Chapter 14
Paris, France
“VOUS avez l’air triste, mademoiselle.”
Marcelle Burgess looked up from her croissant and café au lait, more annoyed than sad. Could she not have a quiet breakfast in a quaint café without some French guy hitting on her? It seemed every man within a five-mile radius felt it was his right to saunter up to her table in his designer shoes just so he could tell her how sad she looked.
Maybe that was because she couldn’t seem to hold her head up.
She didn’t even bother trying to grin. “Je vais bien, merci.”
Her French friend shrugged and walked away. Thank goodness. She was in no mood to humor foreign flirts.
Was it too much to ask that a woman be left alone on her trip of a lifetime? Couldn’t she eat her meals in peace?
Marcelle snatched a hunk of croissant off her plate and brought it to her lips but let it fall to her plate again. All of a sudden, she wasn’t hungry.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she looked around the café.
Happy couples everywhere. Tourists and Parisians alike kissed and laughed and pledged eternal love to one another over their cappuccinos.
She could have been one of those couples. Truth be told, when she’d booked this trip months ago, one of her aims had been to meet as many men as possible. Her doe had been restless lately, searching. Marcelle had attributed it to wanting to get laid. She’d never had problems in that department, but she’d been unsatisfied with recent encounters.
She’d been hoping Connor would help her out, but that plan fizzled. She couldn’t blame him. He obviously loved Elaine. Marcelle would never have stood in his way. He was a good guy and deserved to be happy.
And what of her happiness? She thought she’d find it in the city of light and love.
But so far? Nuts.
In fact, the last time she could recall feeling any measure of happiness, it was in Dr. Josh Douglas’ presence.
Marcelle wasn’t sure why the doctor affected her so. Sure, he was hot. Every shifter man was hot. No, it was something more. Something about the way he looked at her with those sparkling eyes, about the way his voice changed when he spoke to her. When they talked to one another, his voice got deep and rumbly and so sexy…
Oh, my God. I miss Josh.
But she barely knew him. They’d spoken on two occasions, both of them fleeting. Hardly the basis of a grand romance.
So why was she still thinking about him?
Irritated, Marcelle stood, threw on her coat, and grabbed her purse. She contemplated leaving a tip for her surly waiter but decided against it. If he couldn’t even bring himself to smile when he delivered her coffee to her table, he didn’t get a tip. God only knew she held herself to a higher standard when she worked at the Ursa. She always prided herself on her customer service skills.
As she walked out of the café, she realized she was dragging her feet. The glory of Paris lay before her. Her mood should be much better. Her cheap and cheerful inn was wedged between two fancy hotels, a stone’s throw from the Eiffel Tower. At night, she could look out her window, crane her neck, and just about gaze on the lights below. It was still a bit chilly to take one of the famous bateaux mouches river cruises on the Seine, but she hoped to spend a bit of her hard-earned money at some local art stalls. Perhaps she’d even buy a small piece of jewelry as a memento. All in all, this trip should be amazing.
Today should be amazing.
Marcelle grumbled. “Today sucks.”
A tall, blond man brushed past. “Excusez-moi.”
She whipped around. “Josh?”
The man continued on his way.
Of course, it isn’t Josh, you tool.
Marcelle found a quiet spot on the riverbank and plunked herself on a bench. A young, fashionable couple took up a spot not far away and began kissing in the French style.
Marcelle almost vomited the small piece of croissant she’d managed to consume.
The kissing man had blond hair too. Did every man in this goddamn city resemble Josh, or was she just going crazy? He clasped the back of his girlfriend’s head, stroking his tongue against hers.
Marcelle felt transported back to Gemini Island, to the stoop outside Elaine’s cabin. She could envision Josh sitting next to her, his dress pants rumpled, his thigh so large and muscled next to hers. The memory of his grin made her stomach lurch with hunger. His blue eyes glinted with desire as she described the dress she never got to wear for him.
Somehow, the Parisian breeze carried his scent her way. She knew it couldn’t be real, but she smelled him everywhere all of a sudden. He smelled good, warm and clean, free of any fussy fragrances.
Her doe stood up and sniffed the air, searching for the doctor. The animal’s eyes grew wider than ever as it looked around in vain. It uttered a high-pitched meee, a sound it made only when it was hungry or needed urgent care.
Marcelle’s pulse sped up.
Somewhere, somewhere very far away, she thought she heard the plaintive call of a male bear. Her doe bucked and cried.
Marcelle’s head dropped to her hand. “I’m in big trouble here.”
* * * *
Gemini Island, Ontario
John Page’s apartment was now apparently cordoned off by police tape.
Royal Hill shook his head in the privacy of his home office, surprised but not surprised. Seb and Vadim had gone looking for Page, only to discover a host of shifter cops at the man’s apartment. Vadim had discreetly questioned the nosy landlady on their way out. The human woman had confirmed the police had taken Page in for questioning. Of course, they hadn’t shared anything with her, but she’d overheard one of the cops talking about charges of attempted murder.
Page was probably squealing right now.
“Shit.” Royal banged his fist on his desk.
He had such a good thing going here. He never thought Page would be the one to destroy it.
It was his own fault for crediting Page with any sort of common sense. He’d wanted to send Seb and Vadim to retrieve Elaine Gleason and her cubs, but Page had assured him they wouldn’t make it past island security. Apparently the people from the Ursa watched all comings and goings. They knew John. They wouldn’t have questioned his presence there.
Royal had made mistakes, and he knew why. He’d been too stricken by Elaine’s resemblance to Jinny. If he’d been smart, he would have found a way to accompany Page to the island. He’d been too lax.
Just thinking of all the money he would miss out on made him ill. An entire island full of shape shifters. Such a good hunting ground. If Royal had played his cards right, he could have quietly picked off inhabitants from the island over the course of several years, and no one would have been the wiser. It would have been as easy as shooting ducks in a kiddy pool.
He glanced at the photos Page had texted him of Elaine and her little ones. Her lovely face, so animated by grief and pain, moved him. Her hair shone with a golden shimmer. Her lips were pink and plump. She was a crowning jewel, almost as lovely as Jinny.
Of course, no one was as stunning as Jinny. Everyone paled in comparison to his dead sister.
He got up from his desk and walked down the hall. Royal loved his house. He’d designed it himself with the help of an architect. It sat far back from the road in one of the more affluent neighborhoods on the mainland. His doctor and lawyer neighbors sometimes chuckled about the fact they had a taxidermist living nearby.
They had no fucking clue his real calling was art.
If only he could share his art with the world. Sadly, it was for his eyes only.
In a way, he didn’t mind. His collection had originated from his private pain, and it only made sense the artworks remained under wraps as well.
He didn’t want to share Jinny with anyone else. Here, she would be his forever. Safe from all harm, her beauty frozen for all time.
He shoved his hands inside his slacks pockets and toward the hallway that ran the length of the house in back. He opened a door at the end of the hall, one that led to a narrow circular staircase. The room at the top of the stairs was one only he entered as a rule. His trusted associates Seb and Vadim were sometimes allowed in but only when Royal needed assistance moving the artworks inside.
Did they think his collection was macabre? Probably but he paid them handsomely enough neither of them questioned him.
As Royal entered, he basked in the glow of the afternoon sun as it streamed through the large windows. The cavernous room had the feel of a gallery, just what he wanted. With its pale walls and many windows, the perfect backdrop for his artworks, it felt light and airy and ethereal.
The perfect shrine.
He’d been trying to capture Jinny’s beauty and mystery for years, dabbling in various art forms. When she’d been alive, he made her sit for him, but she would fidget incessantly.
Coercion had always been necessary with Jinny. She needed him to show her the way.
“Royal,” she’d say, “another portrait? No one wants pictures of me.”
“I do.”
Even she didn’t understand his artist’s soul.
She had no idea how beautiful she was. Indeed, her soft beauty was the only thing that helped him survive life in the hellhole they used to call a home. In Jinny, he found his refuge, his peace.
The only love he’d ever known.
He used to have dreams of painting her in oil and watercolor, and those dreams always turned into nightmares when he realized he couldn’t do her justice.
No matter how skilled he might be with the paintbrush, his artworks lacked soul. There was always something missing, a light, a spark. Her precious humanity. How on earth did one capture that?
There was no medium that replicated the soft give of real flesh. No blending of paints could achieve the highlights in her hair as she modestly turned her face from him.
He used to joke with her. “I’m afraid the only way I can preserve your beauty for all time is to steal it.”
“That’s morbid.”
Was he morbid? Perhaps.
He’d certainly felt that way growing up. He’d always suspected there was something wrong with his spirit animal. His bear wanted blood, wanted it all the time. As a result, Royal dreamed of taking lives, of wringing the last bit of life out of creatures big and small. The bear’s unnatural hunger pushed Royal’s own interests toward pain and death. Even as a child, his fascination had been hard to hide.
He supposed it couldn’t be helped. With a father who beat him and who sexually abused his Jinny on a regular basis, he found himself constantly dwelling on suffering. Royal liked to hurt himself, too, pushing his boundaries for pain. He always figured if he hurt himself enough, he’d build up a tolerance so his father couldn’t hurt him.
But then one day his need to punish his father made Royal lash out. He’d cornered a stray cat in the alley behind their house. Jinny came upon him as he set the creature on fire.
“Royal! What are you doing to that poor thing?”
He’d never felt so bad, not because her words conjured up remorse but because he’d been enjoying himself and didn’t care to stop. He’d wanted to see the last flicker of light in the creature’s eyes before it dimmed.
Somewhere along the line, he’d become his father.
“Are you going to stop me?” he demanded of Jinny.
She’d approached him, fear in her eyes. She’d placed a small hand on his chest and looked him right in the eye. “Don’t. You’re not Dad.”
Only he was, and never more so than in that moment. Jinny’s quiet bravery affected him as it never had before. Her lips called to his. Her cheap, girlish perfume taunted his nostrils. His wicked bear had rushed to the fore, demanding a taste.
He’d kissed his sister that day, full on the mouth.
Shocked, she hadn’t stopped him.
He hadn’t stopped at kissing her.
In the midst of what had first felt like a violation, he’d experienced bliss. His bear had sought out his sister’s bear. He’d marked her, again and again, scarring her tender skin. He could still taste her on his tongue now, so many years later.
That night, as he prepared to sneak out of her room, he’d made her promise never to tell. “No one will understand our love. I’ll protect you from Dad. I’m bigger now, and I can stop him from hurting you.” He’d caressed her cheek. “You’re mine now.”
She didn’t argue. She never argued. He loved that about her.
As he aged, he progressed from torturing and killing animals to hunting bigger prey. One day, he’d realized he could cash in on his kills. His underground business had taken flight.
For a while, thanks to regular hunting trips, his need to torture abated. He had a successful business, a private one and another the public saw, and he didn’t want to screw them up.
He installed Jinny in his home and began painting her in provocative poses. She’d kept their secret, and every time he went to her, he thrilled in the knowledge she was his and his alone.
His perfect, private Muse, one who drove his art to new heights.
Even still, his predilection for violence would not remain at bay. His bear was restless then, bloodthirsty. Royal visited several prostitutes, choosing to indulge in violent sexual release. He’d learned, if one paid handsomely enough, some of the girls would allow almost anything. He honed his skills on these women, slapping and punching and breaking small bones, delighting in being the instrument of their defeat.
With Jinny, he was careful, adoring. Those early years were still the happiest of his life. He used to stare at her for hours as she slept, musing on the line of her nose and the fringe of her eyelashes, wondering how best to capture them. She intrigued him to no end.
But, little by little, Jinny changed. She didn’t look as him as if he was her defender anymore. She would flinch when he touched her. Her small rebuttals cut him to the core.
They incited his bear.
One night, he went to her and she refused him. Him, the man who told her every day how precious she was.
Angered, Royal hit her.
She fell to the floor and didn’t move for a moment or two. Finally, cradling her cheek, her hair a mess, she met his gaze. It was something she hadn’t done in a long time, and it pinned him to his spot. Her look was pure accusation. “I hate you.”
She hated him? How was it possible? He’d given her everything, his home, his money, his life.
Jinny’s words did more than haunt him. They whipped up a maelstrom inside him, its winds fueling the sorrow and hatred that had ruled his early years. He’d meant to spare her, to forgive her, but his bear fumed at the insult. She was his sister, his soulmate. His only friend.
How could she add another layer of pain to his existence?
“But you’re my mate.”
“Mates. You could never be my mate.” She’d pulled herself to standing position and headed for the door. She got that far, opening the front door, before he came to his senses.
“No, you can’t go.”
“I’m done, Royal. I’ve had enough. First Dad and then you. I won’t let you hurt me anymore.”
He put out a hand, simply meaning to persuade her of his love, and she recoiled.
“Hurt you? Jinny, I love you.”
“You don’t understand love.” She spat in his face. “You’re sick.”
Royal’s bear howled in indignation. He caught her by the hair, locked the door, and dragged her into the house. Standing over her prostrate form, he’d raised his hand, wanting to discipline her with a punch to the face.
But he couldn’t. Her face, her beautiful face, made him freeze. His arm remained poised in the air.
What am I doing?
“Do it,” Jinny had whispered, her eyes full of tears. “Please.”
The urge to kill was too strong, more powerful than his need to hold on to her. Besides, there was another way to keep her at his side.
Fueled by rage but wanting to preserve her angelic visage, he didn’t punch her. He’d shifted into his bear and slit her throat with his claws.
Bereft, Royal had brought his beloved sister’s body to his taxidermy shop. He embalmed her, taking great care to preserve her as best as possible, and mounted his Muse.
Now she was immortalized in his gallery. She was his for all time, silent and still. Her gaze no longer accused. Her lip no longer curled in derision. He’d arranged her features in a mask of tenderness, like the Jinny who used to huddle with him when they were children. Poised on a pedestal in the middle of the room, she was the focal point of his collection.
Although installing Jinny permanently in the gallery had broken his heart, it had given him such a rush to kill her. It was better than hunting bears and tigers. Better than tormenting ugly, old hookers.
Every so often, Royal grew lonely. His bear would growl with the need to dominate again. Still haunted by Jinny’s voice, he sometimes wished he could inject life into her waxy limbs.
He would soon hunt for other partners. However, he didn’t want just any woman. He needed a particular specimen, one that spoke to him. And they had to be pretty, tributes to his sister. Every couple of years, he stumbled upon women who looked somewhat like his Jinny. He would bring those other women home, those other nameless blondes who wore her face. He’d learn their names but call them Jinny in his head. All he wanted was to replicate those heady, early days with her. Was it such a crime?
Unfortunately, they weren’t good enough. They weren’t Jinny. Eventually he’d glimpse their imperfections. A couple of them had dyed blonde hair. Others just didn’t feel right in his arms. He’d tired of them all.
For that reason, Jinny soon had company in the gallery.
He killed the other women, too. Each one was now poised on a separate pedestal, fanning out from where his mate stood, in homage to a love that refused to die.
None of those women resembled Jinny as much as Elaine Gleason did. When he’d first glimpsed her face in the photo, he’d been swarmed with brutal, wonderful memories. From the freckles on her nose to the curve of her lip, she was perfect. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear Elaine and Jinny were sisters. It was as if God had delivered her to him.
Royal just needed to claim her now.
Somehow he just knew he’d found another kindred spirit in Elaine. He knew it from the agony etched into her face, a pain borne of loss, and of the protective streak she demonstrated toward her children. She would understand his own pain and the sacrifices he’d made to honor it.
As for her cubs, they would have to go. There was no room in his life for children, and there was no way he was raising another man’s filthy brats. Besides, their organs would bring him riches. He knew several buyers who would pay enormous sums to procure the organs of precious shifters.
Vadim arrived, followed by Seb. The look on Seb’s face bothered Royal. The man had been taciturn lately. He’d caught him grumbling once or twice. Seb eyed Jinny on her pedestal and looked away.
Vadim nodded toward Royal’s display of women. “Are you ready for us to pack your artworks in the crates, Mr. Hill?”
“Just one. Pack up my Jinny. Leave the others behind. I don’t need them anymore.”
Vadim took a step.
“No, Vadim. Seb will do the packing. On his own.”
“But, Mr. Hill…” began Seb.
“Are you offended by my request?”
“No.” Seb paused and walked toward Jinny.
“Be careful with her,” said Royal. “She’s my masterpiece. If you handle her with anything less than respect, I will cut your head off and feed it to the bears.”
“Yes, sir.”
Seb proceeded to dismantle Jinny and placed her in a large crate stuffed with packing material.
Royal watched, wistful.
Pretty soon, he’d have a new Jinny.
He had to find a new home now, one with suitable accommodations for his love. The police would be looking for him any moment. There was no time to waste.
John Page had failed him. Now Royal had to be especially careful. He would need to find another way to bring Elaine home.
She might not know it yet, but she belonged with him.
He grinned as Seb and Vadim closed the crate on Jinny, locking her inside.
Elaine belonged to him and he would collect his possession soon.