy. But she continued to stare and criticize.

Sure, she wasn’t awful looking. Candice forced the shielding fingers from her eyes. Okay. She wasn’t really that bad. She’d been thinner and tighter, but her skin was soft and smooth, and she was definitely curvy. Maybe even lush. She shook her head, as if to clear the bizarre notions from it. “Lush” and “curvy” were not “young” and “tight-assed.” There was just no way she was going to get naked in front of and have sex with a twenty-six-and-a-half-year-old. No. Fucking. Way.

Maybe he wouldn’t be there. He probably wouldn’t be there. Why would he want to be there? He could have just been being polite yesterday. He probably was just being nice. She had misinterpreted. He hadn’t really flirted and come on to her. It was silly, really. He was so damn young. Sure, she was attractive, but please. She was almost fifteen years older. No way was he interested in her. Not like that.

“Hey there, beautiful.”

She’d told herself that she was ready to see him—or ready for him to stand her up. Either was fine. Really. Whatever. Who cared? But then he was there, calling her beautiful and smiling his sexy, boy/man smile, and she felt the same dizzying rush of excitement she’d felt when he’d sent her the message the night before. And, dear sweet Lord, he was even more handsome than she’d remembered. Had she been blocking? Was it temporary amnesia? How could she not have been obsessing all day over his height and the incredible width of those shoulders, and that amazing jawline. . . .

“Hi,” she said breathlessly, glad that she’d agreed to meet him at the creek so that she had an excuse other than just the sight of him to be breathing hard.

“How do you feel about trying something new today?”

His flirty smile made her stomach tighten. Oh, God, if only he knew.

Never mind. It was probably best that he didn’t know.

Be normal! Talk to him!

“What do you have in mind?”

His eyes sparkled as he jerked his head, pointing his chin away from the road and into the forest. Then, with a confident, deep voice he recited, “‘I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by.’”

He was actually quoting poetry to her. Again. Her cheeks felt warmed by more than the short jog through the graveyard. “A little Robert Frost?”

“A very little, I’m afraid. And don’t be too impressed. I freely admit to memorizing it this afternoon.”

“You know, I don’t remember you being this interested in poetry in high school.”

“Would it help if I made my voice crack and stared, slack-jawed, at your boobs?”

“Only if your intention is to scare me out of the forest.”

His smile was intimate. “That is not my intention.”

She almost asked what his intentions were . . . but she didn’t want to know. What if he gave her a blank look and said, “I thought we’d be friends”? She’d fucking die. But whether it’d be from relief or disappointment, she wasn’t sure. She only realized that she’d been standing there silently staring at him when his smile faded and his tone became more serious.

“Candice, if you don’t want to go off into the woods with me, all you have to do is say the word. I’ll understand. I just thought that you might like exploring a hiking path I know about. That way we could get our exercise and still be able to talk. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never mastered the talent of jogging and talking at the same time.”

She met his eyes. His gaze was open and honest—vulnerable, even. Could he be as nervous as she felt? And then came the startling revelation—he had to be more nervous. She was almost fifteen years his senior and his ex-teacher. She was more experienced and more confident. She could reject him with a neatly turned phrase and a patronizing, disdainful look. She definitely had the high ground, even if she wasn’t perfectly coiffed and perched on a posh chair at an elegant restaurant. Disregarding the rather ridiculous question of whether or not this was a real date, Justin had put himself in a position where he could be thoroughly humiliated and ultimately rejected by her, yet here he was, with a sweet smile on his handsome face, looking for all the world like a man who was doing his best to woo a woman.

“Do you remember the rest of the quote?” she asked, smiling softly at him.

“The Frost quote? No—I just memorized that far.” His cheeks flushed a little with the admission.

“Frost concluded it, ‘I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.’ How about we take your path—the one less traveled by?”

Refreshingly, he didn’t attempt to hide his relief with a suave turn of phrase or a knowing look. Instead he just smiled and said, “I promise that it will make all the difference.”

Justin took her hand and led her into the forest.

Five

“All this time I’ve been jogging by the creek, and I had no idea a hiking path like this was so close.”

“That’s one good thing about being a werewolf. I have definitely gotten to know these woods.”

He’d spoken nonchalantly, but she could feel his look and the expectant silence that screamed, “I’m waiting for you to freak out because I’m a wolf!” So she didn’t respond right away. Instead she picked her way carefully over a large log that had fallen across the trail.

“You’re right. Knowing the secret paths in the woods is one good thing about being a werewolf. What’s another?” she asked, matching his nonchalant tone.

He hesitated only a moment. “The physical power.”

“You mean when you’re in your wolf form?”

Justin slowed down and studied her face. “Do you really want to know, or are you just making polite conversation?”

“I’m intrigued,” she said honestly.

“There’s physical power in both forms, and in both I can tap into the magic in these hills pretty easily. In this form I’m stronger than a human man. And not just physically. My senses are more acute. My memory is better.” He grinned a little sheepishly. “I guess that means I should have made better than a C in your class.”

“Nah,” she said. “You weren’t a man then. You probably hadn’t attained all of your”—she paused and made a vague, fluttery gesture at him with her hand—“uh, Spidey senses yet.”

His infectious laugh rolled around them. “Spidey senses? On a werewolf? Are you thinking I might be a hairy Peter Parker?”

“Oh, God, no!” she said with mock horror. “If I was going to fantasize about walking through the woods with a superhero it wouldn’t be one that was really just a dorky kid. Let’s try Bruce Wayne, shall we?”

“How about a happy medium? How about walking through the woods with a grown-up superhero who is modestly employed—I don’t exactly have Batman’s resources.” The trail took a sharp upward turn and Justin stopped, pulling her gently back to his side when she started to climb ahead of him. “Want to test my superhuman powers?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Does this involve either: one, me being unattractively carried away by any type of a creature who has more than two arms, or two, your having the ability to see through any article of my clothing?”

He rubbed his chin, considering. “No and no.”

“Then fine. I agree to the test.”

“Okay. You have to hold totally still.”

He walked a tight circle around her and Candice instantly noticed the difference in the way he moved. His body language was once again that of the man who had entered the clearing the day before—the warrior god who had not known who she was. He positioned himself behind her, standing so close that she could feel him draw in a deep breath. Then he bent, and whispered huskily into her ear.

“You don’t wear real perfume.”

She started to turn to answer him, but his words, which were spoken hot against her neck, stopped her.

“You must hold totally still.”

She froze, whispering back. “What do you mean by not real perfume?”

“You don’t buy that packaged and bottled stuff other women like so much and spray too much of on their bodies. Not you. Instead, you put drops of pure lavender oil behind your ears, on your wrists”—he drew another breath, then exhaled the warmth of his words against her neck—“and between your breasts. Am I right?”

“Yes, you’re right.”

Slowly, his hand rose to lightly, lightly caress her hair before he gently fisted it and pressed his face into it, taking a deep, hot breath. She focused on not trembling, and thought how glad she was that she’d conveniently “forgotten” to pull it up in a ponytail.

“You never blow-dry your hair. You let the air dry it. And you prefer the night air to the warmer, daylight breeze.”

This time she was truly amazed. How the hell could he know that?

“Am I right?” he asked again.

“Yes,” she whispered. “How did you know?”

“Your hair smells like moonlight and shadows, and I know those scents intimately.” His hands were still in her hair. “Why do you prefer the night air?”

“It’s something that started when I was a little girl. In the summer I’d wash my hair at night and then sit on the porch with a flashlight and read. My dad used to laugh and say that the moonlight made my hair wavy like the tide. I guess it’s a habit that stuck.”

“I’m glad. I like moon wavy hair,” he said.

“Do you?”

Justin gently nuzzled the ear he was whispering into. “Yes.”

His breath sent chills down her body that lodged in her thighs, making her legs feel wobbly and semidrunk. She was relieved when he took his mouth from her ear and moved back around in front of her. Smiling, he was once more just a handsome young man.

“Impressed by my superpowers?”

“Very.”

“Good. You’ll love my next display of EWP.”

“EWP?”

“Extrawerewolfory perception,” he said, with only a slight glint in his eyes. “So. Are you hungry?”

“If I say yes are you going to grow fur and chase down some poor helpless rabbit?”

“Maybe another time. Right now if you said you were hungry I’d simply clap my hands twice and then help you climb up the rise in the path so I could show you that I made your wish come true.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. I’m hungry.”

He waggled his eyebrows and leered at her. “Be careful, Ms. Cox—mine is the species that bites.”

Before she could respond with the pithy reply she was formulating, he grabbed her hand and pulled her up the incline. Candice glanced around, surprised that the dense woods had suddenly given way to a lovely meadow of soft grass that was dotted with blue wildflowers. Fireflies flitted in the dim evening light, looking like miniature fairies. (Candice squinted her eyes and made certain that they weren’t actually fairies. God, she hated fairies.) And then her surprise doubled. Not far from the path someone had spread a large plaid blanket, on which sat a huge wicker picnic basket and a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of white wine.

“You see what happens when you date a superhero?” he said.

“This isn’t a date. It’s an appointment,” she said automatically.

“Well, I think that depends.”

“On what?”

“On the good-night kiss.”

Smiling, he led her over to the picnic dinner he had so meticulously chosen, packed, and then brought out into the forest just for her.

Six

The dinner was scrumptious. Candice was amazed by the obvious care he’d taken with everything. From the excellent dry white wine from Venice and the real crystal goblets he served it in, to the decadently tender prime rib sandwiches and fresh fruit—everything was better than perfect. And that included the conversation. She couldn’t believe how easy he was to talk to. He was actually smart! A closet history buff, he told her stories about the settlers who had founded the various cities in Colorado—something she knew little about because she’d always focused on European instead of American lit.

And he noticed everything. Not just the details of the meal, but he noticed when the inflection of her voice changed, when she was distracted by the beauty of the blue wildflowers (which he promptly picked for her), and when she talked about her new passion—finishing her master’s and moving to Denver. He discussed the aspects of her new future animatedly. Unlike Godiva, he didn’t try to talk her into staying or dissuade her from following her dream. Justin honestly seemed to understand her need to move on.

But what surprised Candice most was how easy it was for her to forget he was so young. She wasn’t sure when it happened—somewhere between their discussion of the stupidity of the underfunded state education initiatives, and their mutual (and, on her part, rather blasphemous) agreement that the Lord of the Rings movies were actually better than the books—but Candice Cox totally stopped thinking of him as ohmygodhe’ssofuckingyoung Justin, and started seeing him as the man she was out on a date with.

“So, how’s the poetry assignment coming?” he asked.

“Better, I think. At least I got a little written last night.” She sipped her wine. Maybe it was the third glass of wine, or the intimate silence that surrounded them, but it felt easy for her to speak half-formed dreams aloud. “You know what’s weird? I’m doing this whole master’s thing so I can get a job reading other people’s writing, but I think I’m finding out that I actually like doing the writing part myself.”

“You want to write a book?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Right now all I know is that I’d like to write something that—” she broke off, suddenly embarrassed.

“That what?” he prompted.

She met his amber gaze. He was so sincere. Rarely had she known a man who listened as well as he did. There was something about the way he looked at her, and spoke to her—as if he thought she was interesting and smart and he honestly cared about what she had to say.

It was more intoxicating than the Venetian wine.

“I’d like to write something that would have the ability to make people feel. It could be a book, or short stories, or maybe even poetry. What it is isn’t important. What is important is that what I write evokes feelings in those who read it.”

His gaze was hot and intense on hers as Justin leaned toward her, resting his hand on her knee. “I know exactly what you mean. That’s how I always felt about my art. I didn’t care if I was painting or sculpting or just sketching with plain charcoal. I wanted people to feel what I felt.”

“Why did you stop, Justin?” she asked softly.

“I don’t really know. . . .” His eyes dropped from hers. “One day I was a college freshman at the Art Institute—the next I’d washed out. I’m pretty sure it had something to do with me changing my major from art to beer and women.” His lips twisted in self-mockery. “A double major actually. I made stupid choices—a string of stupid choices—and then I was back in Mysteria working at the restaurant.”

She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t too late for him to go to college, that he could get a portfolio together and get back into the Art Institute, but she hesitated. Did he really need her to turn into a teacher and lecture him? She didn’t think so, and she also didn’t want to. She liked being his date and not his mentor. Candice put her hand on top of his.

“Sometimes it’s easy to get lost. You let your art get lost when you dropped out of college. I let good sense get lost when I committed serial matrimony. I suppose all either of us can do is to learn from our mistakes.”

“I’m glad you’re divorced.” He smiled and added, “Again.”

“Well, I’m with you on that one.”

“Do you mind if I ask why none of your marriages worked?”

“I don’t mind you asking, but I’m not sure I have an answer for you, even though I should because the ending of each of them felt the same—so you’d think I’d learn how to define the problem, if not fix it.” She sighed. “I stopped loving them. Each one. Actually, it’s more accurate to say that I stopped liking each of them first, then I couldn’t love them anymore. They were five different kinds of men, and, as much as I kid around about it, none of them were bad men. I wouldn’t have married a bad man. Still, it didn’t work out with any of them, which, naturally, points to the one common denominator—me.” She glanced up at him. He was watching her intently, and not in that patronizing “I’ll just let the woman talk so I can get into her panties” kind of way. His amber eyes were interested—his expression plainly said he was involved in what she was saying. Candice drew a deep breath. “I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone. I think I fail at relationships because I don’t have any magic.”

His brow wrinkled. “But most places aren’t like Mysteria. Outside of here lots of people don’t have magic and they manage to have happy marriages.”

“Nope. I don’t think so. I don’t think you have to live in totally bizarre Mysteria to have magic. See, I think the ability to have a successful, happy marriage is a special kind of magic, and that special magic exists all over the world. The problem with me is that I’m doomed because I have nonmagic, just like I have nonmarriages and nonrelationships.”

“Maybe”—he reached up and cupped the side of her cheek with his hand—“you just need to quit trying so hard.”

Then, amazingly, Justin leaned forward and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss, not accompanied by any intrusive thrustings of tongue and teeth. She’d worried about that when she’d allowed herself to think about kissing him. Would a twenty-something be a bully kisser? Would he blindly stick his mouth on hers and proceed to grind any and all available body parts against her? It’d been too damn long since she’d kissed a man this young—she couldn’t remember how they did it. But she needn’t have worried. The boy/man/wolf kissed like a dream . . . a deliciously erotic dream. His mouth was a warm caress against hers—not a demand, but a seductive question.

“You taste like lavender and wine,” he murmured, his lips lingering near hers.

“You taste like sex,” she whispered back before her better sense could stop the words. “Erotic and decadent, and very, very male.”

He chuckled and his lips moved to her neck. “That’s because I’m still using my superpowers on you.” His tongue flicked out to tease the gentle slope of smooth flesh where her neck met her shoulder. “But maybe you don’t believe me. Maybe you need more proof first.”

“If I say I do, does that mean you won’t stop?” she said breathlessly.

“I won’t stop unless you tell me to.”

“Then we may be here all night,” she moaned.

He pressed her down into the blanket and slid his hand under her T-shirt. “I’m good with all night.”

She let her hands travel up his arms to his chest. God, his body was hard! And more than just between his legs (although it was already decidedly obvious that he didn’t suffer from the same unfortunate and very flaccid problem her last ex-husband had). Utterly fascinated, she tugged at his shirt until he took his hands from her long enough to pull it over his head.

Dear sweet Lord—she’d died and, despite her numerous sins and bad language, gone straight to heaven. He looked better unclothed—and that was one hell of a compliment because he had looked scrumptious with his shirt on. He was truly a beautiful man.

Then his hands were tugging up her shirt. She started to help him . . . and remembered: 1) that she was wearing her least stretched out and frayed sports bra—“least” in no way meaning that it was attractive, and 2) she was forty. Suddenly he was, once again, ohmygodhe’ssofuckingyoung Justin.

“Uh, wait. I’m—I’m not completely okay with this,” she said quickly, smoothing down her shirt while she avoided meeting his eyes.

Instantly, he stopped. But he didn’t pull away from her. Nor did he throw a fit because he had a hard-on and needed to have sex now. He just shifted his weight so that she was resting comfortably in his arms. Then he lifted her chin with his finger, gently making her meet his gaze.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

“No. It’s not you.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her and smiled crookedly. “Is there someone else here I don’t know about?”

“Of course not.”

“Then is it that you don’t want me?”

“Of course not!”

“Candice, I’m going to be honest with you. For the past several years I haven’t been connected to much—not another person or a job or even a place. I’ve been playing at life and just letting time pass. But with you I feel a connection, and that’s something I’m not used to. I want to see where it takes us. If that means going slow physically, I will. But I have to tell you that the truth is I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any woman in my life.”

His amber eyes had darkened to the color of aged Scotch. She could feel the sexual tension in his body. She loved the intensity with which he looked at her, and the way his hands lingered on hers. And she knew if she didn’t make love to this beautiful young man that she would regret it forever.

Deliberately, she sat up and, keeping her eyes fixed on his, she pulled off her shirt. Then she reached behind her and undid her sports bra, shrugging it off her shoulders. The late evening air was cool against the heat of her skin, and her nipples puckered. Justin’s gaze dropped from her eyes to her naked breasts. He reached forward and took her heavy breasts in his hands, lifting and caressing them.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said huskily. “Look at you! You’re not some plastic girl who hasn’t lived enough to know there are sexier things than fake boobs and lace bras that match their thongs that match the color they paint their toes.” He bent and kissed the swell of her breast, then let his tongue tease her already aroused nipple while she moaned and arched into him. “You’re an earth goddess, rich and ripe and desirable.”

He pressed her back into the blanket again, his lips and tongue teasing her breasts. His mouth moved slowly down her stomach, kissing the waist of her shorts. Before she could begin to get nervous about the fact that her stomach wasn’t as flat as it had been ten years before, she heard him murmur, “Your skin is like silk, and you taste like lavender-scented honey.”

She probably would have let him pull off her shorts then, but he slid down, until he knelt at her feet. Smiling at her, he took off her running shoes and socks. When he kissed the arch of her foot she had a moment to think about how desperately glad she was that she’d had a pedicure just two days ago, then he moved from her foot to her calf, kneading it much as he had done the day before. Only now he interspersed his caresses with soft kisses as he made his way slowly up her leg.

“Justin . . .” His name was a moan, and all thoughts of statutory rape and moral turpitude permanently flew from her mind.

“Sssh,” he breathed against the sensitive spot behind her knee. “Let me worship you like the goddess you are, and allow me to teach you what I’ve learned since I left your class.”

“A little role reversal?” she asked breathlessly, making no move to stop him as his lips grazed her inner thigh.

“Absolutely, Ms. Cox. It’s time you quit worrying about marriages and relationships and nonmagic and just relax and enjoy a man who appreciates what an exceptional woman you are and can make you feel as good as you deserve to feel.” He nuzzled the leg of her shorts up so that when he spoke his mouth moved, hot and insistent, against the very top of her inner thigh. “What I’ve learned is how to use my tongue and mouth to bring a woman to orgasm before I fill her body with mine and stroke her into another climax and then another.”

“Do you do this often?” The thought of the possibility that she might be just another in a long line of female conquests began to dissipate her horny haze.

“No,” he moaned, his mouth on her skin. “Don’t think that. It’s you I want to taste—you I want to pleasure. I’ve fantasized about you for years. You have no idea how much I want you and how special you are to me. Let me make my fantasies real. Let me taste you.”

When he pulled at the waist of her shorts, she willingly lifted to make his job easier. As she settled back against the blanket, her eyes were drawn over his shoulder to the darkening sky and she felt a little jolt as she realized how close it was to sunset . . . which would be followed by moonrise . . . and a nearly full moon rise at that.

Observant as ever, Justin read the new tension in her body. He saw her eyes fixed on the sky and the clear concern in her face.

“I promise that you have nothing to fear from me.”

Reluctantly, her gaze left the sky and met his eyes. “But when the full moon rises, you’re a wolf, aren’t you?”

“Actually, there’s always a little of the wolf in me, full moon or not,” he said, nipping her stomach gently and then lowering his head to taste her with a long lick of his tongue.

Her breath caught in surprise and she had to bite her lip to stifle a breathy moan.

He kissed her thigh and then smiled up at her. “Remember, your magic is nonmagic. Which means I am unable to shift my shape around you. I am in man form right now, and as long as I’m close to you I’ll stay in that form.” He nuzzled her thigh and kissed her again. “Let me make love to you, my sweet Candy,” his voice caressed her name. “Let me be your lover.”

“I know exactly what you need . . . a werewolf lover.” Godiva’s voice whispered through her mind. Maybe her friend was right. And why not? Justin appreciated her. He listened to her and made her feel beautiful and desirable. What was wrong with her taking a young, virile lover who wanted to worship her like a goddess? . . .

With a triumphant smile, she made her decision.

“If you can’t change form as long as I’m close to you, I guess the right answer is for me to keep you very close to me.” She pulled the young werewolf to her and let his victorious growl vibrate against her naked skin.

Justin had been right. He had learned a hell of a lot since he’d left her classroom. And his tongue . . . not only did he use it between her legs with such enthusiasm that her vibrator would forever after seem a weak substitute, but his ability to listen (amazingly enough) hadn’t stopped when his dick hardened. He listened and responded when she showed him the secret place low on her stomach that was so ultrasensitive. He paid attention to that spot at the base of her neck. And his kisses . . . his kisses were an erotic adventure.

When he’d brought her to climax three times he finally moaned that he couldn’t wait anymore, and she’d reveled in the hard length of him as she guided him within her slick, ready folds. He’d tried to hold back—tried not to be too rough. She’d bit him on the shoulder and told him fiercely that she wasn’t a breakable young girl—that she wanted him—all of him. His growl had been sensual music. She gripped his hard hips with her legs and met his thrusts with equal strength, urging him on until he cried her name and spent himself within her.

Seven

Godiva had known what she was talking about. Having a werewolf lover was spectacular. Especially such a young werewolf lover. God, she’d almost forgotten the incredibly sexy strength of a young man’s body. And recovery time! Jeesh. That boy had been better than a recharged vibrator. Way better. She was so glad it was the weekend and there was no school the next day. They’d made love for hours, and he was still nibbling at her neck when he’d walked her home. She jumped the steps into her house two at a time. He made her feel twenty again. No! She took that back. She didn’t feel twenty again—no way did she want to feel that stupid and unconfident again. Justin made her feel fabulous and forty, which was exactly what she was.

Candice had taken a long bath, delighted with the unaccustomed soreness of her body. And then, replete, she’d slept till noon. Noon! And only woke up then because her cell phone had toned at her, telling her she had a text message. She flipped it open, feeling a rush of pleasure even before she saw the text.

Are you busy tonight? I have a surprise for you.

What was he up to now? She grinned and replied:

More spidey sense?

His reply was a single word.

Better

She laughed out loud. This was fun! And, no. She wasn’t going to go on and on with herself about how long it’d been since she’d had this kind of fun . . . and that she might be having too much fun too soon. No. She was just going to enjoy herself.

I think I can fit you into my schedule.

She waited impatiently for the tone that signaled his reply, and when it came it sounded like beautiful music—even though she was completely aware of how ridiculously romantic that seemed.

Be on your deck at dusk. And be ready . . .

Be on her deck at dusk? And be ready for what? But she forced herself not to text him back and ask for details. She wanted to break her old habits. She overanalyzed things (“things” being defined as “men”). She knew she did it, and she knew she had gotten worse as she’d gotten older.

“Not this time,” she muttered as she fixed herself a cup of her favorite green tea and stuck a couple pieces of toast in the toaster. “This time is going to be different. This time I’m not looking for a husband; I’m looking for fun.”

Candice took her tea, toast, a pencil, and the pad of paper she’d started writing her poem on the day before out onto the wonderful wood deck that wrapped the length of the back of her house and looked out into the woods that surrounded Mysteria. She curled up cross-legged on the comfortable wicker rocker that sat beside the little wicker table.

It was such a beautiful day! The woods, always magical (literally and figuratively) looked like a romantic dream come to life. All that it lacked was the knight and the white horse and . . .

Good lord! What was happening to her? She was making her own self sick.

“Snap out of it and get to writing so you can get to the good stuff tonight.” Then, humming “Tonight, Tonight” from West Side Story she looked at the partially written poem.

Keep your Errol Flynns, Paul Newmans, Mel Gibsons

all puppets—empty masquerades.

Tom, Dick, and Harry, too

the boy next door

I want no more.

You ask, what now?

Well, love comes with the night,

in the most inexplicable places

leaving the most unexplainable traces.

You see . . . a wolfman is the man for me!

She smiled and began to write from there.

True, hair in the sink is copious,

Two hours later she should have been frustrated and annoyed. She was, after all, staring at the same line she’d written earlier and nothing else was coming. Well, not exactly nothing. She’d written line after line after line, but nothing seemed to work. Nothing could begin to capture the new, crystal bright feeling of happiness and expectation that was building inside of her, and that was the feeling she wanted her poem to evoke.

“Ah, hell! Never mind. I’ll write it tomorrow.” She had a date to get ready for, a really hot date at that, which called for eyebrow plucking, leg shaving, a full pedicure and manicure, and lots of hair primping. Not to mention that she was going to dig through some of the boxes she’d moved into the basement to find what she’d done with her really sexy lingerie.

“Tonight I will not be wearing a sports bra and grandma panties,” she promised the air around her. Had she not been so busy trying (unsuccessfully) not to giggle like a girl, she would have noticed the gaggle of pink-winged fairies who, overhearing her, had taken off in a burst of silver glitter and musical laughter out over the trees, heading in the direction of their favorite witch’s house.

Justin wanted to do something special for her. He’d been up most of the night thinking about what he could do—and about her. Her skin and her body . . . he’d never felt anything as lush and inviting. So this was what it was like to be with a woman versus a girl! Twenty-somethings paled in comparison to Candice. And he could talk to her! He’d actually talked with her about dreams he’d thought were long dead. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even thought about painting, yet here he was, heading to her place with the huge book he’d checked out from the library, one with glossy, full-color pictures of famous pieces of art, tucked under his arm. With his other arm he carried a bag filled with several cuts of prime fillet steaks from his family’s restaurant, each broiled and spiced to perfection, and one of the brightly checked tablecloths they used in the dining room. He smiled as he got closer to her house and left the road to circle around to her backyard. When he could peer through the thick trees and just barely make out her deck, he put the book and the bag down, spread the tablecloth out over the leafy ground, and opened the boxes, letting the aroma of expensive steak waft in the light evening breeze.

He didn’t have long to wait. He heard their giggles and the whirring of their wings before he saw them. Then, poof! He was standing in the center of a cloud of fairies who, as soon as they spotted the steaks, squealed with pleasure and began a dive-bomb-like descent.

“Wait!” He growled menacingly and stood protectively over the delectable meal. The fairies paused, midswoop. “If you want the steaks you have to do something for me.”

Four of the glittering miniature nymphs glided toward him. They were only about as big as an outstretched hand, but their beauty was not diminished by size. They smiled coquettishly at him.

“We know you, wolfman,” the four trilled together, magically harmonizing. “We’ve often watched you pleasure females in the forest.” They ran their hands suggestively down their naked bodies. “We would be happy to do something for you.”

He quickly put his hands up, as if fending off an attack. “No, no, no. You don’t understand. The favor I need is not quite so personal.”

“What a shame.” They pouted prettily.

“Do you want the steaks or not?” He already knew their answer. Fairies craved red meat, but they never got enough. They could really be a pain in the ass; they were almost as bad as termites or fleas. His dad had to spray the restaurant for them monthly.

“We want the meat!” the entire group answered together.

“Good. Then this is all I need you to do.” He picked up the thick art book and then hesitated before he opened it to one of the three pages he’d marked earlier. “Do you know the teacher who lives in the cabin right there?” He pointed through the trees at Candice’s house.

As a group the fairies nodded.

“You know what she looks like?”

They nodded again, causing their long, shining hair to sparkle and glisten and float around them like slightly tarnished, then glittered, haloes.

“Excellent. Here’s what I need you to do . . .” Justin opened the book. The fairies flocked around him, making curious little cooing noises as he gave them their orders.

Candice was going to be totally surprised!

Candice was sitting in her wicker chair sipping an excellent glass of chilled chardonnay when he stepped out of the forest and onto the grass of her backyard. There was just enough light left in the dusky sky to see that his smile was reflected by the sparkle in his amber eyes.

“Hello, Ms. Cox,” he said mischievously.

“Hello, Justin,” she said in her best teacher voice. “Did you stop by for a little detention?”

“I don’t know.” His grin widened. “I think I’ve been a pretty good boy lately.”

“Yes, you certainly have,” she said, feeling suddenly very warm.

“Not that I wouldn’t like being locked in a room alone with you.”

“So my surprise has to do with locks?”

“No, Miss Impatient. Nothing like that.” He climbed the deck stairs and leaned down to kiss her lightly. “You look beautiful tonight. Love the short skirt.”

Candice didn’t think she’d ever been so grateful for having good legs.

“Thank you. Wine?” she offered.

“I’d love some, thanks.”

She poured him a glass of sun-colored wine. Just before he sat in the empty wicker chair across from her he looked out toward the forest, raised his hand, and yelled, “Action!”

Instantly, the sky over the trees began to glitter like Fourth of July sparklers, and the breeze carried the sound of silly feminine laughter to them.

Candice scowled. “Fairies. What are they up to?”

“Keep watching,” Justin said, sipping his wine.

“I do not like fairies,” she grumbled. Still frowning, she looked back at the sparkling sky and gasped. A picture was forming from the glistening fairy dust.

“Oh, my God! It’s the Mona Lisa!”

“Keep watching,” Justin repeated.

Mona Lisa’s face changed. Candice mouth fell open. “It’s me!”

Justin laughed and lifted her hand from where it rested on the little table. He kissed her palm. “Yep, it is.”

Candice was still staring at the glowing portrait when the picture shifted and changed. Now she was looking at a hauntingly beautiful woman with long red hair who was sitting in a small boat.

“Waterhouse’s Lady of Shalott!” Then it, too, changed and she was watching herself frozen in time as the lady who was cursed to sing her last song as she floated down to Camelot.

Entranced, she watched the picture dissipate and begin to form again as another famous woman. This time it wasn’t a painting the fairies were reproducing. It was the eternally graceful statue of the winged Nike. And then, as if the Greek gods had ordered a miracle, Candice’s face and neck, even her long blonde hair, appeared to complete the glorious statue. Candice laughed and clapped her hands.

Justin hardly glanced at the fairy artwork. He couldn’t stop looking at Candice. Uninhibited joy had transformed her face from pretty to stunning. Everything inside him screamed, Her! She’s the one I’m meant to be with!

Candice gasped again as the new painting took form. “This is one of my all-time favorites! Meeting on Turret Stairs by Burton.” She made a happy little cry. “Justin! It’s us!”

Then he did pull his eyes from her to look at the sky. Sure enough, the incredibly romantic scene of the knight passing his lady on the narrow stairway had been altered so that it was the two of them. The knight was kissing his lady’s arm as she leaned dramatically against the stone wall of the castle; both of them were clearly overwhelmed by a desire so real it seemed to leap off the painting and become tangible. He hadn’t told the fairies to re-create this scene—just as he hadn’t told them to put his face in any of the paintings—but he was glad they’d added to his instructions. He’d have to remember to bring them a couple more steak dinners. Soon.

The fairy dust painting faded slowly, leaving only the darkening sky. Finally Candice turned to him.

“How did you do that?”

Her eyes were alive and her face was slightly flushed. He wanted to push the little table that was between them out of the way and take her in his arms and kiss her until his touch was what made her eyes sparkle and her face flush.

“Magic,” he said.

“But magic doesn’t work on me.”

“It worked on you tonight.” He took her hand and kissed her palm again. “Maybe you just needed the right partner to find your magic.”

“Or maybe your magic is so strong that even I can’t stop it.”

“I like that. I like that anything about me could be strong enough to attract you.”

“Everything about you attracts me,” she said, her voice low and sexy.

“Show me. Show me how much,” he said.

Without speaking she stood up and led him into her house, through the cozy kitchen, the comfortably decorated den, and into her bedroom.

“I want to undress you,” she said. “Is that okay with you?”

He bent and kissed her softly on the lips. “Anything you want is okay with me, as long as you still want me.”

“I can’t imagine not wanting you,” she said, guiding him over so that he stood beside her bed while she sat on the edge of it. He was wearing a black pullover, and she skimmed it up his body and over his head, letting her fingers trail lightly down from his shoulders over his naked chest and abdomen, loving the way his body shivered at her touch. Then she unbuttoned his jeans, taking her time to slowly unzip them while her lips teased his chest and her fingers caressed the hard lump that was pushing against his pants. When she finally got his pants undone she stood, and then, hooking her fingers in his waistband, slid the jeans down, pressing her body against his as she did so.

On her knees in front of him, she took him in her hands. He was hard and hot and his body jerked and quivered under her hands. When she closed her mouth around him he moaned her name, and had to lean against the bed to stay standing.

“Your mouth,” he rasped, “is a dream. A very sexy dream.”

“Wet dream?” she asked when she paused.

“Oh, God, yes,” he moaned.

She laughed, but before she could take him in her mouth again, he pulled her to her feet and in one quick movement, lifted her onto the bed. Lying beside her he unbuttoned her shirt.

“Now that’s sexy,” he said, running his finger lightly over the delicate white lace bra. “Too many women think red or black or some other godawful bright color is what men want. I don’t know about other men,” he murmured, “but I think white is the sexiest. You can see right through it.” He circled her nipple with his finger, causing it to harden. “But there’s something innocent about it. Like what it’s covering has been waiting just for you.” He bent over her, taking her nipple into his mouth right through the sheer lace of the bra.

Candice’s breath left her in a rush. “My panties match,” were the only words her lust-clouded mind could form.

Justin moved from her bra to unbutton the short cotton skirt she was wearing. He pulled it down and then knelt between her legs, gazing down at her body. She watched him closely and suddenly saw herself reflected in the desire that was so clear on his face, and knew she’d never again think of herself as old or fat or frumpy.

“Feel what you do to me,” he whispered.

He took her hand and pressed it to his chest so that she could feel the racing of his heart. She let her fingers rest there for a moment, and then held the hand that had so recently covered hers against her breast.

“Feel what you do to me,” she echoed.

“It’s good that we’re in this together,” he said. “I don’t think I could stand feeling all of this alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Candice said.

“Give me a chance,” Justin said. “Say you’ll take me seriously, even though you think I’m too damn young.”

“Justin, I don’t expect—” she started.

“Expect!” he blurted. “Can’t you just expect magic? Even if it’s never happened to you before, can’t you let me prove to you that there’s more than one kind of magic in this world, and that we can make it happen together?” He leaned down and cupped her face between his hands. “I want you, Candice Cox. Not just tonight. I want you in my life. Let me make you love me.”

His words scared and thrilled her. She should tell him no. Or she should lie to him and say yeah, whatever, so that they could have more good sex, and then send him on his way. But she didn’t want to. It might be stupid. It probably wouldn’t work. But Candice wanted more than anything else to take a chance on loving Justin. Unexpected tears came to her eyes when she answered him.

“I’ve waited a long time to feel like this, Justin. I can’t let you go now,” she said.

He smiled and wiped the dampness from her cheeks. “Well, you had to wait for me to grow up.”

“Hush and kiss me.” She pulled him down to her.

Soon neither of them could talk anymore. All they could do was feel.

Eight

Candice slept till noon again the next day—this time curled up against Justin’s body. And she awoke to his gentle caresses and they made love slowly, whispering erotic secrets as morning gave way to afternoon. They’d said good-bye like lovers had for centuries, with lots of long looks and lingering touches.

And tomorrow . . . they were meeting tomorrow. He’d wanted to see her again that night, but as he’d been kissing her good-bye for about the zillionth time, his cell phone had interrupted them. He’d taken the call, albeit reluctantly, and after he’d hung up he’d apologized, saying that it was a call from his family’s restaurant. They needed him to go to Denver tonight because . . . hell. She didn’t remember exactly what he’d said. She’d been too busy floating on a cloud of sexual satisfaction.

But that wasn’t all it was, Candice reminded herself that evening as she poured a glass of white wine and took it to her writing desk. She was floating on more than a sex cloud. She really liked him. Her lips tilted up in a secret smile as she remembered the text message she’d received from him not long ago. It had simply said:

Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.

First DeMass, then Frost, and now Shakespeare! He was smart and interesting and so sexy she wanted to begin at his mouth and lick her way down his body . . . and then back up again. And he wanted her to be in his life—to love him. No matter how improbable or impossible, she found herself wanting the same thing. She sighed happily and sipped her wine. Creative juices flowing (along with all the rest of them), she picked up her pencil and reread the poem she’d started.

Keep your Errol Flynns, Paul Newmans, Mel Gibsons

all puppets—empty masquerades.

Tom, Dick, and Harry, too

the boy next door

I want no more.

You ask, what now?

Well, love comes with the night,

in the most inexplicable places

leaving the most unexplainable traces.

You see . . . a wolfman is the man for me!

True, hair in the sink is copious,

She grinned at where she’d stopped and, inspired, started writing.

and the house at night tends to be a mess.

But

The ringing phone jarred her. The caller ID said Tawdry, Godiva.

“Well, hi there, girlfriend. Long time no hear from.” Godiva’s voice was smug. “So, has anything new come . . . uh, up recently?”

Candice’s breath came out in a rush. “Shit! You know! How the hell do you know?” Then she gasped, a horrible feeling lodging in her stomach. “Oh, no! Did you do it, Godiva?”

“Do what?”

“Don’t play innocent witch with me. How did you manage it? Magic doesn’t work on me.”

“It might not work on you, but it definitely works on werewolves.”

“You made him want me!” she shrieked, feeling even sicker.

“Certainly not.” Godiva sounded offended. “All I did was to cast a lupine drawing spell right after the last time we talked. If it caught a wolf who didn’t find you attractive, he would have never approached you. Think of it like baiting a hook. If the worm—which was you— wasn’t juicy and tender and appealing to the fish—or in this case, werewolf—he would never taste the bait.”

“Oh.” Candice grinned, feeling so relieved she was weak-kneed.

“Details, please.”

“Let’s just say this worm has been well eaten.”

They both dissolved into giggles.

“And,” Candice said breathlessly, “I’m meeting him again tomorrow. Godiva, baby, he’s quoting poetry to me! Poetry! And he made the stupid fairies make art for me. Can you believe it? He said he wants to worship me like a goddess, and, honey, let me tell you. I definitely can’t get enough of that kind of attention! But it’s more than just how completely sexy he is. He’s smart and funny and totally into me. And, Godiva, I really like him.”

“Sounds fabulous! Who is he?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“No. I told you—I just baited the hook. I had no idea which wolf would bite.”

“Oh, Godiva, it’s so deliciously naughty. He’s young, and”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“he’s an ex-student of mine.”

“Oh, my Goddess! How wickedly yummy. Give. Who is he?” Godiva gushed.

“Justin Woods,” she gushed.

“Who?”

“Justin Woods. You know, his family are the werewolves who own Red Riding Hood’s.”

“Oh, Goddess.”

“What? What’s wrong? I know he’s young, but it’s not like he’s still a teenager—which would be totally and completely disgusting—he’s twenty-six. And a half. Practically twenty-seven.”

“Oh, Goddess.”

“Godiva Tawdry, stop saying that and tell me what’s wrong!” Candice was beginning to feel sick again.

“I should have known,” Godiva groaned. “But how could I have known? I didn’t think it would be him.”

“Godiva. Tell me.”

The witch drew a deep breath and then blurted out, “He’s a slut.”

“What?!”

“He’s the most promiscuous werewolf in town—or out of town, for that matter. The pack tramp. Truly a dog in all the worst connotations of the word.”

“Oh, no . . .”

“Oh, yes. I promise you. My Romeo has told me all about him. He’s the pack joke. Thinks he’s some kind of furry Don Juan. He’s always licking coeds and cheerleaders and whatnot.”

“Cheerleaders!”

“I’m so sorry, Candice.”

“And all that stuff he said to me . . .”

“You mean about making a woman orgasm with his mouth?”

Candice gasped in horror.

“Let me guess—he licked your foot and sucked your toes?” Godiva said.

“Yes,” Candice squeaked.

“That’s his move. He does that with all the girls—wolves—whatever.”

“I may puke.” She put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. How could she have been so damn gullible? “How about the poetry he quoted and the fairy art? Does he use that on all of his victims, too?”

“I don’t remember hearing about that, but hey, come on! Just forget about it.” Godiva forced perkiness into her voice. “You had a good time, right? A little fling—an unclogging of your pipes.”

“He played me for a fool.” Candice’s voice was quiet and intense. She let her anger build. As long as she was thoroughly pissed she could keep the hurt from blossoming like a black flower inside of her.

“No, he’s just—”

Candice cut her off. “No, Godiva! It wasn’t all fun and games—he made it appear to be more than that. I should have known . . . I should have been smarter, but he’s not going to get away with it. I said I was too old for this kind of shit, and I am. But not because I’m dried up and unattractive. I’m too old to be lied to and manipulated. So tell me the truth. He’s obviously not going on a supply run for his family tonight. I want you to find out from Romeo what he’s really doing.”

“Uh, if I do and I tell you, what are you going to do?”

“Well, my witchy friend, I can sum that up in one word. Retribution.”

He should never have agreed to meet the twins at the full moon party. It didn’t matter that his intentions had been right. He hadn’t told Candice the truth, which had been bothering him ever since the family restaurant supply run lie had blurted from his mouth. He shouldn’t have answered the damn phone, but he’d been feeling so good there with Candice—so right—that when the phone rang he . . .

He what? He’d answered it because he’d wanted to yell from the mountainside that he’d FOUND SOMEONE INCREDIBLE! In retrospect that seemed stupid and immature. And instead of telling the world about Candice, he’d quickly agreed to meet Brittney and Whitney at the party that night. There was little he wouldn’t have agreed to just to get them off the phone before Candice heard their silly female voices on the line and dumped him right then and there.

And actually going to the party hadn’t seemed stupid—not until he’d stepped into the forest and felt the moon’s call on his blood. He’d answered that call automatically, embracing the sweet savage pleasure and heat of sinew and bone changing and re-forming with the power of the beast. He’d meant to show up long enough to tell the twins—and any of the other numerous females he’d pleasured—that he was officially taking himself off the market. He meant to make a clean split with his old life, so that he could begin his new one. Earlier that day he’d even gone online and looked up the Denver Art Institute. Then he’d actually begun a sketch. Just a woman’s eyes. They were green and framed with thick blond lashes and soft laugh lines....

Thinking of Candice, Justin let the moon caress his fur as he raised his muzzle to the sky. Surrounded by young wolves who were breaking off into intimate groups, he howled his passion for Candice into the night.

The full moon was so white against the absolute black of the starless sky that it almost looked silver. Sitting at the edge of the clearing, Candice breathed deeply of the warm night air and waited. It wasn’t long before she heard them approaching through the trees. They weren’t being stealthy—there was no reason for it. They were being young and uninhibited and very, very horny.

Godiva had been right (again). It was easy to tell which of the wolves was Justin. That thick sand-colored pelt was as distinctive as his eyes (and his tongue).

She stood up and stepped into the clearing. Keeping the hand that clutched the collar hidden behind her back, she cocked her hip and shook out her hair. With a sexy purr in her voice, she called to him.

“Justin, come here, boy!” The big wolf sitting between two blonde bitches who were drooling over him (literally) while he howled at the sky cocked his ears at her. Candice ran her hand suggestively over her body. “I have something special for you that I just couldn’t wait till tomorrow to give you.”

With an enthusiastic woof, he bounded toward her, his all-too-familiar tongue lolling. With one quick movement, she dropped to her knees beside him and slipped the heavy-duty choke collar around his throat.

“Arruff?” he said, staring up at her in confusion.

“Tonight you’re coming with me,” she whispered. When the bitches yapped at her, she grinned over her shoulder at them. “Don’t worry. I’ll give him back to you—but not till I’ve had my way with him.”

He whined and squirmed as she dragged him to the Jeep she’d borrowed from Godiva. No damn way his hairy ass was going to fit in her lovely little Mini—even if she did allow dogs to ride with her, which she definitely didn’t.

“Don’t bother with the whining and big doggie eyes. They’re not going to work,” she told him. “And remember, my magic is nonmagic. You can’t change as long as I’m close to you. But isn’t that convenient? I hear that your favorite position is very close to a woman. Any woman. So get comfortable, fur-face.”

“Thank goodness I caught you before you closed, Doctor.” Candice smiled as she dragged the whining wolf into the veterinary clinic.

“Is there something wrong with your . . .” The vet hesitated, narrowing his eyes at the wolf.

“Dog,” Candice supplied innocently. “Yes, there is something wrong with my dog. I need you to perform emergency surgery.”

“Really? He looks healthy to me.” The vet reached down and ruffled the “dog’s” sandy fur.

Justin whined pitifully.

“You’re a big boy, aren’t you?” the vet said.

“He certainly thinks he is—which explains the emergency. I need you to cut off his . . .” Candice paused, glanced at Justin, then dropped her voice and whispered into the vet’s ear.

“Well, I don’t know. It’s pretty late. I was just closing,” he said.

“Surely you can fit him in. Pretty please, Doc?” She fluttered her lashes at him.

The vet smiled and shrugged. “I suppose I could for my favorite teacher. Go, Fairies!”

“Go, Fairies!” Candice chimed in automatically.

“If you wait here, I’ll take him in the back and be done in no time.”

“No! I mean, I’ll come with you. If I don’t stay close to him he’ll change . . . into something that might surprise you.”

“But you won’t want to watch!”

“Of course not,” she assured him. “I’ll stay in the room, but I have a poem I need to finish, so I’ll be concentrating on that while you take care of his little problems.”

“Suit yourself, teacher,” the vet said. “Bring him back.”

Justin began to growl.

“Doc, I think we need a muzzle.”

Candice settled on a metal folding chair not too far from the operating room table, careful to keep her back to the busy veterinarian and his unwillingly drugged patient. She ignored the tight, sick feeling in her stomach and, while Justin was being prepped, she picked up her pencil and smiled grimly as she finished her poem.

Keep your Errol Flynns, Paul Newmans, Mel Gibsons

all puppets—empty masquerades.

Tom, Dick, and Harry, too

the boy next door

I want no more.

You ask, what now?

Well, love comes with the night,

in the most inexplicable places

leaving the most unexplainable traces.

You see . . . a wolfman is the man for me!

True, hair in the sink is copious,

and the house at night tends to be a mess.

But if that wolfman breaks my heart,

if he thinks that we should part,

I’ll wait until the moon is waxing full

that magic time when his change is soon,

(my love is quite helpless then, as a puppy . . .

baby . . . body in a mortuary)

I’d collar that fur-faced gigolo

and make a timely visit to the Vet.

Ah, well, I’m sure there’ll never be a need.

I haven’t seen a neutered werewolf . . .

Candice glanced up at where the vet obscured her view of the sleeping, spread-eagled Justin.

. . . Yet.

As the vet picked up an evil-looking scalpel, Candice closed her notebook.

“Doc?”

The vet paused, blade hovering above the spread-eagled “dog,” and glanced over his shoulder at her.

“I’m sorry. I know this is going to seem odd, but I’ve changed my mind.”

He frowned at her.

She gave a purposefully silly, girly-girl laugh. “Oopsie, sorry. I guess I just can’t go through with it, no matter how . . . uh, naughty he’s been. I’ll still pay you for the neutering, though. Don’t worry.” She fished her checkbook out of her purse and hastily wrote the vet a check. Then she nodded at the sleeping Justin. “How long will he be out?”

“A couple hours.”

“Perfect. Can you help me lift him into my car?”

Nine

Justin woke up in the ditch not far from the clearing where the party was still in full swing, as evidenced by the randy growls and breathless giggles that drifted on the night air. At first he was totally disoriented. His mouth felt like a bird had shit in it and he had a killer headache. What the hell? He’d gone to the party as a farewell to his old life, and then...

With a terrified yelp, his memory rushed back. Commanding his human form to come to him, he sat up, gasping and reaching between his legs. All there! He was all there.

What had happened? Why had Candice freaked out?

But even before Justin found the neatly folded note she’d left staked to the ground beside him with . . . he shuddered . . . something that looked disturbingly like a scalpel, he knew what had happened. Someone had told her about him. He was fully aware of his bad reputation. He’d never really given a shit. Until now. He opened the piece of notebook paper. The full moon had brightened the sky enough for him to easily read her bold writing.

Girls might think it’s cute or exciting to be with a man who collects lovers like a dog collects fleas. Well, that’s just one of the many differences between girls and women. Gigolo men piss grown women off. I’m a grown woman. The game you played with me pisses me off. I suggest you stick to girls. Next time you may lose more than a few orgy hours. Keep in mind, “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.” Ah, to hell with that poetic crap. Basically, I wanted to say, GO FUCK YOURSELF, JUSTIN!

When he returned to wolf form he didn’t notice the sensual stir of his morphing flesh, and he didn’t rush back to the clearing to pair up with an eager young wolf to reassure himself that everything was still in working order. Instead he padded slowly home—the garage apartment his parents pretended to rent to him as part of his salary and benefits at the restaurant, which felt as empty and meaningless as his life had become.

“You should be almost done with that awful poetry class, right?” Godiva asked her friend.

Candice was sitting on her balcony, arm resting against her little table, pad and pencil beside her. She stared out at the forest while she propped the phone against her shoulder and kept doodling on her notebook paper. “Yep. Almost.”

“And that means the whole MFA is almost done, right?”

“Yep. Almost.”

“And snow is almost done falling out of that giant flying rabbit’s ass, right?”

“Yep. Al—” Candice frowned, realizing what Godiva had really said. “Don’t be such a smart-ass.”

“You know, I hear he’s back in town.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So don’t talk—just listen. He’s back in town, but werewolf gossip has it that he’s only here temporarily. Seems he’s just come to collect some of his stuff to take back to his new apartment in Denver.”

“And why should I care?”

Godiva kept talking as if Candice hadn’t spoken. “Word also has it that he’s still not slutting around. No parties. No orgies. No cheerleaders. Not even the slightest hint of a girlfriend, wolf or not.”

“Godiva! I do not give a shit. I haven’t talked to him in weeks.”

“Well, maybe you should!”

“I cannot believe you’re saying that. You’re the one who told me what a slut he was. And I saw it with my own eyes. He lied to me and was fucking every bitch in sight that night.”

“Girlfriend, I told you what Romeo told me—that several werewolves told him that Justin wasn’t doing anyone that night. And, as far as my excellent gossip network—which includes forest fairies, and you know those little shits live for gossip and red meat—can tell, Justin Woods has not been with anyone since the three dates he had with you.”

“Two dates. And one of them wasn’t even official.”

“Whatever. I think you should call him.”

“What! I am not going to call that boy.”

“Oh, give it up. You know very well he’s no boy.”

“Again I say whatever. And he knows my phone number. If he wanted to talk to me, he’d call me.”

“Candice Cox, may I please remind you that the last time you interacted with him you almost had his balls cut off, you dumped him in a ditch, and you left a scary revenge note, complete with a literary quote and a go-fuck-yourself.”

“He lied to me.”

“True, and circumstantial evidence pointed to his definitely being an asswipe. But since then he has behaved respectably, by either man or wolf standards.”

Candice sighed. “I can’t call him. I feel like an idiot.”

“Do you want me to cast a little—”

“Hell, no! Godiva Tawdry, promise me right now that you will not put any kind of love spell, or anything like a love spell, on Justin.”

“Okay! I promise. But I still think you should call him.” She brightened. “Hey, I could have Romeo talk to—”

“No! God, I feel like I’m trapped in a dream where I’m back in high school trying to figure out my locker combination and realizing I’m butt-ass naked. Just leave it alone, Godiva. If Justin wanted to see me again, he’d figure out a way to do it.” And she knew it was true. Candice had only been with him for a short time, but she believed in his tenacity. He’d set his sights on seducing her, and he’d certainly accomplished his goal. If he had any desire to talk to her or see her, he’d get it done. But even though his behavior had changed drastically since the night she’d almost had him neutered, he had stayed completely away from her. Not that she cared.

“Candice?”

“Oh, sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked what your last poetry assignment was about.”

“We have to write two poems about heartbreak. One free verse. One sonnet. And neither can be clichéd.”

“Oh, a real uplifting assignment.”

“Yeah, it’s just one laugh after another over here.”

“Are they done?”

“Almost. I just have to finish tweaking the couplet to conclude the sonnet. Then I’m going to set them aside for a day or so, and do a quick rewrite before I have to turn them in next week.”

“After you do that, why don’t you and I get all dressed up and go into Denver for some excellent Italian food? I’ll even drive.”

“I’m not flying on that damn broom of yours.”

“I said drive.”

“I’ll think about it,” Candice said.

Godiva paused. She was almost afraid to ask the next question, but she knew she had to. Her talent was, after all, healing. Resolutely, she said, “Candy, what happened with Justin really did break your heart, didn’t it?” It took her friend several seconds to answer her.

“Yeah,” she finally whispered into the phone. “Isn’t that stupid?”

“No, it’s not stupid. It’s what can happen when we love someone, and you have rarely let yourself love anyone.”

“Ironic, isn’t it? And I’m the one who’s been married a zillion times.”

“You didn’t really love any of the ex-husnumbers. But there was something about Justin that got to you.”

“I wish . . . ,” Candy began.

“What, honey?”

“I wish your magic worked on me.”

“So do I, honey. So do I.”

After she hung up, Godiva sat staring at the phone a long time. There had to be some way she could help her friend. After all, it was her fault this whole thing had happened. First, she’d cast the drawing spell that had brought them together. Then she’d spilled the beans about Justin’s promiscuous ways. Who knew the wolf was going to have some big, hairy epiphany and learn to zip his pants? And now the gossip tree said that he was really getting his shit together. Seems he was spearheading the acquisition of a new restaurant for his family, and the eavesdropping fairies, who seemed to have a real soft spot for the wolf, had even heard whispers that he’d reenrolled in college. Was it just her? Wasn’t it obvious to everyone that Justin was trying to make himself worthy of Candice?

And Candice was moping around like she’d been stuck in a classroom with the horrid Desdaine triplets (Godiva shuddered—Goddess! What a wretched thought! Those girls were the brat pack.). Something had to be done.

Maybe if Justin knew how miserable Candice was . . . maybe then he’d call her and they’d live happily ever after!

But she’d promised Candice she wouldn’t cast any love spells on him. Godiva tapped her long fingernail against her chin. Then she smiled. Candice was writing poems about heartbreak. What if Justin were to read them? He wouldn’t know that they were an assignment! He’d just think she was pining over him—which she was. That was it; the fairies would be only too happy to help....

Humming to herself, Godiva began gathering four-leaf clovers . . . the little dried white things from the tops of dandelions . . . a pinch of frog snot . . . and various other delightful things she would need for the spell. . . .

Candice rubbed her neck and stretched. Well, the couplet that ended the sonnet was done. Good thing, too, it was getting dark and she should move inside from her porch. But she didn’t get up. She liked sitting out there. And it wasn’t because she remembered another evening on the porch, one that had been filled with hope and magic and love. . . .

No. It was just that the woods were quiet, and their somberness reflected her recent mood. It was nice to sit out on her balcony and write, even if what she wrote was damn depressing. She lifted the paper that had the final draft of both poems written on it and shook her head sadly. They were good. She knew it. But if they did evoke feelings, the feelings would be sadness, loss, longing. . . .

She put the paper down, remembering how not long ago she had dreamed of writing things that evoked brighter emotions.

What was wrong with her? So she’d had a little fling that had ended abruptly and, quite frankly, not very well. It was ridiculous that it was still making her feel this sad. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chair. What was it about Justin that stayed with her? Was it just because he’d been so damn handsome? That couldn’t be it. Ex-husband numbers one and four had been very handsome men. Well, was it the sex? No. Ex-husband numbers one and three had been fantastic in the sack. She’d gotten over all of them, more easily than she usually cared to admit. So why was Justin still haunting her dreams?

Against her closed eyes the warm evening breeze had picked up. It felt good, almost like a caress against her skin. It made her think of the summer, when dandelions dried and their little white heads blew all over fields of four-leaf clovers. She sighed and relaxed, feeling suddenly sleepy. . . .

. . . Until she heard the wild flapping and opened her eyes in time to see her homework papers being lifted by the crazy wind. She leaped up, grabbing at papers, sure she saw translucent pastel wings fluttering in among the notebook pages as her poetry scattered out into the forest.

“Fucking fairies!” she screamed, running after the trail of paper.

An hour later she had still not found the final drafts of both poems. Grumbling about hanging sticky flypaper and a giant bug zapper to get rid of the fairy problem, she gave up, resigning herself to rewriting the finals again. At least she’d just finished both poems that day. It shouldn’t be too hard for her to remember exactly what she’d written. . . .

He’d gone for a walk. Justin hadn’t even understood why, but all of a sudden it had been very important that he take a walk in the woods, and before he knew it, he was heading south. Toward her house. He’d just realized how close he was to her little log cabin when the wind changed directions and, in a flutter of iridescent wings, two papers blew straight into his hands. He felt a jolt at the familiar writing.

Poetry . . . her poetry!

Then he started reading, and his heart clenched. Candice’s words were like a mirror of what was going on inside him. Could it be? Could she really care as much as he did? He read on, and images began to form in his mind, and with them a plan. Maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to reach her.

Ten

To some people it might seem counterproductive to jog to town simply to eat a triple fudge banana split. To Candice it made perfect sense. She sat outside the One-Stop Mart and tried to tune out the sounds of the arguing Desdaine triplets as they fought over God knew what. Those monsters were always into something. And that poor sweet preacher, what was her name? Pastor Harmony? She’d somehow gotten trapped in there with those little demons. Candice could hear the woman trying to end the argument before any of the three little terrors could permanently disable some hapless passerby, which was just damn brave of the preacher. No wonder everyone said she was honestly nice—that she accepted everyone no matter how magical or nonmagical (or how disdainfully horrid).

Something crashed inside the store and Candice cringed. How old were those brats now? Eleven? Twelve? She’d damn sure better be out of teaching before, like a plague of locusts, they descended upon Mysteria High. Just another reason to land that fabulous job as an editor in Denver. Candice ate her ice cream slowly, dreaming of the romantic possibilities of her future profession. She’d have three-martini lunches with authors. She’d wear amazing clothes and have a loft near downtown. She’d discover the next Nora Roberts!

“Candice! There you are. Holy bat shit! You will not believe what the vampire is displaying in his gallery!” Godiva rushed up to her friend, her large round bosoms heaving with excitement.

“More porno dressed up as art?” Candice said, interest definitely aroused. She was always up for some full-frontal male nudity. Actually, it might be just the thing to help her get over the Justin Blues. Unfortunately, Godiva shook her head.

“No. It’s not porn.”

“Damn. Then what’s the big deal? You know I don’t like those bloody pictures the vamps think are cool. I don’t know why vampires are so into art, anyway. You’d think they’d choose a more, I don’t know, nocturnal profession.”

“Candice! Just come with me. I cannot begin to explain what you’re going to see.”

“Can I finish my banana split first?”

“Bring it. This can’t wait.”

Grumbling, Candice let Godiva shoo her down Main Street to Mysteria’s only art gallery, Dark Shadows. A crowd was gathered around the front display window, and as she got closer, she realized that all of them were staring in the window, and they all were crying.

Crying? The exhibition was so bad it was making the populace cry? Sheesh.

Godiva grabbed her arm and shoved her forward so she could get a better look. At first she was so completely distracted by the beauty of the pieces and the amazing talent of the artist that she didn’t understand exactly what it was she was seeing. There were two watercolor paintings on display. Her immediate impression of them was that they were dream images, and they vaguely brought to mind Michael Parks’s sexy fantasy work. One was of a woman who was in a cage that looked like it had been carved from ice. All around the outside of the walls of ice were big tufts of a delicately leafed plant in full purple bloom. Lavender, she thought. They’re bunches of blooming lavender. Candice looked more closely at the woman in the center of the cage. She was sitting on the floor, with one hand pressed against the nearest translucent wall, almost as if she were trying to push her way out. She was wearing only a white hooded cloak. Parts of her shapely bare legs were showing, but her face was in shadows—all except her eyes, which were large and mesmerizing with their mossy green sadness. There was something else about her eyes. . . .

Candice shifted her attention to the other painting. It, too, was amazingly rich in detail and color. It showed a woman sleeping on a bed that was in the middle of what looked to be a dark room in a castle. Mist, or maybe fog, hung around the bed, further obscuring the woman. A single tall, narrow window slit let in two pearl-winged doves, as well as a ray of moonlight, which fell across the bed, illuminating the side of the woman’s face so that a single tear at the corner of her eye was visible. This woman’s face was also in shadow. Her blonde hair spilled around her on the dark bed, drawing Candice’s eye. What was it about her hair?

Then she realized that displayed beside each painting was a framed poem. She pushed her way farther through the sobbing crowd until she was so close to the window that she pressed her fingers against the cold glass. Candice began reading the elaborate calligraphy of the first poem.

Come, icy wall of silence

encase my weary heart

protect me with your hold, hard strength

till no pain may trespass here.

Make still my battered feelings

within your protective fortress

safe

request I this sanctuary from life’s storm.

But, what of this ensorcelled heart?

Will it struggle so encased?

Or will walls forged to keep harm out

cause love’s flame to flicker low

till silence meant as soothing balm

does its work too well, and

no more breath can escape

to melt the fortress of frozen tears.

Candice couldn’t breathe. She felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Frantically, her eyes went to the second poem. It was a sonnet, and it was written in the same meticulous calligraphy.

The dreamer dreamed a thousand wasted years

Captive of wondrous images she slept

Swathed close in sighs and moans and blissful tears

Reliving promises made, but not kept.

The moon’s deft watch through narrow casement fell

Its silvered light caressed her silken face

Like a dove’s soft wings colored gray and shell

Shadowy thoughts frozen in time and place.

He watched her breath like silver mist depart

And he longed to join her murderous sleep

But truth rare listens to the wounded heart

Hence even hero souls must sometimes weep.

Now love’s pinions can never more take flight,

Entombed forever in grief’s endless night.

“They’re mine,” Candice whispered. Her stricken voice didn’t carry above the sobs of the people around her. She tore her eyes from the window and looked frantically back at Godiva, who was standing at the edge of the crowd crying softly. She raised her voice so that her friend could hear her. “They’re my poems, Godiva. I wrote them.”

“Who said that?!”

Heads swiveled to the tall gaunt figure standing in the doorway of the gallery. Barnabas Vlad (a name everyone in Mysteria knew he had absolutely, beyond any doubt, not been born with) was swathed head to toe in black, holding a small lacy black parasol, and wearing huge blue blocker reflective sunglasses.

“Who said that she is the poetess?”

“That would be me,” Candice said reluctantly.

All the heads then swiveled in her direction and Candice heard weepy murmurs of Oh, they’re so wonderful, and They break my heart, but I love them, and I have to have one of my own and the art that goes with it!

Barnabas pointed one finger (fully covered in a black opera-length glove) at Candice. “You must come with me at once!” The vampire turned and scuttled through the gallery door.

Candice couldn’t move. Everyone was staring at her.

“Let’s go!” Godiva pushed her toward the gallery door, ignoring the gawking crowd. Then, still sobbing softly, she added, “And no way are you going in there without me.”

Candice had been in the gallery before. It was decidedly on the dark side—walls and floor black instead of the usual clean white of most galleries. It was never well lit, and it was always too damn cold. But she liked the art exhibits, especially the gay pride exhibits Barnabas like to have. She could appreciate full-frontal male nudity, even if it couldn’t appreciate her.

“Back here, ladies.”

Barnabas called breathily from the rear office. Godiva and Candice exchanged glances. Both shrugged and followed the vampire’s voice.

“You’re sure it’s your poetry?” Godiva whispered, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

“Of course I’m sure,” she hissed at her friend. “How could you even ask me that! They’re the poems about heartbreak I wrote a week or so ago for that poetry class.”

“Well, it’s just that . . .” But they’d come to Barnabas’s office so Godiva clamped her mouth shut.

“Ladies, I’m charmed. Come in and sit, s’il vous plaît.” Barnabas fluttered his long fingers at the two delicate pink silk Louis XIV chairs that sat regally before his ornately carved mahogany desk. When they were seated the vampire launched into a breathy speech in his trademark poorly rendered French accent. “Do pardon my abruptness out there, but it’s been wretchedly stressful since I put up that new display. That is no excuse for moi rudeness, though. It is just such a shock—such a surprise. Mon dieu! Who would have imagined that such a magnificent discovery would have been made at my humble gallery? Oh! How rude of me. Introductions are in order. I am Barnabas Vlad, the proprietor of this humble galerie d’art.” He peered at Godiva for a moment, squinting his eyes so that his iridescent pink eye shadow creased unattractively. Then his expression cleared. “Ah, oui oui oui! I do know you. Are you not Godiva Tawdry, one of the Tawdry witches?”

Godiva looked pleased at her notoriety. “Oui!” she said. Now that she’d stopped crying she was able to appreciate the humor of the undead guy’s foppishly fake Frenchness.

He turned to Candice with a smile that showed way too many long, sharp teeth. “And you are our poetess! You look familiar to me, madam, but I’m sorry to say that I have misplaced your name.”

“I’m Candice Cox,” she said.

The vampire’s pleasant expression instantly changed to confusion. “Mais non! It is not possible!”

“Okay, this is really starting to piss me off. I wrote the poems a week or so ago for an online class I’m taking for my master’s. I can prove it. I turned them in last Friday. Now I want to know how you got them, who this artist is who has illustrated them, and why you all”—here she paused to glare at Godiva—“think it’s so impossible that I wrote them. I may be a high school teacher, but I do have a brain!”

“Madam! I meant no disrespect.” The vampire definitely looked flustered. “It is just . . .” He dabbed at his upper lip with a lacy black hankie before going on. “Are you not the English teacher whose magic is nonmagic?”

“Yes,” Candice ground from between gritted teeth.

“Then that is why it is impossible that you have written the poems.”

“What the hell—” Candice sputtered and started to get up, but Godiva’s firm hand on her arm stopped her.

“Candice,” Godiva said. “The poems have magic.”

“Exactement!” Barnabas said, clearly relieved that Godiva had stepped in.

“Magic? But how? I don’t understand,” Candice said.

“You saw the people. Your poems made them cry. They made me cry. When I looked at the paintings and then read your words, I thought my heart would break with sadness. It was awful—and wonderful.” Godiva teared up again just thinking about it.

“That is how everyone has been reacting,” Barnabas said. “Since I put them on display this morning. Weeping and blubbering, blubbering and weeping.”

“But where did you get them?” Candice felt as if she’d just gotten off a Tilt-a-Whirl and couldn’t quite get her bearings.

“They were in a plain brown package I found by the rear door to the gallery this morning. I opened it, and my heart began to break. Naturellement I instantly put them on display.”

“So who left the package?”

He shrugged. “It did not say. There was only this note in the package.”

Candice snatched the paper from his expensively gloved fingers. Typed on a plain white piece of regular computer paper it said:

If the poet would like to work with me again I would be willing.

Tell her that I will meet her here at the gallery tonight at sunset.

“But there’s no signature or anything,” Candice said.

“Artists.” Barnabas sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Okay, none of this makes any sense. The artist seems to know who I am, but I have no idea who this person is, how he or she got my poems. I mean, I just wrote them for the online class. I typed them into the computer, attached them to my e-mail, and sent them to the creative writing professor. Then I put the originals into a file labeled with the proper class. I suppose someone at the university could have gotten to them. The only other copies were blown away one day in a freak windstorm.”

Godiva shifted guiltily in her chair.

Candice shot her a narrowed look. “What do you know about this, Godiva Tawdry?”

“Nothing!” she said quickly.

“So you did not print them in such lovely calligraphy?” Barnabas asked.

“No! Not even my handwritten copies looked anything like those.” Candice got up and marched to the front window. She yanked both framed poems from the easels on which they were displayed. As an afterthought she made little shooing motions at the gawking, crying people. Then she hurried back to Barnabas’s office.

“Let me see them,” Godiva said. Candice gave them to her and the witch studied the poems. “This is hand-lettered with a calligraphy quill—nothing computer-generated about it.” She kept staring at the poetry, and suddenly her eyes widened. “It’s not working!”

“What?” Candice asked.

“The magic. I’m not feeling anything.” She looked apologetically at her friend as she handed the poems back. “They’re perfectly lovely poems, but I’m not crying.”

“So the magic’s gone?” She should have known it. No way would she really have magic. She glanced at Barnabas. The vampire looked stricken.

“Wait. I have an idea,” Godiva said. Flouncing herself over to the window, she grabbed one of the paintings, noting that all the criers had dried up and drifted away. She returned with the picture. “I need the poem that goes with this one.”

Candice looked at the green-eyed woman in the cave of ice, and was in the process of handing the free verse poem to her friend when she gasped and stared at the painting.

“The eyes! I knew there was something about them. She has my eyes.”

Barnabas looked from the painting to the teacher. “Mon dieu! You are right, madam.”

“The other one has your hair,” Godiva said.

“Holy shit,” Candice said.

“Give me the poem.”

Candice let Godiva take it out of her numb fingers. The witch held the poem up beside the picture. Almost immediately the vampire started to sniffle. Through his tears he said rapturously, “It has returned! The magic has returned!”

“It never went away,” Godiva said. “It just doesn’t work without the paintings.”

“That is weird as hell,” Candice said.

“Madam,” Barnabas gushed breathily into the silence, “I would like to commission you and the artist for twelve more poetry paintings. And I would be willing to pay you this amount of money.” He scribbled a number down on a piece of pink notepaper and slid it over the desk to Candice.

She picked up the paper. She blinked. And blinked again. She could not believe the amount of zeros on the paper. “You want to pay me this for twelve poems?”

“Mais non!” He looked offended. “I would pay you this for each of the twelve poems, as long as your artist agrees to illustrate them. “Naturellement, I would pay the artist the same commission. I have already called my brother in Denver. As soon as you and the artist fini, we will have a grand opening exhibit in the city that will be très extraordinaire!”

Candice wasn’t sure she could breathe. “But I don’t even know who the artist is.”

“We’re idiots!” Godiva said. “Isn’t there a signature on the paintings?”

“No, madam sorcière. I studied each painting for the artist’s signature. What I found was odd, not a normal signature at all.”

“Well, what did you find?” Candice asked, staring at the painting.

“In the bottom right corner of each is a miniature reproduction of a full moon. That is the only signature the artist left.”

Candice sighed. “Looks like I’ll be here at sunset to meet this mysterious artist.”

“But I think you should go home and change first,” Godiva said. “Those jogging shorts are frayed and you spilled banana split all over your shirt.”

Candice was too busy wondering at the amazing events to notice Godiva’s self-satisfied little smile.

Eleven

Candice was more excited than nervous. She dressed carefully, purposefully picking artsy clothes instead of the boring teacher crap that hung in the front of her closet. A poetess! she told herself, I’m going to dress like a poetess.

She chose a silk skirt that she’d bought in a funky shop in Manitou Springs the last time she’d visited the Colorado Springs area. Its scalloped hem flirted a couple of inches above her knees and it made her feel pretty and feminine. She matched a sleeveless black top with it and then hung her new necklace around her neck. It was a waterfall of amber beads and she realized that she’d bought it only because it reminded her of Justin’s eyes—but she couldn’t seem to help herself. This job will help me get over him. And if it keeps up it’ll be my ticket out of here. Denver, here I come! She pointedly ignored the fact that rumor said Justin was living in Denver. It didn’t matter. Denver was a big city, and she’d never run into him. She didn’t hang in the coed crowd. Instead of thinking about Justin, Candice slid on a pair of strappy black sandals, gave her hair one more fluff, and rushed out to her Mini.

The sun was just setting when she pulled up in front of the gallery. She was relieved that Barnabas had taken the paintings and poetry out of the display window. She really didn’t want to wade through another crowd of crying people to get to the door.

Stepping into the gallery she was met by Barnabas, who was wringing his hands.

“The artist insists on meeting alone with you, madam,” he said. “I will go, but I will be back in exactement one hour to hear your decision. Au revoir until later, then.”

“But where’s the artist?”

“In the rear gallery. That is where I have hung your work.” With one more worried glance around his gallery, the vampire minced out the door.

Candice straightened her shoulders and walked to the rear gallery. He was standing with his back to her, studying the two paintings that hung beside the framed poems. He’s really tall, was her first thought. He was wearing a dark, conservative suit that fit his broad shoulders well and tapered nicely down to his waist. His thick sand-colored hair was short and neatly cut. He didn’t seem to notice that she was there.

“Hi. My name is Candice Cox and I’m the poet,” she said, wishing she’d given more thought to how she would introduce herself.

“I know who you are,” he said without turning around.

Candice blinked. Was she so excited that her ears were playing tricks on her? That voice. She knew that voice. Didn’t she?

“Why did you write these poems?” he asked.

“As an assignment for a class I’m taking.” She felt the air slowly being squeezed out of her.

“Was that the only reason?” He still didn’t turn around.

“No,” she said softly. “When I wrote them I tried to explain how I was feeling.”

“And how was that?”

“My heart had been broken. I made a stupid mistake and jumped to a conclusion that wasn’t the right one.”

Finally, the artist turned slowly around. His amber eyes met hers. “You weren’t all that mistaken.”

She couldn’t believe it was really him. With his hair cut and his suit he looked . . . he looked like a man who could take on the world and win.

“I’ve missed you, Candy.”

“Justin, I—I . . .” She tried to put together a coherent sentence while her emotions swirled.

“I’m sorry!” they said together.

“I should have given you a chance to explain,” she blurted out.

“No! I shouldn’t have gone to that stupid party to begin with,” he said. “I want you to know that I wasn’t going there to be with another woman.”

“I know that,” she said.

He took a couple of steps toward her. “Did I really break your heart?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Is there any way you could let me fix it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered again. Then she closed the space between them and stepped into his arms. He bent to kiss her, but her words stopped him. “You’re the artist!”

He smiled. “I am.”

“So you found your inspiration in my poetry?”

“No. I found my inspiration in the woman whose heart finally became soft enough to be broken, and when I did I understood that separately we are just a gigolo wolf and a burned-out teacher, but together . . .” His lips gently brushed against hers.

“Together we make magic,” she finished for him.

Epilogue

SIX MONTHS LATER

The art gallery, Dark Shadows II, was located in trendy downtown Denver, nestled between a Starbucks and a posh designer jewelry shop. It was a popular place, known for its unique exhibits and for discovering talented new artists. But even for a popular gallery, tonight’s opening was busy. No, not busy—mobbed. The gallery owner, Quentin Vlad (whom everyone in Denver believed to be eccentric and odd, which was partially true . . . the other part was that he was a vampire—something that no one needed to know) was all atwitter. Dollar signs were blazing in his eyes, and he didn’t even mind that he’d had to hire extra security to control the crowd. Sold! Every available piece in the exhibit had been sold within the first hour of the opening.

He could hardly believe his brother’s amazing find! Who would have imagined it? A nonmagical poet and an untrained artist werewolf—put them together and they create art that evokes feelings in the people who view it even outside the boundaries of Mysteria!

Now that was magic.

“Fifty thousand! I’ll up my offer to fifty thousand dollars!”

Quentin looked into the flushed face of the sweaty man who was staring, mesmerized, at the spectacular painting and poem that hung side by side in the central room of the gallery. “Sir, I’m sorry. I told you the first twelve times you inquired as to its price. That particular piece is part of the artist and poet’s personal collection. It is not for sale.”

“Everything’s for sale,” the man quipped. “Everything has a price.”

“Not that piece.”

The deep voice came from behind them. Quentin and the desperate man looked back to see a tall, handsome young man dressed in dark jeans, a T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He had his arm around a woman who wore funky, artsy clothes. Her thick blonde hair was loose, framing the arresting green in her eyes perfectly. She leaned into his side intimately.

“No.” She smiled. “Not that piece.”

He bent to kiss her and, arm in arm, they strolled into one of the other crowded rooms of the gallery.

The sweaty-faced man’s gaze stayed with them a moment, but soon his eyes were drawn back to the painting and the poem—as was everyone’s attention. The painting was wondrous, a blending eroticism and beauty so breathtaking that it, alone, would have been an attention-getter in any gallery. But mix it with the poem that was displayed in intricate calligraphy and framed beside it, and wondrous evolved into spectacular . . . magical. As couples read the poem they gravitated together. Lone readers sighed wistfully. Some rushed out of the gallery, already on their cell phones to their lovers. Some just stood and stared, weeping silently at what was missing in their own lives. Some, like the sweaty-faced man, decided that if they just owned the piece then somehow, miraculously, love would find its way into their lives.

“It’s what I want; what I have to have,” the sweaty man said to no one in particular. “It has to be my story.” He looked at Quentin one last time. “I really can’t buy this?”

“No, you really can’t.”

The man’s eyes moved back to the artwork. “But maybe I can get her to forgive me—ask her for a second chance.” His eyes brightened and some of the desperate flush went out of his face. Quentin decided that he must be much more attractive when he wasn’t so, well, sweaty and florid. “That’s it! I’m going to ask her for a second chance!” He gripped Quentin’s thin hand. “Thank you, Mr. Vlad! And thank the artist and the poet, too!” Then he rushed from the gallery.

Quentin grimaced and discreetly wiped his palm on his handtailored Italian suit. But like everyone in the room, his eyes were pulled unerringly back to the wall where the art was exhibited. The painting was almost life-sized. The medium was textured oil, so the nudes looked rich, their skin almost alive. Their bodies were twined together in an intimate embrace—erotic yet loving—sexual and sensual. Their faces were indistinct, and Quentin thought then, as he had the first time he’d seen the piece, about the brilliance of the artist. He’d created a painting that allowed each viewer to imagine his or her own face within the scene. But the woman’s hair was distinctive—thick and long and blonde. The man in the painting fisted it in his desire as it cascaded around her shoulders. Quentin shivered. Even he was not immune to the passion in the piece. His eyes shifted to the poem and, again, he was captured in the poet’s web as he read:

Second Chance

Remember when it went wrong,

When the fabric of our universe tore . . . frayed . . . dissolved?

But then you turned back time

and we escaped from the prison of withered desire

I flung my arms wide and embraced

passion newborn.

Because you turned back time

I dance naked, joyously teasing the fiery sun,

safe in the knowledge that even Apollo’s

warmth cannot compare to

the heat of your caresses.

When you turned back time

I found the way to nurture

soft, sweet words

in my emerald meadow

I wound around you, a clear, cooling stream

soothing and nourishing,

helping you, in turn, to feel renewed.

And in that renewing

found my own magic

with you.

Beside the poem hung a placard that told about the artist and the poet. It read:

The medium of our work is not important. It varies from piece to piece. We do not focus on techniques or styles. We simply focus on the same thing we’d like you to focus on—the true magic of love, which will always transcend time and disbelief. May all of you live happily ever after. . . .

—Justin and Candice Woods