Eventide of the Bear by Cherise Sinclair
“Do bards know everyone they sing about?”
“Well, no.” A crease appeared between her brows. “They ask questions. Find out everything about the person from friends, family…and enemies. Find out what people think about the shifter’s life—and death.”
“Can’t you do that?”
“It wouldn’t be…perfect. Not in so short of a time.”
And this little female needed things to be flawless. The humans on his crew often displayed the odd compulsion. Shifters tended to have a better balance, since animals weren’t obsessed with perfection, just results. “The Mother doesn’t hold “perfection” up as an ideal, honey bear,” he said softly.
His words struck home with an almost audible plop.
Having made his point, he moved on. “Don’t bards create sending-off songs on short notice? The lyrics are set to just one tune, aren’t they?”
“The ‘Return to the Mother’ melody. Yes.”
Not there yet. “You know, he shouted when he realized the bullet hit me. And he kept firing—even though he knew it would only draw the hellhound’s attention.”
Realization dawned in her eyes. “He drew the hellhound away from you.”
“Aye.”
Tears glimmered in her eyes and her jaw slowly tightened. “He deserves more from me than silence.”
Ben waited, letting her work out her own destiny.
Then she narrowed her eyes at him. “All right. Since I’m asking questions of people, how do you feel about what happened?”
Hell. He guessed turnabout was fair, but by Herne’s horns, he wished she hadn’t asked. “I’m sad at the loss of life.”
Her amber eyes sharpened until her gaze penetrated his defenses. “That’s not all.”
Fuck. He’d pushed. Now he owed her answers. But he’d far rather scoop out his guts with his own claws. “By the God, I still feel as if I fucked up. Maybe if I’d advised him better, he’d have stayed focused. Or if I’d let him make the kill as he wanted instead of staying with the procedure of him being the prey. Or if I’d moved faster, maybe I’d have killed the hellhound before he fired.”
Her gaze softened.
If she told him she was sorry for him, he’d throw his tray against the wall. “This won’t help you construct a song, honey bear. What I feel isn’t about him; it’s all about me.” And far, far too close to the guilt he felt for killing his own mother with his birth.
“I understand guilt,” she said in a level tone. “However… As a polite male, Alec might moderate his judgment to spare you. But, according to local opinion, the cahir named Owen says whatever he thinks. If Owen thought there was something else you could have done, he’d have said.”
Ben blinked. Apparently, Owen wasn’t the only one who could be blunt.
“No one could have anticipated some female would order Wesley to shoot—or that he’d obey her.”
“I should have guessed.” He knew Sarah. Had mated with her last Gathering. “A male versus a hellhound would set Sarah all a-tingle. She’s a great one to set the males to fighting.”
Emma paled, and her hands tightened in her lap. She was probably re-living her own near-death from a hellhound.
“Best you get moving and do your interviews,” Ben prompted.
“I will, if you’ll eat and stop feeling guilty for something you couldn’t have changed.” She rose and, to his surprise, leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his waist.
And by the Mother’s grace, she gave him the warmest, most comforting hug he’d ever received.
*
SITTING NEXT TO Ben in the second row of Ryder’s SUV, Emma closed her eyes, wishing the day was over. Behind them in the third row, Minette snoozed quietly. As he drove, Ryder talked with his brother about their construction projects. His dark, smoky voice was somehow comforting, maybe because he was her friend now.
Friend had to be one of the most beautiful words in the language. And how funny was it she’d thought he hadn’t liked her, and it turned out he just didn’t trust her gender? Maybe she’d learn not to make assumptions.
Poor Minette, having a mother who wasn’t nice. Oh, Emma understood how devastating it felt not to be wanted. As long as Emma was at Ben’s, Minette would receive all the love the cub could handle.
The vehicle went over a bump, and Emma gritted her teeth as her brace scraped over her leg. Her muscles already ached with exhaustion from all the walking she’d done earlier. Even worse, she itched from the metal in the stupid vehicle. Descended from the Fae who couldn’t tolerate iron, the Daonain tended to avoid cities and…hated cars.
In fact, right now, she felt grumpier than a burrowless gnome.
Ben’s nearness didn’t help. His shoulders were so wide, he brushed against her with every sway of the car. His arm was firm and warm, and she took a calming breath.
It didn’t help. The air carried his rich masculine scent, which today lacked the usual accents of wood and leather. He hadn’t been around his tools and wood, and the thought was distressing.
Reminded of his wound, she leaned forward to ensure his shoulder wasn’t being jostled. No, he’d adjusted the shoulder strap to one side, and his white shirt was unstained.
As she sat back, his dark blue gaze caught hers. “Am I all right, oh, healer?” The laughter had returned to his voice.
He really was going to be all right. As her worries unknotted, her smile came unbidden. “Everything looks good.”
“Did I thank you for caring for me last night?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t do anything. Not like the healer. I just held your hand.”
“Ah, darlin’, you did far more. Having you there gave me a reason to fight the pain, to fight against dying.”
The knowledge she’d helped him warmed her faster than any fire—but his terrifying words struck deep. “Don’t die,” she whispered.
The sun lines beside his eyes creased, and he shifted to put his arm around her shoulder and pull her against his powerful frame.
She gasped in surprise, but the sense of safety kept her from moving. He was so big, so strong.
During the Gathering, she’d been held by males. But…this…this was a different kind of being held. There was a sense of tenderness and comfort shared. Something she’d never experienced…ever. With a slow breath, she closed her eyes and snuggled closer, and he made a rumbling sound of satisfaction.
He’d come so very close to returning to the Mother. The thought of a world without this big grizzly just wasn’t to be borne.
And the healer had hurt him so badly. Each time Donal had delved deeper into the wound, she could have sworn she felt each pain as if the healer was torturing her instead. Each of Ben’s moans had sent a lance straight into her heart.
Yes, her heart. Because with each day in his presence, she’d fallen for him more. His big laugh, his rumbling voice, his gentleness with her and Minette, even his easy affection with his brother.
By the Mother, she loved him.
Love. How many songs had been written about the emotion? Now she knew why. The feeling was overwhelming, spilling into the hollows in her soul and filling them with a golden warmth.
At the same time, caring that much…hurt…because, by the Goddess, she had no future here. In her favorite songs and tales, love was the reward for being courageous—and the good shifter female would win her mates in the end. But Emma wasn’t a good shifter female. Rather than saving others, she’d caused their deaths.
Love wouldn’t be her reward in the end. Ben would turn away from her if he knew what she’d done.
No, she must simply cherish the friendship he offered and not yearn for more.
Moving a few inches away from him, she set aside regrets and turned her thoughts to what was to come.
The Return to the Mother Rites of Passage.
She was ready. Mostly. All day, despite the growing pain in her leg, she’d searched out shifters who’d known the young cahir. She’d heard what had happened du
If she’d known more at her own first Gathering, surely she’d have been better able to prevent problems. All day, she’d been reminded of Andre and Gary’s deaths.
Beside her, Ben scratched his back against the seat and winced at the pull on his wounded shoulder.
Pulled from her moody thoughts, Emma narrowed her eyes at him. “Stop scratching.”
He picked up her hand as he murmured, “You’re damned cute when you get bossy.”
“What?”
“Thank you for worrying about me, darlin’.” He lifted her hand, kissed it, and started nibbling on her fingers, sending shivery sensations up her arm to her…surely not her heart.
“I hate cars.” Ben’s lips curved up, and from the front seat, Minette turned to look, and he winked at her.
Ryder, who was driving, shot him an amused glance in the rear view mirror. “This from the shifter who owns so many cranes and trucks that the cub was impressed?”
“Now you know why I keep humans on the crews. So they can drive the damn things.” Ben pointed. “The turn is here on the right.”
Ryder turned, drove down the small forest road past shifters walking on the side, and pulled into a grassy area carved out of the woods. He parked at the end with several other vehicles. “Looks like you two wimps aren’t the only cripples.”
“Bite me,” Ben grumbled.
Laughing, Ryder opened Emma’s door.
She stared, then slid out—and almost fell when Ryder assisted her with a hand under her arm.
“Easy, pretty bear. We’re friends now, right?”
She couldn’t think of anything she’d like better than to have him as a friend. “Yes,” she whispered and watched his slow smile appear.
“Good.”
When he touched her cheek with gentle fingertips, she realized he still made her uneasy, but in a way that made her aware of his size, his graceful strength, his dark voice. Looking up into his intense black eyes, she felt a quiver start deep in her core.
As he pulled the seat forward to get his daughter from the third row seat, Emma frowned. His apology last night had come as a surprise, but after hearing about Minette’s mother, she understood his wariness. If the mother was the reason Minette was so quiet around people and flinched when someone moved too fast, well, the female must be simply vile.
Ryder had learned females were untrustworthy. As his friend, she’d do her best to teach him the opposite.
He set Minette beside her, then walked around the SUV to open Ben’s door.
The bear shifter edged out of the car, carefully not bumping his oversized shoulders against the doorframe. He straightened with a sigh of relief. “I could have walked, dammit.”
Emma smiled in sympathy. The grizzly didn’t deal well with being an invalid. No one did, but Ben was so physical, he took being incapacitated worse than most. “Grumbly old bear.”
He huffed at her.
Ryder grinned as he retrieved their food from the front seat.
With Ryder carrying their food offering, Emma held Minette’s hand and walked between the two brothers toward the side of the clearing where people milled around the food. Wide boards on sawhorses had been covered with colorful tablecloths to provide tables for an enormous amount of food.
“Hey, Ryder. Ben.” A grizzled shifter stood with several other males. “I saw what the hellhound did to Sarah’s crappy door. We have some questions about reinforcing doors.”
Ryder and Ben stopped.
“I’ll take the casserole to the tables,” Emma said.
“Thanks, Emma.” Ryder handed it over and picked up his daughter.
With the heavy dish in one hand, using her cane with the other, she made her way over to the tables.
“Emma, what have you got there?” Obviously in charge of the food, Angie smiled and held her hand out.
“Some kind of casserole. Ryder made it this morning.”
Angie blinked with obvious surprise. Males often learned to cook, but females always prepared the important meals.
“I-I don’t cook,” Emma said, her voice almost inaudible.
Angie snorted. “No need to act like you slaughtered a pixie. There’s no law against avoiding the kitchen.”
“I don’t—I mean I wouldn’t.” It hurt to admit she was so incompetent at the basic life skills. “I just don’t know how to cook.”
“Oh. Hmm. I’ve got to say, I appreciate Calum’s dictate that all shifters—male and female—should be taught to cook. But the decree is only enforced in our territory.” Angie regarded her. “Would you want to learn?”
“Oh yes! I really, really would.” If she could, she’d have leaped and bounded like a spring foal. And wouldn’t a bear look stupid imitating a horse?
“Easy enough. Anytime you’re eager for a lesson, come to the diner. I enjoy having help, and you’ll learn to make whatever is on the menu for the day.” Angie removed the cover of the casserole and inhaled. “A venison and cheesy noodle casserole. Very nice. I’d think either of those brothers could teach you.”
“Ryder taught me to make breakfast. But he’s overseeing all the construction work while Ben recovers.” She grinned. “And if I asked Ben to teach me, he’d try to do everything himself so I wouldn’t get tired.”
“You know him well.” The soft voice behind her made Emma turn so quickly she almost lost her balance.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The female was short and fair-skinned. Her golden hair held streaks ranging from platinum to light brown. Her blue eyes held a smile. “I’m Bree.”
“Emma.”
“I was with the pack and heard what you said.” Bree nodded to the left at a group of females. Shifters. Of course, they’d heard her conversation with Angie. Unfortunately, Emma could hear their whispers in turn.
“Gawky bear can’t even cook,” a slender female with red-brown hair whispered to the other.
“Probably too busy singing instead of being a female.” The brunette smirked. “After all, what male would have her?”
Emma’s stomach tightened at the familiar sensation of being reviled.
To her surprise, Bree set her hands on her hips and gave the females a…look.
The two females went silent.
“Emma?” Just past the pack, Ben stood with several males. He was watching her, his thick brows drawn together. Worrying about her.
Pushing her unhappiness away, she offered him an easy wave and saw his shoulders relax. His eyes crinkled and his gaze stayed on her, a long look that turned warm and warmer, and awakened slow flutters low in her belly. The world around her faded until all she could see was the intense blue of his eyes and the hunger simmering there.
“Ben, it’s good to see you.” The shrill voice broke their link. Three of the pack females had walked over to Ben, surrounding him and offering commiserating pats over his wounded shoulder and offers to help do…anything…he might need.
Emma turned away.
They were all smaller. Prettier. Thinner. He probably preferred fragile females. She watched him smile down at them, all big cahir male. Easy-going. Strong. Brave. Caring.
Her hands closed into fists.
What if he brought one of them home? The taste was bitter in her mouth. It wasn’t her home, after all. Ryder would probably be delighted to share a female with his littermate.
As the female with red-brown hair stroked Ben’s muscular arm, a worm of jealousy ate holes in Emma’s heart. Jealousy? How in the world could she be jealous?
Was this what came with love? No…
Yet, every time she looked at the females around Ben, she wanted to…to pull their hair. Drag them away. Knock them deep into the forest. A low growl escaped her.
“Hey,” Bree said softly. “It’s just the typical fluttering of females around unmated cahirs. Nothing meaningful.”
“It’s not—he’s not mine. Or interested.
“Uh-huh.” Bree’s blue eyes were sympathetic. “Anyway, I heard you and Angie talking. I make all the diner’s desserts, so when you want to learn to make treats for your guys, you come to me.”
“Really?” Emma whispered, stunned into incoherence; Bree’s words offered lessons, but her smile offered friendship. “Thank you.” She turned to Angie as well. “Thank you both. I’d love any lessons you have time for.”
“Awesome. Angie and I both enjoy company when we’re cooking.”
“Hey, Emma.” Vicki, the black-haired female mated to Alec and Calum, approached.
Watching her, Emma sniffed the air.
Vicki frowned. “What? Did I forget deodorant?”
“Sorry. It’s just…your posture looks like you’re ready for battle, only you don’t smell angry or afraid.”
“The bard is pretty observant.” Bree pointed her finger at Vicki and laughed. At Emma’s confused stare, she added, “Vicki was in the military—a soldier.”
“A Marine. Not a soldier,” Vicki muttered.
“But no Daonain joins the army,” Emma protested. The metal alone would make them ill.
“Not the fucking army.” Vicki was interrupted by Angie’s laugh.
“She was born human. She received the Death Gift and wound up being a werecat,” Angie explained.
“Really.” Oh…wonderful. Such a transformation would—should—be a story. It was a tale crying out to be told. Maybe even turned into a song. “Can I talk to you about it sometime?”
“Now there’s a light I haven’t seen in an eon or two.” The voice was rougher than a gravel avalanche. An old shifter, face scarred from numerous fights, approached.
“Emma, this is Joe Thorson. He owns the town’s bookstore.” Vicki rubbed her shoulder against the male’s in a friendly feline greeting. “What light, Joe?”
“The shining curiosity of a bard who’s caught the scent of a new story. I’ve missed seeing that.” The shifter gave her a respectful nod. “We’re pleased to have you in Cold Creek, bard. Songs and stories are the strongest fibers in the tapestry of life—without them, the strands holding us together start to fray.”
His gruff welcome made her eyes sting. Unable to speak, she bowed her head in acknowledgement.