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  "A bug?” I asked.

  "In more than one sense of the word.” He smiled.

  "Won't that look odd, a blue dragonfly on the wall?"

  "Not really. The woods around the Council Tower are enchanted. There's all sorts of weird things in there. No one will notice a blue dragonfly.” He looked very pleased with himself and I had to admit it was a good idea. Neither of us was sure what it would mean if Marco spoke to the council about equal rights for werewolves. How would that change the job of The Hunters? Better yet, how would that change the lives of those people on Earth who were lycanthropes?

  The President of the United States as well as other world leaders had all known of our existence for some time. But this, like so many other things, had been kept from the public. If the Wizard Council agreed to equal treatment of lycanthropes, other world leaders would be hard pressed to find a reason to disagree, at least on Terra. Earth was another story. There were remote places where The Hunters had not been allowed, letting the werewolf population run unchecked. Lycanthropes would still need to be governed by some laws that would not apply to ordinary people. But, as my father said, “That's for people with more authority than you and me to decide.” He was right, and it would do no good to worry. It sometimes took months for the council to decide if they would even allow someone to speak, let alone side one way or another. Wizards did not get in a hurry.

  Most of this world has been shaped by wizards, though no one has been aware of the fact. There had actually been many famous wizards on Earth. Only seven wizards are born every century, with most living close to one thousand years. Three of these seven will serve on the council for their lifetime, however long that might be. Council members are elected by the public. Only two wizards were ever known to refuse the office, until recently. Methuselah was the first, and everyone had heard of Merlin.

  The most recent wizard to refuse the office was Alek Ambrose, whose name, roughly translated meant, ‘the immortal protector of mankind'. Ambrose was famous for defeating the goblin army created by the dark wizard, Tavarius Maeryn, in his youth. It was a surprise when he turned down the appointment. To have such a powerful wizard remain neutral could be dangerous.

  Julius Caesar was descended from wizards. Even Cleopatra was rumored to have been a sorceress. Science and the unexplainable have lived side by side as far back as recorded history. In the past, wizards played an important role in many cultures, before society developed a need for scientific explanations. Science has not yet been able to explain the power of wizards. It's sort of like trying to explain how God created the heavens and the earth, people will always disagree. Some theorize that wizards derive their power from extreme psychic ability, others say it's magic. However you want to look at it, wizards simply are what they are. People have always mistrusted someone different, instinctively fearing what they cannot rationally explain. In this case, however, their fears were not entirely unfounded.

  One of the most truly evil wizards in our history, Ulric Weylin, was closely associated with Lionel Ferdinand, the creator of the lycanthropy virus. It was speculated that science would never find a cure for something the wizard likely had a hand in. There is no vaccine for black magic. All attempts at vaccination have only spread the virus further. Just like some people develop the flu from a shot, nearly everyone vaccinated contracted lycanthropy.

  Much of the population of Terra has some psychic ability, or knows someone who does. Nothing extreme, just some flicker of ability. Because of this, their distrust has never extended to psychics, though on Earth, anyone calling themselves a psychic is pretty much a joke.

  * * * *

  I felt better after talking things over with my father, but I was no closer to being able to clear my head. My mind was flooded with images of things not found even in the Kama Sutra. I knew my thoughts of Marco were completely inappropriate, but that didn't stop me from thinking them. As much as he wanted to deny being an animal, when it came down to brass tacks, he was as alpha male as they came ... and that just turned me on. Maybe my attraction to power had something to do with being a woman. Or maybe, as much as I denied it, I was close enough to being an alpha female that he simply had that effect on me. Either way, I needed to do something to get Marco out of my head.

  I love art, in all of its many forms. Drawing in particular has always been a great way for me to relax. Sometimes, if I can get my thoughts on paper, I can get them out of my head. Bearing that hope in mind, I collected my sketchbook from its shelf, along with the small bag where I kept my many assorted color pencils, turned on some music, and began to sketch.

  The images that had plagued my mind for days began to take their erotic forms on the velum before me. In my mind, I pictured everything I'd seen of Marco that night ... and everything I hadn't. My darkest fantasies took the shape of sordid graphite images, Marco chained to the chair, tied naked and helpless in a dungeon somewhere, kneeling like a slave before me.

  Of course, no one would ever see these except me, so I gave my imagination free reign over my hands. One picture consisted of nothing but his chest with my hands pressed against him. My hand worked as if it had a mind of its own. The more I sketched, the better I felt. I suppose it was like telling a counselor all of your problems, or talking to a really good friend. I just felt better getting these pictures out of my head.

  As I stood up to stretch my legs, I decided it was time for a change in my musical accoutrement. I looked over my assorted CDs, stopping finally on a mix I had labeled, ‘favorites'. The first song that began to play was an old favorite of mine from the seventies. I had always liked the song, but something came over me that evening. I sat down, searching for a pencil that didn't need sharpening. I had seen something I had to capture before the image was gone.

  I began sketching frantically, trying to get on paper what I saw. My hand moved wildly over the page. As the image began to form, I saw a man, a handsome man whom I'd never seen before. His hair was somewhat wild, his eyebrows thick, and even though I drew in black and white, I knew he was blond. His eyes that I drew with a detail which had previously eluded me, were brown. I could not picture his body, just his face. He had a long almost aquiline nose that cast a slight shadow over his lips, which seemed to be pursed in thought. He had fine lines around his eyes and mouth, which gave some indication that he was at least middle aged.

  I sat back and looked at the picture in amazement. It was not unusual for me to see things in my dreams, but something like this had never happened to me before. I wasn't sure what to think, or what it might mean. But, I knew, eventually, this man would mean something to me. It was odd. I sat staring down at the face looking back at me ... and I knew him, though I'd never met him. I don't believe in past lives, and I'd never seen this face before in my dreams. I was at a loss.

  By then, the hour was late, and I was very tired. I decided to put the drawings away, and think about it all another time. I looked over at the ornate iron clock hanging on my wall. It was two thirty in the morning. No wonder I was tired. I collected the many sketches and pencils that were scattered across the bed and placed them on my writing desk.

  I slid between the silk sheets, staring at the sheer red hangings draped above my four poster bed. I didn't like the idea of bed hangings that would completely obstruct my view so I had long pieces of sheer fabric loosely wrapped around the iron bars that connected above the bed. It gave the room a dramatic flare that I loved. The first time Kathryn had seen the room after I redecorated, she described it as ‘a romantic mix between Victorian elegance and a medieval dungeon'. I'd say her description was pretty accurate.

  No matter how long I lay there, or how hard I tried to rest, the comforting arms of sleep would not embrace me. At about three o'clock, I gave up and decided to have a cup of tea. The air seemed cooler after the rain. I figured I would need to wear something more than my robe downstairs. I went to the chest of drawers and took out some black silk pajamas. My favorite color is purple, but no one could gu
ess that from my wardrobe.

  My room had been decorated in different shades of purple before the dramatic red. I was ready for a change. Kat said I was projecting the romance I wasn't getting in my life onto my bedroom. She was probably right.

  * * * *

  As I crossed the foyer I noticed the kitchen light was already on. Apparently I wasn't the only one having trouble sleeping. After walking out earlier that day when Alfred had so obviously wanted to argue, I was almost afraid to be alone with him. But, I'd be damned if I was going to be intimidated out of my own kitchen.

  I found Alfred sitting at the table, reading one of my books of poetry and enjoying what smelled like English tea. A bowl of strawberries and cream sat on the table untouched. He didn't notice me at first, which gave me the opportunity to appreciate how good he looked. He was wearing gold satin pajamas which went well with the caramel of his skin. I had worn black fuzzy slippers, but I noticed Alfred's feet were bare. I'd never known Alfred to wear slippers, but watching him that night, the sight of his bare feet seemed more intimate somehow. His hair was tousled, looking as though he had tried to sleep, but the circles underneath his eyes told me he'd had about as much success with sleeping as I had.

  He was either oblivious to the fact that someone else was in the room, or he was deliberately ignoring me. Since he was reading my poetry, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I sat across from him, noticing the slight smile that had begun to play across his lips. “This is quite good,” he said without looking up.

  "You knew I was here?"

  He looked at me then, with the same half smile as he said, “Of course. I just wondered how long you were planning to stand there watching me.” He sighed, placing the book on the table, his smile beginning to fade. “Can't sleep?” he asked.

  "No.” I wasn't sure what else to say. Obviously telling him how Marco had haunted my thoughts was out of the question. I almost mentioned the other picture I'd drawn that night, the handsome man with kind eyes, but it seemed somehow wrong to discuss the drawing with Alfred.

  "What's on your mind?” he asked.

  "Honestly? I'm not sure where to start."

  "You can't keep pretending I'm not here, Lilith. I'm not stupid. You've been avoiding me for weeks now."

  "You didn't exactly make yourself available either,” I accused.

  "Why should I? Do you realize how many times I tried to speak to you ... and you didn't even look at me?"

  Ouch. Had I been that distant? I wasn't ready to discuss my feelings with Alfred, but I hadn't meant to be so cold. “I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I've been dealing with ... some things ... I never meant to take it out on you."

  He seemed to consider what I'd just said. “Would it help if you talked about it?"

  "There are some things that I'm not sure I can say to you."

  "What about Kathryn?"

  I laughed. “Kat's solution to everything is for me to get enough of my brains screwed out that I can't think straight enough to worry."

  He laughed softly and I realized I had never fully appreciated the deep subtle quality of Alfred's voice. I think I might have blocked it out in an effort to protect myself. I was so afraid of falling, only to find there was nothing to catch me but the cold, hard ground. I leaned forward over the table, looking deeply into Alfred's eyes. I could see he genuinely wanted to understand. I had an idea, but I wasn't sure if it would work.

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  Chapter Five

  "Do you remember the guy I was dating when I was attacked?” I asked, sliding back into my seat.

  His eyebrows drew closer in concentration. “Peter?"

  I nodded.

  "Yes, I remember him. He was John's son wasn't he?"

  "Yes,” I said my voice unable to hide the sorrow that even the mention of Peter caused. John had worked with my father, also, once upon a time. He was killed by a pack of werewolves only six months before my attack. I looked up into Alfred's eyes and found them full of compassion. It was more than I could take. I moved into the seat closest to him, reached over and took his hand in mine.

  "There are things that I never told you,” I began, “things that I never told anybody, even Kat.” I looked down at the hand that I held between both of my own, lightly caressing the calluses on his knuckles. “There's something I'd like to show you."

  "Alright,” he said, as if unsure what his response should be.

  Without waiting for further permission, I grasped Alfred's hand tightly and forced myself to remember Peter. I saw him just as he had looked almost ten years ago. I remembered the way my heart fluttered to look at him, standing outside one summer afternoon. His light blond hair blowing in the breeze, his sky blue eyes sparkling with a joke that I couldn't remember. I recalled how happy it made me ... just to be near him. Every time he smiled at me, the world seemed to be a better place. I loved him so deeply, so passionately, that it hurt to breathe. I took those strong emotions, those memories and I pushed them with my mind, through my hand and into Alfred.

  The memory of the night that Peter had turned on me played itself out in my mind as if it were yesterday. At last, Alfred knew what it felt like to be called a monster. I let him feel my memory of being afraid that the world would end and I would have never known love. Then I remembered another face, one without fond memories attached. I let him see the girl Peter had married and how strongly she resembled Marcy Johnson. I remembered the way I had felt when I learned of Peter's engagement. No one had had the balls to tell me. I'd had to read it in the paper. It felt like someone had hit me. I remembered the picture of their smiling faces looking back, mocking me from page five of the local news. I knew they had been dating. It had been five years since my attack when Peter got married. But seeing it there in plain black and white brought home more than ever that he would never be mine again. I took my rage, my unfulfilled need to cause someone else to hurt as badly as I did and flung it at Alfred.

  I relived meeting her years later in a supermarket. She was wearing dark shades to cover her black eye. She knew who I was. We'd known each other in school. I spoke to her, determined to be the better person and never let her know how much I loathed her. She had taken my hasty greeting as a sign that I didn't hate her, and poured her heart out to me.

  There I stood, with the woman that I had despised for years, crying on my shoulder because Peter abused her. I let Alfred feel how much I wanted to strangle her, and how glad I was that it was winter, and I'd worn gloves. I did not want to directly touch that woman. I wanted nothing more than to wrap my hands around her slender throat until I felt the bones crack, just for the satisfaction of hearing them crunch. Instead, I held her. I held her to me as if the world were ending, because to her ... it was.

  As we stood there, in the middle of the frozen food isle, I cried with her. As I held her I suddenly understood that she had no one else to turn to, not if she looked to me for comfort. If I was her idea of refuge, what must the storm be like? Though I wanted to do so, I could not turn her away.

  Through my touch, Alfred knew what if felt like to fall in love again, against your better judgment, with a man that you knew deep down would only break your heart. He understood what it felt like to have someone not only fear your love, but run from it. I hurt so deeply that it was beyond my description. The disappointment I'd felt when Bradley had shown his true colors coursed through me, crashing into Alfred like the tide. It wouldn't have hurt so much if he had at least spoken to me. I knew Bradley planned to leave. His plans were not a secret to me, but he thought they were. I had hoped that he would be man enough to tell me he was leaving. Coward. Through my memories, Alfred experienced my fear, my longing, and my hatred. What I felt was beyond words.

  When Alfred's face appeared in my mind, I broke the contact. After all, he didn't need to know everything. We sat quietly for a moment, before he whispered, "Figlio di cagna, troia." That's Italian for son of a bitch.

  "Exactly,” I said, wiping my eye
s. I looked up at Alfred and realized he'd been crying. As red as his eyes were, he must have cried from the time that I'd first touched him until I broke the contact. I felt guilty. I'd wanted him to understand what I had been going through, but I'd never meant to hurt him.

  "I'm sorry...."

  "Don't.” He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his pajamas. “I asked. I wanted to know. I wondered what happened between you and Peter. I knew about Brad, but I had no idea...” He seemed at a loss for words.

  "And I didn't know how to even begin to explain it."

  He offered me a weak smile. “A picture's worth a thousand words."

  "So you did see the memories, you didn't just feel them?"

  "I saw them ... and I felt them.” He reached out, covering my small hand with his. I was surprised that he would be willing touch me after what had just happened. “I'm sorry, Lil. I've been an ass. I've deliberately provoked you. I saw who Peter's wife looked like...."

  "I don't own you,” I interrupted, trying to sound casual.

  "But, you could ... “ I looked down at my hand, still resting in his and realized that I was hearing his thoughts. I didn't know what to say, or how he would feel if I were to respond to his thoughts. I was afraid to know what Alfred felt, but ... I didn't want to break the contact. His hand felt so warm and comforting. I wanted to touch more of him. I wanted to run my hands over his satin pajamas, just to feel the warmth of his skin beneath. What I felt wasn't sexual, I needed comfort. I let some of what I was feeling pass to Alfred.

  "Don't be afraid to touch me,” he whispered, more softly than I'd expected. He stretched out his arms to me, and I leaned into his embrace.

  "I'm so confused,” I whispered.

  "I know,” he said as he swept me onto his lap, wrapping me in his arms.

  I rested my face against the side of his throat, feeling his pulse against my forehead. Alfred held me for a long time, speaking softly to me in Italian. His voice soothed the emotional storm that had raged within me. For the first time in weeks, I found some measure of peace as he stroked my hair, whispering words of comfort, like a caress to my tormented mind. I couldn't tell you a word he said, but I remember the way he made me feel. I drifted to sleep in Alfred's strong embrace, knowing that I was not alone, and that this night I could rest, knowing that the arms that held me would also protect me.