Hot Blooded

other creature could match. Both power
and beauty had to be hidden when
upyr
traveled the mortal realm. These
days, few could survive without a knack for glamour and thrall, the gifts that
allowed them to look like humans and, when that proved impossible, to convince
the humans they had not seen what they thought they had. Sadly, there weren't
enough wild places left for them to live wholly apart.
    Like their four-footed brethren,
upyr
fought to survive. Immortal
did not mean indestructible, especially when modern life held so many dangers.
Cameras could watch them without their knowledge, doctors could probe their
unique genetics, and swordsmen were hardly necessary when any idiot with a buzz
saw could lop off their heads. Even broken hearts could drive his kind to their
doom.
    Bastien didn't think he was in danger of facing that, but he'd definitely had
happier times. Not six months ago, he'd been kicked out of his pack.
    For the second time in his life, he'd been forced to leave a country he
called home—first by a tyrant, now by a friend.
    At least his second exile, from Scotland this time, had been kindly done,
complete with murmurings of "time you stretched your legs" and "we could really
use your help establishing a power base across the pond." No matter what his
pack leader, Ulric, said, Bastien knew the truth in his bones.
    He was getting too powerful to keep around, powerful enough to be an elder:
one of few who could change human into
upyr
. Bastien couldn't be an
underling in someone else's pack when his nature drove him to rule his own.
Indeed, as the years went by, it seemed inevitable that he would challenge Ulric
for rule of his. Bastien's pack leader was much beloved. Even if Bastien could
defeat him, the pack wouldn't want him to. They didn't trust him to rule as
well.
    For that matter, Bastien didn't trust himself.
    This, he thought, was why he'd been drawn so strongly to the bakery. Its
warmth, its wonderful, comforting scents, the history that clung to it like a
spice, pulled him inexorably. He'd already been thinking he'd buy the Night Owl.
The inn had the atmosphere he wanted, and ample surrounding land. He'd believed
it would repay his investment and hoped it would tempt visits from his friends.
It was the sight of O'Faolain's, however, that sealed the deal.
    He only wished the sight of its owner hadn't sealed his fate.
    Mariann O'Faolain was as tart as one of her pies—a scrappy little woman with
wiry muscles and subtle curves. Though her looks were striking, she appeared to
have no vanity. Her unstyled mop of hair was as dark as her favorite drink, her
eyes like an April sky. She slaved at her business like no one but humans could,
twelve hours at a stretch, as if she feared her life would end too soon for her
to work herself into the ground. She had no husband—at the moment, anyway—no
child, just a town full of admirers and a chewed-looking cat whose spirit was as
fierce as hers.
    Bastien wanted her with an intensity that set his blood ablaze: to love with,
to hunt with, to make her queen to the king he did not dare be. Centuries would
not suffice to slake his thirst for her sweetness.
    Unfortunately, it looked like centuries would be required for him to muster
the nerve to court her. Since meeting her, he hadn't been able to say two words
without tripping over his tongue. The closest he'd come to flirting had been his
wolf eating from her hand. He hadn't intended to surprise her. He'd simply been
unable to resist going to her house.
    The Frenchman in him found his clumsiness pathetic. The man in him just felt
lost. As the Americans so colorfully put it, falling in love was a bitch.
    His friend, Emile, his sole companion in exile, chose then to appear at his
side, probably not by his accident. He wore his usual jeans and polo shirt, and
tiny lights blinked in the soles of his running shoes. This was an activity he
had taken to with a vengeance. Long ago, Emile had nearly lost his legs. The
length to which Bastien had gone to save him was something neither of them spoke
about. Brothers at heart, they'd always resembled each other, which had led to
the fiction that they were kin. Ironically, almost dying had given Emile a more
humorous view of life than his supposed cousin. He took things as they came, and
gave thanks for what he had.
    For a moment, he was content to stand drinking in the night. Sadly, for Emile
peace