#were creatures

Taking a break from his studies, Belah Gaat looked around the palatial quarters that were reserved for Sol-fae royalty and let out a contented sigh. They knew how to look after important people here. Silk was in abundance, the furnishings were lavish and the attendants were exceedingly good at their jobs. “I could get used to this,” he half smiled to himself. If not for the proverbial flies in the ointment, he would have been a very happy man. 

One fly- Queen A’aumi- was in the next room. It was a fine art to keep someone so powerful so close to death but without killing her, but he was very confident in his skills. There had been some problems with the healers initially, but Q’aumok had a silver tongue and was able to convince the court to allow him to bring in ‘a specialist with these maladies’ -himself- to tend to her.

Another fly- the binding placed on him- well, that one he’d have to learn to live with. Getting to take revenge on A’aumi had gone a long way to salve this particular wound, and finally mastering his brother’s gateway magic would make it tolerable. He was so close he could almost taste it! It was the way of thinking that was stymying him, but as soon as he got his head around the concepts he could start to construct his own place between places and use it to go anywhere he wished. 

He heard the door to the apartment open and the murmurs of the servants as they greeted Q’aumok. “Ah, with any luck, one or two more flies may now be crushed.” There was no way the Tracys could stay holed up in their fortress for much longer, they’d have to come sallying forth soon, their very natures demanded it. “How did you fare?” he asked.  

“Unfortunately my quarry had fled before I arrived.” Q’aumok tossed his travelling cloak aside and threw himself into a chair with the air of a sulky, spoiled child denied their favourite treat. 

“Which, from what I’ve seen of him, would be very apt. He likes killing and causing pain.” Belah mused. “No matter. I should have this last book conquered in the next couple of days, then I can make the doorways a few days after that. Then,” he smiled slowly, “you can kill them all at your leisure.” 

“Oh yes, slowly and with due attention to every detail. I have a great many debts to settle with the Tracy and Kyrano families.” Q’uamok smile was chilling, all teeth and malice. “Return to your work, my ally, I’ll advise the court that our ‘beloved queen’ is unchanged and to continue to allow her to ‘rest and recover’ under your ‘care’.” 

0o0o0 

His final translocation completed, Alan took a moment to catch his breath, eat a bar of chocolate from his bag and gulp down some electrolytes. The hillside he was on was dusty and dry, the sky above a harsh, hard blue very different to the skies over the farm or the Island. The air smelled different too- mostly because of the different plants, but when the breeze kicked up and carried over the smell of the sea, it seemed to be more iodine than salt for some reason. 

Overall there was a weight to the area, the product of century upon century of civilization and the resulting accumulation of uncountable layers upon layers upon layers of the intangible something that humans always left behind them. Alan couldn’t help the cold shiver that crawled down his spine in spite of the heat of the day. Things had been done here, stuff had been spoken into existence, and words and powers invoked. They were all very old, and he wasn’t sure yet if he liked them or not. 

Tidying up his things, Alan shouldered his pack and set off in the direction his intuition told him to go- further uphill, to a spot just below the ridgeline. It looked like more dry hillside covered in straggly bushes and dotted here and there by boulders and what might have been part of a wall, but Alan could feel the compulsion embedded into the earth to turn and avoid this one specific spot. It would have worked on humans and weres, but not him. Alan shrugged it off and instead dropped the illusion that concealed his heritage, letting his power unfurl to bleach the colour out of his skin and give his eyes an unearthly glow. The wards laid down by his ancestors recognised his pedigree and let him pass through the gap between two weathered stones that served as the anchors for the portal into the hidden fortress of the Lunar fae. 

A wide passageway had been chiselled out of the rock, leading deep into the hillside. Broad shafts of light from other concealed portals illuminated both it and the vast cave that held the solidly built fortress- three horseshoes of buildings and crenellated walls around a five story T-shaped keep backed against the far wall of the cavern, all cut from polished blocks of black granite threaded with white quartz. 

He could see a patrol approaching- a squad of four in blue uniforms with spears over their shoulders and long oval shields in hand- so Alan translocated again, picking a likely-looking vantage point- a projecting bit of rock halfway up the main cave wall that he was only able to stay on thanks to his small size and his gecko gloves. From there he had the perfect lookout into the fortress to plan his route inside. 

“Okay… limited entry and egress points, gotta watch out for guards and defences, and hope like heck Tuathal’s still home. Heh, this is just like the Dungeon of Fire level in Cavern Quest.”  He used the binocular function built into his helmet for a better look as he plotted his options. “They’ve got to have some sort of anti-translocation thing at the walls, it’d be stupid not to, especially with the traitor there.” Alan frowned as he checked the distance between him and the walls. “Okay… I’m just in range for a zip line to the second wall, then I can use a grapple line onto the keep… wait a sec…” A patch of moving colour in the gardens behind the keep caught his attention. It stretched the capabilities of the zoom, but he spotted what looked like some sort of garden party going on, with colourful banners, marquees and gazebos and two people seated on thrones, one more ornate than the other. 

“Bingo. Zip line, grapple and swing in. If they get unhappy, one grapple will get me out, then I can translocate my way outta here and get home.” Alan grinned as he readied his equipment. Sure, a Tarzan-swing in was dramatic, but he needed to get their attention anyway. Drawing the concealing veil over his true self once again, the one that Mom had wrought to hide his true nature, Alan carefully aimed the zip line and fired.

The tingle as he crossed the first wall told him his thought about some sort of barrier had been right, then just before the sentries got over their surprise at spotting him, he’d switched to the grapple, swung over to the party and made a perfect three point landing in the open area before the two thrones.

He rose from his crouch and took off his helmet as he did so, flashing his best devil-may-care grin at the assorted notables. “Hi! I’m a messenger from the Tracy family," Alan gave a somewhat truncated version of the usual greeting, wanting to keep his identity at least partially under wraps. He ignored the gasps of alarm and cries of confusion and pointed to Tuathal, seated on the lesser of the two thrones. "I’m here to see him.” 

“How did you find this place?” His voice booming over the noise, an older male fae- going by the ornate gold crown he was his biological grandsire- stood up from the fancier throne, his face a thundercloud..

“I’m a rescue specialist, my job is finding people and places.” Alan gave an artfully careless shrug. “My foster mother was descended from Those Without Names and some of it rubbed off on me. When I really, really want to, I find whoever I want to find, wherever they are, and I wanted to find him.” He pointed to Tuathal again. 

Name-dropping Mom’s ancestors seemed to replace the king’s ire with an emotion that Alan just couldn’t identify beyond ‘wary’ and a gesture from him had the approaching guards backing off. 

Before the king could speak again, Tuathal rested his hand on his father’s forearm. “Father, permit me, the herald has come for me after all.” At the king’s nod, he looked to Alan. “Why did you seek me out?” Tuathal asked as he rose from his place at the king’s right hand, his worry clear. 

“We thought you’d want to know something.” Alan’s face hardened. “Q’aumok of the Sol fae is loose again. He’s made Queen A’aumi deathly ill and now he’s after the Tracy family. He’s already attacked the eldest son.” 

There were some significant- and frightened- looks exchanged between the various members of the group, then Tuathal spoke again, his face grave. “I thank you for this knowledge. Q’aumok is a known warmonger, we will need to prepare our defences. But I must ask this- have both of Queen A’aumi’s boons been used?” 

“No, the last one’s turned black, that's how we found out about the queen being in trouble in the first place.” Alan shook his head, surprised by the question. “Why?” 

That got a titter of fear rippling through the group and it took a moment for Tuathal to calm everyone before he could continue speaking. 

“It means that the wergeld has not been fully paid and the blood debt can be re-invoked.” Tuathal explained, his face the colour of ashes. “And not just by Jefferson Tracy or Tanusha Kyrano. While they had the first and most important claims, the breaking of the agreement and the continued existence of Q’aumok means that the blood debt can be invoked by the one next in importance- the Unnamed One who mated with a human and was ancestor to Lucille Tracy. Should they become aware of this, it could spark a war between the fae tribes, and the last fae war that they were involved in almost sundered the world. We will aid where we can, but Q’aumok must be stopped before they act.” He turned and looked at his father, a question in his eyes, got a slight nod, then turned back to Alan. “May I speak with you in private?” 

“...okay.” Alan was wary, John had told him about what Tuathal had tried to pull, and he was the guy’s kid as well, so he was in line too, but he had tricks up his sleeve and an iron pendant under his uniform, so he felt pretty safe. 

“This way.” Tuathal gestured for him to follow, leading him down a cobbled path between the gazebos, over a decorated wooden bridge and to a little island in the middle of an artificial lake. It was a pleasant spot- soft grass shaded by birch trees with little patches of bluebells here and there. Alan couldn’t help but look around and see the similarities between here and where John had appeared back at the farm. 

“Yes, the locations are very similar.” Tuathal had clearly picked up his train of thought. “This was Saraid’s favourite place.” He looked about, wistful, then squared his shoulders and got to business. “Thank you for not announcing your full parentage before the assembled court.” Tuathal began, “I still haven’t found the sympathiser. You must be more careful, A’amun, you know that Q’aumok is hunting you and you’ve left the protection of your home, you must return as quickly as you can, before he detects that you are out in the world. But first, please, the full details of what he did to your brother.”

Alan quickly explained Q’aumok’s alliance with The Hood and how he’d somehow gotten access to the royal power of command. “I don’t get it though, why’s he after me? Why doesn’t he just kill A’aumi and take the throne?” Alan asked.

“He cannot. You are her son,” Tuathal began. “If she were dead, as her rightful heir, the marks of her authority would pass to you and it would be clear to all with the eyes to see it. He would not be able to lead the Sol tribes without those marks and the power within them.” He frowned in thought and paced. “She must be within a hair of death for her boon to blacken. Q’aumok is still a coward at heart, so it’s probably poison, he doesn’t have the courage to face his equals in combat. I wager his plan was to first get her out of the way, then kill you and only after that he’d finish her off so the marks would pass to him as the next available blood-kin. If he killed her first, it would have made you too powerful to confront directly.”       

Alan blinked, that wasn’t in any of the books or lore they’d found. “So, if what he did to Scott doesn’t draw me out like he planned, the odds of him coming to the Island are high?” he asked. 

“It is guaranteed.” Tuathal was solemn. A grimace crossed his face, then he shook his head in frustration. “My son, I want to protect you and Tadc, but…” 

“The traitor?” Alan guessed. 

“Yes. Q’aumok is sure to have told them to be on the lookout for you.” Tuathal’s hands flexed as if he wanted to grab a weapon. “If you stay, he will kill you. If I bring forces to your island, the traitor and any allies are bound to be amongst them.”

“Then why don’t I stay?” Alan asked, his mind racing ahead. “I can give you a projector with some images of me, you go back to the court and tell them that I’m your heir and I’m staying here for protection. You can then use the projector to set a trap.” 

“Yes… that might just work.” Tuathal’s eyes lit up. “We are not accustomed to human technology, they will not think to check for such a thing. I wish I could have thought of this myself.” 

“Eh, I watch movies and play video games, trust me, it’s a thing.” Alan grinned. He fished the decoy projector out of his bag, a concept that they’d borrowed from Havoc, quickly taught Tuathal how to select one of the basic poses and handed it over. 

“I shall get you back to the surface.” Tuathal promised, hefting the disk-shaped projector. “In return for this, I will also research what I can do to help your brother. We do not have much on weres, but I will send you anything I do find.” 

Still in his space suit, Jeff bolted from the concealed lift and sprinted across the lounge at a speed that belied his age. The warm sunshine pouring into the room did absolutely nothing to melt the cold pit of fear in his belly that had been steadily growing ever since the first message from home.

"How long?" Jeff demanded, coming to a halt at the desk and looking at three of his boys for the answer. Gordon was behind the desk and working the holograms while John and Alan were seated cross-legged and back to back beside the desk, the half brothers wearing identical expressions of intense concentration. The power of them working together and reaching across the familial link was physically palpable, a pulling sensation going north west. 

"As of now…" Gordon checked the time on the comms sphere over the desk "...six hours, thirty five minutes." 

"Any sign of him?" Jeff asked, raising his voice so the desk microphone would pick it up. 

"No, nothing. Virgil’s got the scent, but it's weak." Tanusha reported, her voice tight with worry. 

Jeff opened his mouth to respond, but the sharp cry of distress from Alan cut through his train of thought. 

"NO!" The younger fae's eyes flew open and he shot to his feet, only to go grey from the sudden movement, stagger and crumple in a faint. 

"Alan!" Jeff caught him just before he could hit the floor, while Gordon vaulted the desk and caught John as the older fae slumped backwards, limbs limp and eyes looking unseeing towards the glass ceiling as he gasped for breath. 

"Thunderbird Five, report!" Jeff barked out the words even as he fished the medical scanner from his baldric and checked Alan over- to his relief the youngest was just low on blood sugar by the looks of things and he tapped his bracer to send a message to Brains to bring up the medkit.

"I…I  lost him!" John's voice was weak and it cracked with the power of his despair. "Dad…I… I couldn't hold him… Scott… he's…he’s gone…" 

“No… not my boy…” Jeff shook himself, forcefully wrenching himself out of the blossoming grief. “It’s not over until we say it’s over.” He forced every ounce of determination he could scrape together into the words. “Tanusha, Virgil, keep looking. Gordon, is John okay?” 

“He’ll be okay, he just exhausted himself.” Gordon reported after a moment’s quick checking. He held the second eldest across his lap, cradling him close. 

“Good.” Jeff shifted to sit on the floor, Alan in his arms. “Thunderbird Five, full report, what happened?” 

John slowly blinked once, twice, and swallowed hard, visibly forcing himself to focus. “There…” he stopped and took a breath, cleared his throat and tried again, “there was a distress call, when you were still seven hours out.” 

Jeff nodded encouragingly, ignoring the desire to curse himself for taking Thunderbird Three to Mars to help out Lee with a problem at the colony. Maybe, the irrational part of him said, if he’d stayed home it wouldn’t have happened, or he might have been able to do something about it. Logic told him that that was untrue, but he couldn’t help but think of those possibilities. 

“It was a lost climber, El Capitan, and the weather was closing in.” John was all Thunderbird Five as he spoke, reciting the facts as clinically as he could. “Thunderbird One responded. He reported locating the climber, then his signal vanished.” John reached up with a shaking hand to rub his eyes, clearly trying to fend off a migraine. “He managed to communicate a warning across the familial link but it was chaotic, unfocused.” 

“What was the warning?” 

“‘Fae’ and ‘danger’. I couldn’t tell if the danger was from fae or to fae or to us,” John indicated himself and Alan, “it wasn’t clear, but I do know he was thinking of us as a part of it. Then…” John swallowed hard, “fear. Pure fear, like nothing I’ve ever sensed from him before, and he went bird to try to escape it. I translocated here as soon as Scott sent the warning, he was too far away for me to go directly to him.” 

“We sent Virgil and Tanusha to Scott’s last known location when John passed on the warning,” Gordon spoke up. “John and Alan wanted to go too, but Squid Sense said no, very, very no.” 

“I tried to get through to him across the link, but then the fear…” John shuddered at the memory, pale. “I sensed him starting to slip away, the wildness taking over. Alan and I tried to hold him but…” John looked at his hands, long fingers curling at the memory of losing that ephemeral grip. “I lost him…” Guilt made the words come out in a whisper and he turned away, leaning his head into Gordon’s chest. 

“John,” Jeff reached out and put his hand on John’s cheek, making him turn his head back and look at him. “You did something that Lucy’s books said couldn’t be done, you held him for as long as you could.” 

“...if you say so.” 

“I do say so.” Jeff refused to entertain any alternative. “Once Virgil and Tanusha find him, we’re going out there and bringing Scott back, then we’re finding out who the hell is behind all this.”

“But…fixing it… how?” John demanded, looking between them. “A were lost to their wildness… they don’t come back.” 

“What about the queen’s boon?” Gordon asked. 

“That might do it!” His arms still full with the youngest, Jeff nodded to the desk. “Bottom drawer, right at the back, black wooden box.” 

“John?” Gordon looked at the fae. 

“I’m fine, go get it.” John said as he got himself off Gordon’s lap and elected to lie down on the ground for now. 

Gordon frowned at his brother who very clearly wasn’t nearly as fine as he thought he was, but nevertheless he got up and opened the drawer, digging around for a moment before pulling out the ebony box and taking it to Jeff.

Nodding his thanks, Jeff freed up a hand to accept the box, opened it, but frowned as he pulled out the pendant. This wasn’t how he remembered it- the pale wood was blackened like charcoal. “The hell?” 

“Merde!” John swore in French, eyes wide as he sat up and shuffled closer. 

“John, what does that mean?” Jeff looked at his second son.

***

Tom swept into the charming inn and forced himself to smile at the woman behind the desk. He'd spent a miserable six hours on the road, driven through a blizzard, and killed his cellphone when he'd dropped it in an icy puddle two hours prior as he'd filled the car with petrol. But there was no alternate way to get to Salvation, buried deep in the mountains, except to drive. 

And Salvation was where he needed to be. 

His old friend, Henry, was celebrating the birth of his first cub, and Tom dropped everything to come and see the little darling Henry was blessed with. And to meet the woman who'd tamed the giant bear after all this time. Sadly, he'd been unable to attend their wedding, but he refused to miss the welcoming of a new were into the community, whether he belonged to the Salvation clan or not.

That didn't mean he wouldn't give Hen the gears for choosing to live in some backwater nowhere even if it was beautiful here. 

Still, Tom preferred the city for its indulgences and entertainments. No, he couldn't fall on all fours and run through the concrete jungle he called home, but he'd long come to terms with his destiny. It wasn't as if there was a panther out there waiting to run under the moonlight with him. 

He was going to be a lone cat, a bachelor. He'd resigned himself to it, for no matter what anyone said, no one - were or human - had ever submitted wholly to his dark desires and chosen to stay in his possession afterward. They were all far too soft for his liking, ending in no more than a one-and-done.

At least, he could stalk the clubs and play with those unaware of his darkest needs and wants in the city. Tom was not a Dom to be denied, and those who gave in to the allure of his pretty face soon learned all about the devil underneath his Gucci suit.

"Hello, darling," he purred to the desk clerk. "Thomas Loki Hiddleston, checking in. I believe I have a reservation."

She blushed to the roots of her hair, sputtered, and nodded. "Of-of course, sir. If-if you'll sign a few things and put your card on file, I can get you situated on your back- In your room!" she corrected, staring at her hands. 

Tom couldn't hide his smile, but he swallowed his laughter. It was always the same. The sweet little birds flocked to him, but they had no idea a predator was stalking them.

He went through the incidentals, signed her documents, collected his key and listened intently when she told him about the room, breakfast, the restaurant, spa, and pool. His ears perked up at the last. He did enjoy a refreshing swim. 

"And if you fancy something other than regular coffee or black tea, there is The Last Book and Brew just down the street. Ember makes the best scones and tea."

"Does she now?" he murmured, eyeing Irene - her name on a little plaque pinned to her chest - as she handed him back his credit card. "Perhaps I'll check in on it. A cuppa does sound delightful." The drive had been long, and tea might be just the pick-up he needed before calling round to Henry's. 

He nodded to Irene and headed for the stairs instead of the elevator. Three floors were nothing for his long legs, the exertion minimal, as he hiked to the third floor and down to the end where he fit the old-fashioned key into the antique lock and pushed open the door. 

Tom was pleasantly surprised to find a mixture of well-kept antiques and modern furnishings decorating the space. While the bed and mattress were new and covered with clean, white duvet and sheets, the dresser - upon which sat a television - was a heavy mahogany buffet with curved Queen Anne legs. The bathroom was a revolution of modern plumbing though a cast iron tub stood on clawed feet beside a glass shower big enough for two. Gilt framed mirrors hung above dual vanities into which water poured from brushed gold fixtures. 

It was all very romantic with its old-world charm though the inn was showing its age. Wallpaper lifted at the edges, millwork was chipped and rubbed in places, and a few of the lovely old tiles on the floor in the bathroom were cracked. But with the likely age of the building, it wasn't so surprising. If the gorgeous stone building weren't at minimum a century, he would eat his scarf. 

She could be an absolute beauty with effort and enough money. Yes, he would be comfortable here for a time. The Salvation Inn would suit him.

Tom made his way to the windows that looked out on Salvation's main street. The road was a mess of dirty snow, sanded and salted for ease of travel, but the thick white flakes floating down turned the quaint replica gas street lights into white-topped monuments of winter. Storefronts glowed with welcoming light, still running their Autumn displays, creeping toward American Thanksgiving. The commercialization of Christmas had yet to appear, giving everything a cheerful, colourful cast he found pleasing to his senses. 

Cars moved without hurry, mimicking the people coming and going about their business. Everyone was bundled up, but no one seemed to mind the cold and the snow. To be expected, he supposed. They lived in the mountains where snow fell early and lasted late. 

As his gaze traversed the lane, his attention landed on The Last Book and Brew and caused him to tilt his head, intrigued. Unlike the other traditional storefronts with their brick faces and colourful awnings, gold filigree writing on wooden signs, the little bookstore had a distinctly different feel to it. 

The door, window frames, and brickwork that accented the front of the building were painted a shiny, deep black. There was no awning but three stunning lanterns hung above the windows on wrought iron arms, beautifully curved like the elegant lines of a woman's body. A sign in the same black iron hung perpendicular to the door. Shaped like a shield or some family crest, the words The Last Book and Brew glowed crimson outlined in gold, while a raven of the same black iron sat guard, casting judgement on all who entered. Red velvet mounded in the windows, lovingly cradling the displayed books like sacrificial offerings. 

Someone knew what they were doing, for that was the sexiest storefront Tom had ever seen.

Utterly enchanted and desperate to see if the interior matched the exterior, he left his leather valise unpacked on the bed, pocketed his key, and headed for the door.

Irene looked up as he passed her, but Tom paid the clerk little mind. He was on a mission, a hunt now, needing to discover the answer to the mystery of just who this Ember of Last Book and Brew was that she could create with such aplomb a store so alluring. 

There was no wind when he trotted down the inn's exterior stairs and out into the snowfall. Traffic was light, so he crossed mid-street, avoiding puddles and snowbanks in an attempt to keep the Italian leather of his shoes dry while large flakes of falling snow collected in his dark ginger locks. He reached the door and admired the ornate handle before opening the door into another world. 

Tom stepped inside and stared in amazement. He'd never thought a bookstore could be moody, but this one certainly was. The floors were highly polished ebony wood that led into dark railings which spiralled past the sunken first-floor cafe up a short flight of stairs toward the bookstore beyond. 

He admired the cobblestone floor in the cafe, again shiny with polish, sealed he suspected to make cleanup easier. Upon them sat a virtual Mad Hatter's Tea Party of chairs, all shapes and sizes separated by wrought iron tables topped with glass. And though the chairs were unique in shape, they matched for colour, upholstered as they were in the blood-red and black brocade that turned them into a sexy indulgence he prayed were as comfortable as they looked. 

And hung above it all, like a lady's magnificent fascinator, was a chandelier worthy of the name. Clearly electric, it appeared to drip ropes of black jewels and crystals as long as his palm, lit by three dozen candles that flickered with faux flames. It was spectacular.

Beyond, the cafe counter, like a walnut dream, appeared to be a repurposed and rehabbed saloon bar where elegant scrollwork on a pristine chalkboard announced the daily specials. He could see the cakes and pastries in their glass case, and while his stomach rumbled to remind him of the last meal he'd eaten, Tom was too enthralled with the decadence of the store to allow himself to be led by his nose when a small sign at the foot of the stairs requested no food past that point. 

Another small sign asked him to wipe his feet, which he did without thought, before heading up the short but wide curved stairwell to the second floor into the fantasy world of someone's most magnificent mind. 

He felt guided by the hand of a fae as he wound his way through ebony bookcases over hardwood floors, beneath more hanging lanterns and delicate chandeliers. The soft white of all the lights allowed him to read titles and leaf through pages without feeling as if the overhead lights would eventually dry out his eyes or buzz their annoyance through his brain. Every so often, he came upon stands of lightly scented candles, or soaps, or lotions made with all-natural products and tingling with the lightest touch of were-magic, causing Tom to look at the store with deeper senses. 

The corners and cardinal points of the space had crystal wards, he realized, and the soft pulse of benevolent magic left him at ease. Whoever this Ember was, she bid all who came to her sanctuary welcome. 

Even more intrigued than before, Tom found his way toward the counter where voices spoke in hushed tones, intent on finding the owner and congratulating her on the sensual, slightly erotic nature of her store. It left him breathless in a way that was hard for him to come by, and yet even as it pulled at his dark, seductive nature, he knew a family could come into such a place and find it magical, like falling into the rabbit hole of a dark Alice fantasy.

"That's nice, Lorraine, but I don't think Henry would approve of you gossiping about his friend."

Tom stopped in his tracks. Warm brandy and velvet bled over his senses, stroking straight through him to the soul of his cat. The panther purred and preened, wanting the owner of that voice to pet him and whisper words of seduction in his ear. 

"Poppycock! Some big-city fella isn't going to care if we mountain folk talk about him."

Ugh, raven. He'd know that grating tone anywhere.

"Besides, he's some fancy lawyer or something," the raven, Lorraine, continued. "I'm sure he's used to people talking about him."

"It is still impolite."

Tom shivered, eyes half-lidding. He had to roll his head, stretching his neck to keep from sprouting fur. What he wouldn't give for one night with the owner of that voice. 

Never one to hide in the face of scrutiny, Tom glided out from behind the bookshelf and smiled at the two women. "Actually, I run hotels."

The raven eeped and jumped, spinning to face him. She was older than he'd suspected, her dark hair thoroughly saturated with grey though her eyes remained clear brown orbs. The other, oh, the other, he could not help but stare.

Her face was the kind that would make angels weep with sharp, classic features, high cheekbones and a pointed chin like a sweet little fox. Her big eyes widened in surprise, showing off the shocking green, so pale and light they were almost neon when the light caught them. The heavy fall of thick curls that slipped from her shoulder left his mouth dry with the desire to sink his fingers into the mass that started black at the root and faded into tones of silver and dark grey, hinting at patterns like small rosettes. 

A sleek, lithe body lovingly caressed by a sweater of raspberry wool and leggings of black knit glided out from behind the cash desk, her steps silent in small silver ballet flats. "Mr. Hiddleston?"

"Indeed," he purred, accepting her hand when she offered it. He captured it between both of his rather than shaking it as presented and held it lightly. "Thomas Loki Hiddleston, at your service, love. My friends call me Tom."

"Ember Porosha. Welcome to Salvation and The Last Book and Brew." She tilted her head, causing all that lovely hair to slide to the opposite shoulder. "Henry speaks highly of you."

"Mm," he chuckled, adjusting his grip to lightly press his thumb into the palm of her hand as he brought her knuckles to his lips. "Brags, does he?"

"Terribly," she agreed with a smile.

Tom smirked and pressed his lips to her skin. He inhaled and went rigid. That scent, the sweet smell of pine and snow somehow laced with the delicate notes of summer dreams, drowned him, flooding his lungs until he was sure he would never be able to breathe again without breathing in Ember's delectable fragrance. 

She tried to retrieve her hand. Tom growled, low and deep, more a purr than a reprimand, and opened eyes he knew would glow green with his cat. 

"Well, hello, pet," he smiled. "It seems I was wrong." He wasn't destined to be alone after all.

Sharp claws latched into his hands. "I've no desire to start anything with you, true mate or not."

He dropped her hands and brought his to his mouth to catch the blood seeping from the minor wounds. "We will see about that."

She hissed at him. 

Tom threw his head back and laughed before gliding into her personal space and threading his fingers into her hair. "Spit all you like, little kitten. I always get what I want."

"I think it's time you left, Mr. Hiddleston," Ember growled, her hand on his chest to keep him at bay. 

"Tea first," he smirked. "I'm gagging for a cuppa. Haven't had a decent one all day!" He stroked the silvery strands before letting them fall through his fingers. "Is your coat just as soft, Kitten?"

She glared daggers at him. "Leave."

He chuckled but stepped back, practically able to see her tail flick in anger. "Until later then, Ember."

***

He turned on his heels and sauntered away, leaving her seething behind him. How dare he. How dare he! How dare he assume such liberties when they'd only just met. When it was clear he was only passing through and would leave nothing but devastation in his wake.

"How dare he!" she hissed and stormed toward the back of the store to her office to calm down, forgetting Lorraine was still there.

Ember didn't slam the door, knowing he was still in the store, and she'd be damned before she gave him that much power over her. She would not be brought to heel like some… some… Kitten!

She growled a low sound and clenched her fists, determined to get control of herself and that snow leopard rolling like a damn hussy inside her.

She'd smelt him the moment he'd stepped beyond the books—dark spice and leather, mandarin and rosewood, with notes of cinnamon and vanilla. Ember's mouth watered with the desire to taste his skin and see if he tasted as good as he smelled.

"No," she said firmly. Her cat scoffed. "He won't stay here. He's a big city panther, and we will never go back." She was determined to live alone, be alone because she was safer that way.

Salvation was, well, their salvation. When she was most desperate for a new start and a place to hide from her past, Salvation was there with open arms, and an established were community.

Her cat settled down with the reminder and left her alone to pick up the phone.

Ember dialed the number by heart and waited for them to answer. "Hey, Henry, it's Ember. About tonight. Something has come up… I'm… not going to make it."