“I wouldn’t ask you to believe it without proof. Robbie had to shift in front of me before I would believe him.” Marge held out her right hand. “These are my memory lines.”
Over the previous months, and in her role as therapist, there were things that Marge had asked Lexi to do, and Lexi had done them. This shouldn’t be any different. Just something Marge insisted upon. For her own good. Which was why Lexi tried to ignore the erratic beating of her pulse that was strangling her. But as she studied the woman’s right wrist and forefinger, she could see the amber lines. They were so delicate they looked translucent, curling and exotic. That was the word. Exotic. Like the temporary henna tattoos in the Hindu culture. Mehndi lines, used to celebrate auspicious occasions.
“They’re the traces of memory from each past life that I remember,” Marge said. “You have marks of your own.”
The breeze danced through the tips of the grass, scattering the seeds. The edge of the white tablecloth fluttered, and time paused until Lexi gathered the courage to look at her hand. A faint gold line had unfurled beneath her skin.
Her gaze drifted over Marge, then Robbie, noting the casual strength in his body. Odd, she thought, that he looked closer to Marge’s age. She glanced at Arsen, mid-thirties, she decided. Relaxed, friendly, but the red Hawaiian shirt did nothing to conceal the power in his frame.
She looked at Christan. He brought Marge’s story to life with such intensity she closed her eyes. This man who could so easily put her on the ground, who stripped her raw with a single glance. Lexi could almost see the immortal in him. Ancient energy abraded her skin. Physical awareness tightened the muscles in her throat, made her pulse race. He held the darkness in her dreams while every whispered voice imprinted in the landscape was screaming with warnings.
The woman clapped her hands, and said, “So, who’s up for proof?”
Everyone sat frozen. Christan hadn’t moved since that brief tensing of muscle, a readiness that was almost primal. After a long beat, Arsen got to his feet, resignation on his face, and it was impossible, now, not to watch as Arsen stalked toward Christan. Not to notice the sleek way he moved, the way all of them moved, as if they were more predator than human.
Arsen stood beside Christan, having one of those silent bro conversations before turning in her direction. A beat, then another, and heat waves obscured his entire form.
“Oh. My. God.” When the vibrations faded from the air, one of the largest predators Lexi had ever seen stood in Arsen’s place. A thick pelt in a pattern of yellow and brown covered a massive frame. Lips pulled back over prehistoric fangs. Arsen was majestic.
Lexi pressed an open palm against her chest. “That’s—Arsen?”
Robbie took pity on her and answered. “Shape-shifting is the easiest way to describe it. We’re able to change into any animal large enough to be comfortable. But after a few hours, we’ll shift back into our human forms, which can be awkward, if you happen to be flying in the air.”
“Can all immortals shift like that?”
“Only warriors shift,” Robbie said. “It’s as natural for us as changing clothes is for you.”
“Yeah, about the clothes.” Lexi tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Arsen’s not going to come back naked, is he?”
“No.” Robbie was grinning, and she didn’t mind his amusement. “The alchemy views clothes the same way it views an animal’s pelt, so when we shift into an animal, we wear the pelt, and when we switch back, we’re wearing clothes. Weapons such as knives seem to fit within the magic’s rules. They make it through the shift and back. But not modern electronic items. The magic rejects them—they come back in pieces, so we don’t rely on guns if we think we’ll need to shift. It’s hard on watches and cell phones, too.”
Lexi leaned forward, curious, now. “And are you still you, thinking in the animal form? Or do you become the animal?”
“A little of both with some. With me, I’m always in control.”
“Do you drink blood?” It was the sort of question that came out despite all efforts to prevent it.
Robbie laughed, pure delight. Then his expression gentled, and he settled a hand over hers. It was a warm contact.
“No, Lexi. We’re almost as human as you are.”
Lexi filed the almost human part in the to-be-discussed-later folder and stared at Arsen. The predator stalked, the grass shifting beneath massive paws. The tail swished with concentrated intent. She stiffened. He grinned with his lion grin. When he reached her side, Lexi was gripping the seat of her chair. Wildness moved. A long pink tongue rasped against her cheek, the caress hot, moist, drifting across her skin. Her eyes fluttered closed, and Marge cleared her throat.
“Not him, dear,” she murmured from behind the glass of wine.
Lexi barely registered the words, but by the time the implication settled, Arsen had changed into a tabby cat. With a rumble deep in the chest, he embedded sharp claws into her jeans, high on her inner thighs. Then he looked back at Christan.
A low vibration filled the air, sank into the ground. As the energy rolled in Lexi’s direction, Arsen turned into a large red-tailed hawk and flew up into the rocks. Marge’s lips twitched.
“Oh dear.” Over her shoulder, Marge added, “He meant no harm.” Robbie rose, brushed a kiss against Marge’s cheek, and walked toward Christan while Marge patted Lexi’s frozen hand. “Drink your wine, Lexi, it’s medicinal.”
“I may need more than wine.”
“Nonsense. It’s exhilarating once you get past the shock.” Lexi choked when she saw the look in her friend’s eyes. “Besides, I’ve hated keeping secrets from you. That’s why we’re here. For privacy in case you required proof.”
Which made the isolation less offensive—Lexi could almost forgive them for it. Almost. She looked up into the clear sky. “Is this place safe?”
“They have a drone up there,” Marge said. “With a camera that sends images to Christan’s phone.”
Lexi looked at the two men standing in the distance, the older one easy in his stance, the other pure male. “Robbie is your—”
“Lover? Mate?” Marge smiled. “Yes. A warrior just like Christan and Arsen.”
“He looks older than they do.”
“An accommodation to my vanity. I once told him I was uncomfortable with our age difference and he changed his physical appearance to keep it closer to mine.”
Another secret Lexi hadn’t realized, that Marge was insecure when it came to love. Lexi touched her friend’s hand. “You deserve to be loved, Marge. He seems perfect for you.”
“Now that he doesn’t look thirty,” Marge agreed. “They don’t age unless they want to.”
Lexi looked toward Christan, unable to stop herself, watched the way sunlight disappeared in the midnight depths of his hair. Awareness pounded through her, the kind a woman felt beneath her skin. Hard. Alarming. She’d need to walk far, far around him, this man with dark intensity in his eyes. Far around, indeed.
“So Christan is what—a boss or something?”
“Or something.” Marge relaxed in the bistro chair. “No one has seen Christan in four hundred years.”
“That seems excessive.”
“He was in the Void.” The older woman lifted her shoulders, pushed the hair from her face. “It’s a place between matter and space.”
“But four hundred years?” It was more than excessive. It was extreme, reminding Lexi of what immortal meant when it came to time.
“But it’s curious that he’s back now.”
“Curious isn’t a word I would use.”
“Fascinating, then. Warriors have both telekinetic and telepathic abilities. Maybe you’ve noticed the way they seem to be holding mental conversations? They are. And the telekinetic ability—that’s how Christan put you on the ground and kept you there. He can be annoying at times.”