Lia took a basket from the shelf and wandered the solarium taking clippings from the herbs that grew there until she had a fragrant bouquet before going out into the overgrown tangle of the garden and collecting the lavender and roses that bloomed in abundance despite recent neglect.
She needed to do something about the garden she thought as she waded through its wilderness. When her grandmother had been alive, she had kept the plants under control, just barely. Since her death, it had become a jungle, swallowing the rambling paths and garden bed edging. If Lia didn’t rein it in soon, it would start growing in through the back door.
Lia took the cuttings into the kitchen and removed the thorns from the roses over the sink before binding flowers and herbs into a bouquet with string. It wasn’t much, she thought, chewing her lip as she looked at the end result, but at least she wouldn’t be going empty handed. It smelt beautiful and looked pretty in a rustic sort of way.
She checked the time and went to the walk-in-robe, opening the secret passage into the turret and climbing the stairs kicking up dust. Clean the turret, she added mentally to her running list of housework.
The sunlight poured through the stained-glass window throwing the turret room into jewel tones, the shift of the tree branches moving shadows and making the arcane objects eery. She hated the odd little room, with its ancient secrets. As a child she had found every excuse under the sun and moon to avoid her lessons with the grimoire, the strange objects in the room featuring heavily in her nightmares.
She turned her back to the bookcases and leaned over the table set beneath the window.
“Werewolves,” she commanded the book, and watched the pages lift and fall, before leaning forward.
“Werewolves, dual natured humans, capable of taking the form of a wolf, possessing increased strength, speed, healing ability, and animal magnetism. Werewolves are slow ageing with lifespans that extend well beyond humans.
“In wolf form, their saliva contains properties that increase healing in other werewolves or humans, and, on the full moon, a bite will contaminate humans, turning them to werewolf.
“Werewolves turn humans for a variety of reasons, ranging from strengthening the pack, to turning a potential mate. It is not something that appears to be done lightly, or without care. The werewolves have developed a religious belief centered on the phases of the moon, and werewolves are made exclusively on the full moon.
“Werewolves prefer to live in packs, displaying a strong familial bond, and are fiercely loyal. Werewolves possess the heightened scent of their alter-form, and this increased sensitivity is part of their socializing, displayed through scent marking, and recognizing their family and the familial associations of other werewolves through scent.
“Werewolves have a complex family structure, unlike wolf packs. There can be several alpha males and females in a werewolf pack, happily co-existing and sharing the responsibility of safeguarding the welfare of the entire pack. This level of sophistication is evidence of the influence of their human nature on their wolf nature.
“Werewolves mating rituals are as complex as their family structure. The selection criteria are not clear however scent plays a role, and once a male has decided upon a mate, he is not easily dissuaded from the object of his affection, and enforced separation causes him considerable distress.
“Having made his selection, the male werewolf will swiftly proceed to court his female, scent marking her and introducing her into his pack, before either turning the human at full moon, and/or consummating the bond with a werewolf female.
“As with family, the werewolves will bond through scent, forming a co-dependency that ensures monogamy within the relationship, and a joint concern for raising offspring.”
She leaned back and pulled a face. “Gah, no wonder I’ve never read this book in detail. It’s a nightmare.” She closed the book, lifting dust into the air and stretched out cramped back muscles. “I don’t suppose this book contains the answers I am after anyway,” she said to herself. “Contraception didn’t exist when it was written.”
She wished her mother was still alive to ask. Such things were meant to be conversations between mother and daughter, she thought sadly. Though, her mother might not have known, either. Her grandmother had always been one to keep her secrets.
The thought reminded Lia of her grandmother’s mysterious comment about the protection spell and the Wingless. “What are the Wingless?” She asked the grimoire.
The book opened to the first page and an illustration of a winged woman, crawling across the floor whilst a winged man stood over her, his sword lifted, holding one of her wings. Lia winced. It was obvious that the winged man was about to slice off the woman’s wing.
“The worst punishment for an angel is to have their wings severed. This punishment results almost certainly in death and as such is sentenced for only the very worst of crimes, such as treachery, betrayal of family, murder, or carnal knowledge with a slave species.”
“Almost certainly,” she repeated under her breath. “So, some angels survive? Shit,” she added as she realized that it must be close to when Raiden would return, and closed the book again, running down the turret stairs.
She washed the dust off her hands in the bathroom and checked her make-up. She had just slicked on some lipstick when she heard the doorbell chime.
She ran out and opened the door. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Raiden leaned against the doorframe. “Ready?”
“One moment,” she went into the kitchen and collected the flowers. “Jumper,” she remembered on her way back down the hall and grabbed it and her handbag off the bed before returning to the door. “All done.”
He leaned down and brushed his lips over hers, lingering. “You look perfect,” he said as he straightened. He had been home, she noted, as he was showered and had changed clothes. “The flowers are a nice touch,” he said with approval. “My mother will love them.”
He had brought the Ute and opened the passenger door for her before lifting her up with a laugh. “Sorry, the Ute has a bit of a lift on it and you’re short.”
“The bane of my life,” she replied wriggling herself into the seat and putting on her seat belt. He went around to the driver’s side and got in without difficulty. “No bike?” She asked him.
“I thought you might like a change,” he grinned as he reversed down the drive. “The bike is practical in the city as it means I can park anywhere. But the Ute is more civilized for you.”
“I like the bike,” she admitted. “But the Ute keeps my hair neater,” she added hurriedly, in case he thought she was ungrateful for his thoughtfulness.
“It is not a long drive,” he said, and reached over the center console to take her hand in his, placing her palm onto his thigh.
“It will be a bit… overwhelming at first,” he warned her. “There are a lot of us. They will be all over you, until they feel that they know you. It is just… our way.”
“Okay.” It sounded terrifying. She slid him a look evaluating. She was pretty certain that he had been born a werewolf, there was just something about him that had the confidence of someone who had grown up knowing exactly what and who they were and their place in life. But it was possible that he had been made, she admitted. The family he was introducing her too could be his pack or his blood kin in the latter case, rather than both.
“I don’t have a lot of experience with families,” she said hesitantly. “It was just my grandmother and I, and Paris’ family lives out of state. I went on holiday with her to see them once, but it was only for a week…”
“It’s alright,” he squeezed her hand. “They will love you.”
She blew out a breath. “Alright.”
They were entering affluent suburbia, the streets in better repair and lined with pretty trees. She saw the glimmer of glamour as they passed through it and knew they had entered werewolf pack lands. The houses were all big and on large blocks, fenced off behind ornate wrought iron.
He released her hand in order to activate a remote sitting in the cup holder and a gate slid open to admit them.
The house was behind an immaculate lawn and tidy garden beds and wrapped on three sides by the sort of porch that begged a swinging chair. There were rocking chairs out front, she saw, and thought that was even better.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, intimidated by the type of money that the house represented.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said, following the drive past the main house, to where a freestanding garage, complete with a unit above, stood nestled between trees, and parked. He came around to her door and lifted her down. “This way,” he led her across the pretty back garden, past a pool, to the side fence, which he opened.
In this second back garden, there was a party underway in a pretty rotunda set on the lawn. Raiden led her through pretty garden beds, and she saw fairies flitting between the flowers. She had never seen so many in one place, winging around like butterflies.
Raiden did not seem to notice them, though she was sure his Other nature should have revealed them to him, which meant that he accepted them as commonplace or was pretending they didn’t exist in order to not expose his Other nature to her.
There was a fire pit near the rotunda and a lamb was being cooked over the coals, whilst children roasted marshmallows under the supervision of the cooks. Under the trees, several picnic blankets and cushions were scattered, and a long table was set in the rotunda, the bright blue tablecloth almost hidden beneath the food laid out upon it.
The pop of a cork and women’s laughter greeted them from the rotunda.
The men seemed to be concentrated around the fire pit and the meat being cooked there. They were all werewolves, she noted immediately, and they were all built like Raiden, tall, broad, and strong. They were also almost uniformly tattooed, with wolves featuring heavily, and dressed casually in jeans and shirts.
“Ah,” exclaimed a man who had to be a relation from his appearance, his face very similar, and his hair, clipped shorter than Raiden’s, showing the same inclination to curl and of the same glossy darkness. “Just in time Raiden, sounds like Ethan just opened the champagne for your mother.”
If Raiden had not said that he was the eldest child, she would have thought the man to be an older brother. Werewolves were slow ageing, she remembered, and long lived. It was likely, therefore, that he was actually his father. Which, she thought, confirmed that she was meeting both his biological family and his pack, and that he had been born a werewolf just as she had suspected.