Zara was starting to panic. She tried to be compliant in his arms, but his determination to possess her was growing by the second. Don’t struggle, don’t fight him. She told herself silently and sternly. If she did wrestle too much, he’d awaken fully. She wanted him to go back to being sound asleep so she could admire him, like a wolf in the woods.
You want him to take you to his bed. You want him to take you here, now, on the floor.
She gasped, as reality came hurtling forward in her mind. Yes, she wanted this man, but not like this, not in a tangled dream as he kissed her and held her tight in his arms in a drunken stupor. If he was like most of the men in the camp, as she’d heard reported by the women about the fire, then being lost in a bottle of spirits would hinder his ability to couple with her sufficiently, even if he seemed most enthusiastic on that account presently. His hardened manhood was pressing against her belly, just below her navel, intruding, promising further conquest as his beastly tongue ravaged her mouth with wicked pleasure.
The hand on her backside, squeezing her behind brought Zara up short. She wore only her billowy shift, with nothing beneath it to shield her skin from his warm, seeking grip.
She gasped, and drew her lips away from him. His response was to hug her to him, still clutching her bottom in one hand whilst kissing her neck and holding her fast against him with his other hand at the small of her back.
How far should she let this go with the man? If she were in camp, they would expect her to seduce him and then the men in her family would claim a payment was due from the Gadje the next day to compensation them for the loss of her innocence. It was a trick played on the greedy, lusting Gadje men who visited the camps and indulged in too much spirits and then were seduced by the dancer, a ploy to elicit guilt and payment for a fake deflolike Mama. Instinct told her to lie with him, the primal instinct of a woman intoxicated by a kiss.
Intellect told her to stop him before they became one flesh. She would enjoy it too much.
And she would regret it when they parted and she was left alone once more. Of that, she was firmly convinced. Zara shoved him.
St. John staggered, and reeled back on his heels. “You, m’dear, are no ghost!”
They stared at one another in silent shock for what seemed an eternity.
Zara didn’t know what to do; flee or kiss him to make him forget his sudden realization.
Fate answered for her. St. John made an odd sort of groan, and dropped to the floor like a piece of heavy furniture from a wagon. The floor beneath her shook as he hit it. The soulful murmur coming from his lips told her he still breathed as he lay sprawled at her feet.
Great Heavens. She stared down at him with wide eyes, taking in every inch of him. The opened white shirt revealing the soft, curling hairs of his chest, the long, black legs and the alluring apex between them. His passion wilted, as it was with all men when the drink overwhelmed their senses and left them unconscious. This was the prime moment in a gypsy camp, the moment of triumph--for the girl need not truly sleep with their mark, only signal the men to carry him to her wagon and undress him, lay him in her bed. She would greet him in the morning with a demure smile beneath the covers, letting the man think he’d taken her innocence.
No men were available to help Zara drag him to his own bed in the next room. He would lie here, sprawled, until the morning. Unless a servant found him, a male servant. She thought he had a man who tended his personal needs. Where was that one now, when his master needed him? As if in answer to her question, she heard a scratching at the outer door. So, someone did wering. Zara was no maid, and she wasn’t in camp. She was alone. A woman alone. If he impregnated her, she would surely suffer in the coming months, as she had no income and no protector. She’d be just like Mama. Instinct told her to lie with him, the primal instinct of a woman intoxicated by a kiss.
Intellect told her to stop him before they became one flesh. She would enjoy it too much.
And she would regret it when they parted and she was left alone once more. Of that, she was firmly convinced. Zara shoved him.
St. John staggered, and reeled back on his heels. “You, m’dear, are no ghost!”
They stared at one another in silent shock for what seemed an eternity.
Zara didn’t know what to do; flee or kiss him to make him forget his sudden realization.
Fate answered for her. St. John made an odd sort of groan, and dropped to the floor like a piece of heavy furniture from a wagon. The floor beneath her shook as he hit it. The soulful murmur coming from his lips told her he still breathed as he lay sprawled at her feet.
Great Heavens. She stared down at him with wide eyes, taking in every inch of him. The opened white shirt revealing the soft, curling hairs of his chest, the long, black legs and the alluring apex between them. His passion wilted, as it was with all men when the drink overwhelmed their senses and left them unconscious. This was the prime moment in a gypsy camp, the moment of triumph--for the girl need not truly sleep with their mark, only signal the men to carry him to her wagon and undress him, lay him in her bed. She would greet him in the morning with a demure smile beneath the covers, letting the man think he’d taken her innocence.
No men were available to help Zara drag him to his own bed in the next room. He would lie here, sprawled, until the morning. Unless a servant found him, a male servant. She thought he had a man who tended his personal needs. Where was that one now, when his master needed him? As if in answer to her question, she heard a scratching at the outer door. So, someone did hear him fall and the floor shake in response. Zara moved quickly to the window and entered the secret passage. She closed the panel just as she heard the door to hall open.
* * * * *
Brisbane hurried to his master’s side, concerned to find him unconscious in the middle of the floor. He sniffed the air, confused by the lingering scent of rosemary amid the more manly smells of hard liquor, sweat and polished leather.
“My lord?” Brisbane leaned low over his charge and examined him. The master’s skin was hot to the touch, a harbinger of the change that was about to come. There was no hope for it. He must get the man undressed, quickly, before his body began the transformation and yet another pair of fine dress clothes were ruined by the transmutation.
“Stay with me, sweet spirit . . . I promise not to harm you.”
“Aye, sir.” Brisbane lifted his master’s head and pulled the shirt over it. He set the delirious man down gently as he worked to pull the hands from the sleeves. Even now, the fingertips were lengthening and changing into sharp gray claws. St. John spat, and coughed and began to writhe as the curse grew more powerful within his mortal flesh.
The liquor didn’t help, nor did the administration of laudanum. He told his master, yet the man continued to try to douse his sorrows in the fiery potions. The sedative only hastened the master’s change. It might make him feel less pain and grief at his wife’s murder, yet, it also made it easier for the beast to emerge. Without St. John’s will to hold it back, the creature could win the battle within them as St. John’s rational mind succumbed to the drug’s power.
Snarling echoed in the chamber. Brisbane unfastened the placket of his master’s pants and pushed the fabric over his shifting, rippling bones. The pain of such a horrible transformation could not be imagined. No one could bear it without going a little insane, he thought as he moved to his master’s feet and tugged off first one boot and then the other one.
St. John gurgled, and the beast within him growled and snarled.
Brisbane, from long practice, recognized the danger and stepped back. He watched his tormented employer writhe and arch as the shifting muscles and bones fairly tore the man asunder. Crushed the man and pushed all remnants of humanity within as the beast emerged from his tormented soul. Brisbane hurried to the door and opened it, allowing the creature its freedom to roam the halls. He would follow the wolf-creature and let it out the nearest door once they reached the first floor. The beast always wanted to run free, unhindered beneath the shimmering stars.
Human skin was quickly disappearing as the rippling, shifting into the creature overpowered St. John’s will. Ach, he should not have imbibed so heavily in spirits tonight, Brisbane thought. Once his will was vanquished, his primal nature took over.
Brisbane was no fool. He edged carefully toward the door and nodded to his master.
The wolf turned in a circle, his ruff raised and his fangs prominent. As Brisbane reached the door, the animal gave one last warning lurch, growling and snarling at him as if to toss a few last threats at him in his retreat. This was not like the master at all. He never threatened Brisbane before. What new circumstance had brought the hackles out in the beast?
St. John’s deep russet coat of fur shimmered in the low firelight as the beast’s attention was drawn to other things. The long muzzle was pinned to the ground as he paddled anxiously to the window and then began scratching at the wood paneling and growling low in his throat.
Copyright Lily Silver, 2012
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