The Werewolf’s Bride
Shifter Sagas
Book 1
Prologue
It was eerily calm in the woods, even for Desmond, who much preferred to hunt in the peace of night to the harsh light of day. So many more creatures falsely absorbed the safety of the dark, making them much easier marks. It was what he counted on as he crept through the fields, his senses on high alert for signs of movement.
The moon was full, an ethereal halo surrounding the white orb, but Desmond’s blue-grey eyes were not on the sky but in the trees ahead, his snout wiggling. There was certainly someone nearby—he could smell their presence within mere yards but he dared not make his own existence known, not when the element of surprise was his best recourse.
He could not imagine someone foolish enough to trespass on his property when the area was notorious for having claimed lives without a trace. Over half a century, countless wanderers had taken their last known steps in the very place where he walked in that moment. Desmond might have been scared for himself if he was not the one solely responsible for the vanished beings.
Baring his teeth, he padded forward, one paw across the other as though walking a line, for in a manner of speaking, he was. It was a fine line he did dance, the one where man met beast.
A guttural growl escaped his lips and he pounced into the bush where he was instantly bucked backward and sent falling into a bramble bush. Whoever was there had been expecting the attack.
Furious, Desmond reclaimed his footing and jumped back toward his assailant, no longer regarding the trespasser as prey but as a threat who needed to be annihilated.
“Desmond, stop!”
The command came curtly and cut through the still night like a hot knife through butter.
He froze, standing on his hind legs, black tail curling around his massive frame as he tried to identify the voice of the man who had spoken.
“Isaac?” he barked, his voice scratchy and hoarse.
“Of course.”
The man stepped from his hiding place, shaking his head slightly.
“Who else would have the gall to approach these lands at this hour of night?”
Desmond realized the man spoke truly, and he shifted slowly out of his lupine frame into the dashing man of dark hair and broad shoulders who was known to the rest of the town.
“What brings you here, Isaac?” Desmond demanded, scowling with annoyance as the barrister approached, a sallow, yellow pall to his ancient face. “I only just saw you at the house not three hours past.”
“The night being what it is, I imagined this was the soundest place to find you.”
“I would not say that it is sound,” Desmond replied dryly.
“And yet here you are,” Isaac retorted. “Despite the dangers you know you face if you should be caught.”
Desmond knew the barrister’s concerns were strictly superficial and he rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“Isaac, I have not once been discovered, not here in the Americas nor in the old world. I assure you, my secret is safe from the mortals. Why must you always react with such sourness?”
“It is my duty to keep you, Desmond, a task which you insist on making difficult. If I did not know better, I would swear you purposely antagonize me!”
“I do not need keeping!” Desmond snarled defensively. “You may tell my father as much.”
“I am obviously here on behalf of your father,” Isaac sighed, cutting to the point at last. “He worries about the rumors surrounding your lands.”
“What does he know of them?” Desmond cried in protest. “He is a world away, removed from all civilization in his castle. I cannot begin to guess what the townsfolk say regarding him and the slew of men he has living alongside him.”
Isaac eyed him, his ire evident.
“I know you are not daft, Desmond,” the man grumbled. “Clearly, your father knows all.”
Clearly, Desmond thought furiously.
“What of the rumors?” he asked. “They are merely that—silly superstitions with no merit.”
“No merit? Desmond, you have slaughtered every soul who has passed through your lands in the recent past. The villagers remain convinced a monster resides in the woods…”
Isaac stopped speaking but Desmond sensed that more was about to spring from his lips.
“The villagers are simple,” Desmond told him. “This is hardly a matter with which Father needs to concern himself.”
“Desmond, if it were merely chatter, it would not be an issue, but there is more.”
“More? More what?”
“There has been talk that you are responsible for the missing men.”
A small shudder coursed through Desmond’s solid form.
“I have heard no such thing,” he replied angrily, certain that Isaac made matters worse than they were. “And if they had any such proof, I would have been visited by the NYPD, would I not?”
“You would not have heard about any such matters, would you? It is not as though you would be told blatantly that the townsfolk believe you to be a murderer.”
Desmond’s mouth parted in shock but no words were emitted. It was not the discussion he had expected on a night of hunting.
“You must not be surprised, Desmond,” Isaac continued. “You are a single man, reclusive, even if you are not without your charms. It was only a matter of time before the blathering began and now it is upon us.”
“For those reasons, I must be a killer?” he asked indignantly, even though he knew their fears were true.
“If it is any consolation, they initially believed you to be a dandy.”
“You think I would rather be regarded as a murderer than a fop?” Desmond asked incredulously although he could not be certain which ones the villagers considered worse.
“You are a killer and you cannot afford to be regarded as a Nancy boy. Which brings me to my next order of business…”
Desmond stared at him balefully, his steely blue eyes glinting dangerously in the moonlight. An owl hooted nearby but he barely heard it.
“What would that be, Isaac? Do make it quick—you are interrupting my hunt.”
“The matter of your wife.”
Desmond’s dark head of hair tilted to the side slightly.
“I haven’t a wife,” he replied but he suspected his words were for naught. There was little that occurred in Desmond’s life of which Isaac was not aware.
“You do not but you will,” Isaac answered. “She will be arriving on the morrow.”
Desmond’s eyes grew wide and he shook his head.
“What use do I have for a wife?” he demanded. “I am wealthy in my own right—”
“It is not about joining houses, Desmond, it is about casting suspicion away from you, showing the townspeople that you are not a man who warrants scrutiny. The proper wife will ensure that occurs.”
“A Lycan wife will only create more suspicion! We will kill more, consume more, make more of a racket!”
Isaac sighed and shook his head. Desmond sensed more bad news about to spring from the barrister’s thin lips.
“She is not Lycan.”
He thought Isaac meant to be amusing but a quick survey of his face told Desmond that the man meant what he said.
Of course he does—Isaac is not renowned for his sense of humor, after all.
The hairs on Desmond’s arms rose and he howled in protest, causing the owl to echo his noises.
“I will not wed a mortal! How will I manage to keep my identity from her?”
“That is precisely why your father demands it,” Isaac explained. “You have been too free with your transformations. You are on the brink of being discovered. If you can hide your true self from a mortal bride, you can hide it from anyone.”
“Isaac!” he yelled, disbelief coloring his words, but his father’s aide moved away into the shadows, signifying that the conversation had finished.
“Enjoy your hunt, Desmond,” Isaac called from out of view. “And your final night of freedom. As of tomorrow, your life will change in ways you had never considered.”
Desmond wondered if Isaac did not sound smug.