Alpha Omega 02 - Hunting Ground

Master: She Looks at Love. Vermeer himself titled it Woman with Yellow Flower or something prosaic, as he preferred.”
    Anna looked at the painting, and the more she looked at it, the more was wrong. Not bad—nothing could take away from the skill that caught the luscious texture of skin and hair and the cloth of the woman’s dress—but it was like listening to one of those computer programs that played sheet music: perfect technical skill . . . and no soul.
    â€œI don’t know a lot about paintings,” Anna said to excuse herself.
    Dana shook her head and gave Anna a rueful smile, the alien predator nowhere to be seen. “No, it’s all right. My people are cursed with the love of beautiful things and no ability to create them.” She dried her hands. “Not all fae, of course. But many of those of us who are most deeply steeped in magic give up creative abilities of all kinds. Ah well.”
    â€œDragons are like that,” Charles said obscurely.
    Did he know a dragon? Anna gave him an interested look. He smiled a little, but his attention was on the fae, who had stopped her scrubbing.
    â€œDragons can’t create either?”
    He shrugged. “So my da says. Mostly he only says things he knows to be true.”
    She smiled, and it was as if the sun came out. “To be like dragons is not such a bad thing. I’ve only seen the one—out exploring, he said, I think. We didn’t have much of a conversation, but he was . . . like the Vermeer. A work of art.”
    He tilted his head. “Exactly.”
    Dana tilted her head the same way and looked at Charles, really looked at him. “You are the killing arm of the Marrok. Rude. Dangerous.”
    â€œTrue, enough,” Charles said.
    Anna found it interesting that the fae thought “rude” more notable than “dangerous.”
    â€œI was drawn to that in you,” Dana told him. “I would have said that I knew you quite well. But I never knew you could also be kind.” She put her hands on his shoulders and, with a grin at Anna, she kissed him on the cheek. Anna could feel the pulse of her magic as she sent it over Charles like a mantle or net. It slid off, but even Anna, who had not been the focus, could feel the fascination and lust she generated.
    â€œThere,” she told Anna. “A sister could not have been more circumspect. Now didn’t you say you brought something for me?”
    She didn’t lie. Or if she did, Anna couldn’t tell—and the fae couldn’t lie, could they? The magic could have been involuntary; maybe it happened every time, and the fae didn’t even notice anymore.
    Charles hadn’t seemed affected, but it would have been difficult to tell. His face was doing its usual public thing. Not even the mate bond helped her, because the connection between them told her nothing. But it wasn’t possible for a fae with magic like that to kiss him and he not feel anything, was it? Not affection, admiration, or lust? Voluntary or not, the fae’s magic had been aimed at him while the merest shadow of it had brushed Anna—who had never in her life been attracted to another woman.
    She touched Charles lightly on the arm. He hadn’t managed to rebuild his barriers against her because she suddenly knew exactly what he felt toward Dana Shea—wariness. Not desire or fear, but wary respect—one predator to another on neutral territory maybe. And then there was Brother Wolf . . .
    She’d heard werewolves talk as if they and the wolves they shared their skins with were one. Some werewolves had nothing more wolfish about them, even in wolf form, than a nasty temper and a need to kill things that ran from them. Other than fighting to keep her sanity in the first few months after her Change, Anna hadn’t thought about it much one way or the other.
    Charles sometimes talked about his wolf as if it were a separate being who shared his body: Brother Wolf.
    For the first time, perhaps springing from that oddly terrifying moment outside when she’d felt everything he was—too much to be absorbed or witnessed—she could feel the wolf inside of Charles. Two distinct souls. And Brother Wolf felt her, too.
    Mate, he told her, not unkindly. Get out of our head so we can deal with She-Who-Is-Not-Kin.
    Not-Kin wasn’t the only thing she got from that name. Powerful, ruthless, killer. Bound by rules. Overcivilized. Respected