The following is a multi-part story that includes some build up to get to the heat. All French translations are my own; that's probably why they're so bad. Other than that, hope you enjoy part one.
~ ardentmusings
xXx
Don't answer it.
That was the first thought running through Hannah Hawthorne's mind when rapid knocking sounded on the door of her quaint bungalow. She paused in washing the coffee cup that bore the sticky evidence of a failed mug cake and glanced at the glowing green numbers on the oven. Almost midnight.
The urgent knocking sounded again. She mentally catalogued her stash; the gun in her bedside drawer, the smoke bomb in the hollowed-out base of her new couch, the dagger in the drawer of the console table in the small front hallway.
Maybe it was Mrs. Beacham from down the way. Maybe she needed a cup of sugar.
She set the coffee cup and sponge down in the sink.
"Hannah! It's me." The voice that filtered through the stained glass in the center of the door was decidedly not Mrs. Beacham, a sweet, doddering older woman who had enough manners to leave people alone after a certain time of night.
Before giving herself another chance to ignore it, Hannah raced across the house, bare feet slapping on the wooden floors, and flung open the door. She stepped out onto the stoop. "What the
hell
, Matt?"
But it wasn't her brother's disheveled appearance she was drawn to. Rather, she balked as she took in the sight of the large man half-draped over Matthew's shoulder, sweaty and groaning, a mass of black curls obscuring most of his face.
Before she could screech at him in outrage again, Matthew held out a placating hand from where he stood on the walkway leading to her front steps. He looked weary, and older; the pleasant-enough features she remembered had thinned and hardened. What had it been? Two years? Three? "I know, okay? I know. You're out here in the damn wilderness so you don't have to deal with any of us, but I had nowhere else to go."
Mildly affronted at her brother's dramatics, Hannah frowned. "Rockford isn't the wilderness."
"It's ninety minutes from the city. It might as well be the wilderness."
The large man's head lolled on Matthew's shoulder, and he hunched over and groaned, clutching his midsection. He looked up and she saw hooded eyes the color of burnt umber, bloodshot and half-open. "Matty, this is the end of me," he said weakly.
His voice was hoarse and, to Hannah's surprise, accented in lilting French. "What's wrong with him?" she demanded, staring at the stranger, an odd feeling taking root low in her stomach.
"There was this like, really pissed off witch..."
Hannah briefly closed her eyes. Of course. He'd been working for the Lodge.
It was as if he'd read her mind. "Look, it's not what you think. It's a private job. He's my...associate." Matthew reshouldered his companion, who whimpered. "She threw some kind of dust at us. I think it's aconite, which, you know, sucked for me, but is really doing a number on this guy."
"Aconite? That's wolfsbane."
"Yes," Matthew nodded, patting him on the back.
Hannah took two large steps backward and considered slamming the door and engaging the three deadbolts. "You brought a fucking
werewolf
to my house?" she hissed as loud as she dared. Her neighbors were a good distance away, but she wasn't taking any chances.
"Well, I was hoping you'd have like, a tea or something to reverse the effects of the poison!" he said.
Hannah seethed. Before she could advise that while yes, of course she had a tea for that, he was breaching a boundary she'd worked very hard to build with her therapist, Matthew's friend proceeded to retch up a viscous black substance that splattered all over his dark gray t shirt, and her brother stumbled under his sagging weight.
The odd feeling in her stomach intensified to panic. "Well, he's probably going to die if you don't bring him inside," she snapped, waving the two men up the short block of stairs and through the door. Matthew moved to dump his large companion unceremoniously on the couch, and alarm suffused her. "Christ, I just got that delivered last week! The kitchen!"
"Oh, my fucking apologies," Matthew grumbled, dragging the half-conscious man along before shoving him into a chair at the small circular dinner table.
Racing into the hallway bathroom, Hannah grabbed a mop bucket before darting back into the kitchen. She placed the bucket between the stranger's long legs, taking note of the dusty residue on his combat boots and jeans.
"We're gonna need to get him out of these clothes," she murmured.
He sweated profusely, his breath coming in shallow pants, and his chin dipped against his chest. Ignoring the slimy feel of the black sick, she grabbed his angular, bearded jaw to keep him level.
"How long has it been since ingestion? How much?" she demanded of her brother.
"An hour? Hour, fifteen? We were up in Janesville," Matthew said. "I don't know how much. How do you quantify a damn cloud?"
Hannah rolled her eyes. "What's his name?"
"Gerard."
She gave the side of his face a quick, sharp slap, regretful of inflicting just a bit more discomfort. "Gerard, can you understand me?"
His eyes popped open, and the deep brown of his irises had her stomach somersaulting when he spoke. "
Incroyable
. Your eyes are bluer than the Ile Vierge."
Her cheeks heated at the unexpected compliment even as her brother scoffed. "What the hell? He's lost it," he said from somewhere behind her.
Hannah ignored him. "Hey, listen to me. If you feel like you're going to be sick, just let it happen," she said. "The only thing you cannot do is fall asleep."
"Okay," Gerard said, his voice oddly serene as he leaned down to heave up the black substance again.
"Watch his eyes," Hannah said. "We need his wolf to come out and fight this off. If I remember correctly, they should start to glow when it's present. Take his clothes off and make sure he stays awake."
Mercifully, Matthew didn't comment on the odd instructions, and the siblings busied themselves with their respective tasks. She flung open the cabinets above the counter next to the stove, grabbing carefully packaged herbs and wildflowers. Straining on her tiptoes, she reached into the back of the top shelf and felt around for the small, smooth vial she sought.
After setting up the electric kettle, she got to work grinding the herbs with the pestle and mortar next to her aging coffee machine.
At the table, Gerard retched again, but little came out. His eyes fluttered shut and he began to lean forward.
"Matthew!" Hannah snapped as she filled the kettle with water.
"Oh yeah, fuck," he muttered, and whacked the back of his companion's head.
