“Yeah,” said Patsy. “You take Dr. Jameson. I’ll get Drake.”
“Dove,” said Gabriel, opening his arms.
“Wait. What?” I asked as I watched Drake stepped into the embrace of Patsy. Now, how was that fair? I’d sorta claimed him in my mind, and the married pregnant woman shouldn’t get dibs. Plus, her belly made the whole thing a little awkward.
“Dr. Jameson,” said Ren. He wiggled his fingers in a “c’mere” gesture.
“Is this really the time for a hugging circle?” I asked. “I thought we were in a hurry.”
“We are. Get into the man’s arms,” demanded Patsy. “We’re taking the shortcut home.”
Dove shrugged, and tiptoed her traitorous grad-student body into Gabriel’s arms.
I was the only holdout, and I decided I’d gone along with the madness so far, what was a supernatural squeeze? I walked into Ren’s waiting arms. He was muscled and warm and smelled nice. But I couldn’t help but wish that Drake was my hugger. No offense to Ren. I’m sure he was a very nice whatever-he-was.
“Welcome to travel by vampire,” he said with a quicksilver smile.
Then I imploded.
• • •
“It’s always weird the first time,” said Patsy.
“Gurg,” I managed.
When my molecules had melded back together and we appeared in a room that looked like a white blur to my abused eyes, I had oozed out of Ren’s arms and onto the floor. A circle of concerned faces looked down at me, including Dove’s—and some gorgeous redheaded lady who wore a filmy green dress and no shoes. She had tattoos on her visible skin, except on her face. The tattoos sparkled and moved. Well, my bar for “weird” was really high now, so glowing gold tattoos weren’t too far into the freak zone.
“I never, and I mean never, want to do that again.” I lifted a hand to my tender jaw. “I think I’ll stop talking now.”
“I’ll take care of that,” said the redheaded woman in an Irish lilt. She glanced at Dove. “You, too. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
All the faces disappeared as people straightened and wandered away—to the kitchen presumably.
I groaned.
Drake crouched beside me. “Do you need help?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
He put his arms underneath me and in one smooth motion lifted me and stood up. It wasn’t lost on me that he picked up my six-foot frame and generously curvy body with the same effort he might put into carting around a bag of feathers. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and saw his eyes flare with something electric and hungry.
“I think I’m feeling better,” I murmured. I resisted the urge to touch that square jaw of his. He had some scruff, and I wanted to trail my fingers over it.
He grinned.
Butterflies danced in my belly.
“Are you really a werewolf?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” he said, his grin widening to show far too many sharp white teeth. “I’ll show you one day, my beauty.” He leaned close to my ear and whispered, “You are not afraid, are you?”
“It’s against the archaeologist’s code,” I said. I held up two fingers. “Brave, true, and strong.” I offered him a half smile. “So, no, I’m not afraid.”
“We shall see,” he said in a low, growly voice. My pulse jumped, and I saw his eyes dilate. I realized he could use his animal senses to detect things about me . . . such as arousal. And I was there, all right. Drake managed to turn the rusty crank on my libido, and it was going full spin right now.
He carried me into the kitchen. It was large, open, and rustic-looking, with a huge stone hearth that had—I kid you not—a black cauldron hovering over the fire. Something bubbled inside it. Bat eyeballs? Dead man’s bones? Laundry?
“Welcome to the Three Sisters Bed-and-Breakfast.”
I craned my neck and saw another redhead near a table with a spread of food that made my stomach growl. It had been a long time since I’d eaten those tiny quiches.
“Healin’ first, then feastin’,” ordered the other redhead. “Put her in this chair, Drake.”
Drake did has he was told, gently depositing me into a hard-backed chair that had been pulled out from a rectangular oak table. He stepped back.
“I’m Brigid,” she said in that lovely Irish voice. “You’ll be feelin’ right as rain in no time.”
“Dove first,” I said. “You might want check her feet, too, and see if she has any toes left.”
“Har, har,” said Dove, who was seated catty-corner to me.
“Very well,” Brigid said with a smile. She moved to Dove and lightly cupped the girl’s chin. After a moment of examining the bruise, she placed her fingertips along Dove’s jawline. The tattoos sparkling on her arms shifted into different symbols and then gold—well, “magic” was the only word I could use—flowed from her fingers to Dove’s face and down her neck. Dove closed her eyes and sighed deeply.