Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply(37)

Her eloquence was moving, as was the sincere gaze she bestowed on me. Tark, for all his rough-tough exterior, seemed to be holding his breath as they awaited my answer. Well, what was I supposed to say? Good luck with Karn, and your pyramid, and your paranormal problems. Nice knowing you. Also, I apparently started this whole process . . . and I didn’t remember any of it. And if I could believe them, my grandfather had been involved somehow in all this before he died. In any case, how the hell was I expected to go back to my life knowing what I knew now? How could I ever look at another pyramid, another sand dune, another campfire, and not think of this moment?

“Well, the blood-draining thing doesn’t sound like an optimal experience,” I said. “But . . . I’m in.”

“Excellent,” said Aufanie.

“You are brave,” said Tark. He studied me. “I hope you are strong as well.”

“Votes of confidence are always welcome,” I said.

Tark cracked a smile.

Then the forest and the dark and the trees shattered . . . and so did I.

• • •

I woke up with a pounding headache and my mouth so dry it felt like I’d been eating sand. For a moment, I tried to remember how much tequila I’d slammed and why on earth I’d let Ax talk me into another stupid drinking contest.

I propped myself up on my elbows, and moaned. “Someone kill me. Please.”

“Never, my treasure.”

The voice startled me so much my eyes flew open and I yelped. Drake stood next to the bed holding a delicate china cup.

“What the hell are you doing hovering over me like some kind of . . . of . . . stalker?” I sounded as cranky as I felt.

One dark eyebrow winged upward. “Not a morning person?” He glanced at the darkened window. The shade had been raised and the curtains opened to reveal the last vestiges of dusk. “Or should I say not an evening person.”

I dropped my head to the pillow and put the back of my hand on my forehead. “Ouch.”

“Lenette said that you might suffer some aftereffects.” He sat on the edge of the bed and offered the cup. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

“Says you.” I sat up slowly, and took the cup, peering at the amber liquid. “You drug my food, and expect me to drink whatever you put in my hand?” I snorted.

“I understand,” said Drake. “Would it help to know we are protecting you?”

“Not really, no.” My head pounded. I sniffed at the tea, or whatever it was. It had a cinnamon fragrance. “Well, what could happen?” I took a sip.

“You could grow a tail and horns,” said Drake.

Anyone else—anywhere else—I would have accused of being sarcastic. Instead, I stared at him suspiciously.

“I’m kidding,” he said, offering one of those patented wicked grins. “One sip won’t do anything.”

I waited for Mr. Werewolf to say something else. He remained silent, so I drank another sip of the delicious brew.

“I remember now. It’s two sips.”

“You’re hilarious.” I tried to hand him the cup. “Forget it.”

He pushed it gently back toward me. “Please. I promise the tea will help.” He removed two pill bottles that had been tucked into his pocket. “Dove mentioned you need these.”

Embarrassment clogged my throat. I took the bottles and looked away from him. “I’m a little crazy,” I said. “Rough childhood.”

“Your mother’s death.”

“Yeah, that was part of it. But there was something else, inside me, that was dark and angry and just . . . Well, I lost myself for a while. Anyway. The pills keep me from picking up sharp objects and embedding them in people.”

He was staring at me, but not in a judgmental way. “I would like to hear your story,” he said. “I want to know why you believe you are crazy.”

“Well, having three psychiatrists tell me I was nutballs contributed to the idea,” I said. “Although they used words like ‘delusional’ and ‘psychotic breaks.’”

“My sister-in-law used to be a psychotherapist,” said Drake. “She never uses the term ‘nutballs.’”

“Because she’s probably kind.”

“She is. And as are you.” The teasing gleam in his eyes had disappeared, replaced by sincerity. Whoa. Serious Drake was even more effective than Sexy Drake. “Take your pills, Moira, and please drink the tea.”

I popped open the plastic bottles, plucked out my pills, and took them by drinking the tea.

By the time I’d finished the cup, my headache had disappeared.

“What now?” I asked.