The Werewolf's Wife. Michele Hauf
She tucked her fingers under an arm to keep accidental magic from shooting out.
Her voice trembled when she said, “Go on.”
“Listen carefully. Write down the name I am about to give you. If you don’t find this vampire within forty-eight hours … well, then, we won’t be able to protect your son.”
“A vampire? What do witches want with a vampire?”
The pause on the line made her regret the outburst. Hell, she wanted answers. No one told her what to do. She told others what to do. But this was different. She had to do as they said, or at least make it appear as if she were playing along. Her son’s life was on the line.
“What do witches usually do with vampires?” finally came the reply.
Once every century witches needed to consume a live, beating vampire heart to maintain their immortality. It was an odd request, since most witches had no problem obtaining a source, as the vampires were called.
“Can’t you get your own source? My son is an innocent. There’s no need to involve him—”
“As I’ve said, we are protecting him from forces beyond your control.”
“Beyond my— You’re speaking nonsense. I’ve protected him all his life.”
“And look how easily we were able to apprehend him. Tut, tut, Ms. Rowan. Perhaps you need to review your protection procedures. Now, write down this address. We’ll meet exactly forty-eight hours from now.”
She scribbled down the address and the vampire’s name on the notepad stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. She recognized the location as north of the Twin Cities. “Let me speak to Ryan.”
Click.
The drone of the disconnected receiver sliced through her heart. Abigail dropped it to the floor and followed by plunging to her knees and bowing her head into her hands.
Above her head, the electrical outlet exploded and the plastic cover shot across the room. Sparks showered the glass stove top but did not take to flame.
The only flames in the room were those inside Abigail’s heart. Someone had taken her son. The bad witch she had once been raged to the surface and punched the cabinet, cracking the wood door in two.
Ridge rapped on the door to a Victorian house in the elite Lake Harriet neighborhood off Upton Avenue. A person had to be rich to live in one of these cozy and finely preserved houses a short walk from the lake where sailboats and personal watercraft dotted the water in the summer. He’d seen a kite-sailer skimming the frozen lake after he’d parked the pickup and got out. Crazy kids.
Despite the cottage look of the house and the quiet neighborhood, the area was too upscale for him. And the houses were packed together tighter than sardines in a tin. Made his skin prickle, and not in the good prickly way he was accustomed to. He preferred the country, with room to breathe in the fresh air and trees, lots and lots of trees.
The bright red front door swung open. A gorgeous blue-eyed witch dressed in sexy, body-hugging white took one look at him, chirped as if she’d seen a ghost, and slammed the door in his face.
At least she hadn’t wielded the finger of pain at him. He counted himself lucky so far.
Ridge rapped again. “Abigail, we need to talk. And you know what about.”
The glimpse of long dark hair curling over her shoulders, and those bright eyes, stirred an innate desire he’d thought he’d never feel for her again. She hadn’t changed much, though she’d been a blonde when he’d seen her earlier this summer following the Creed wedding, and in Vegas, but women were always dying their hair for reasons beyond his comprehension. No matter, she looked … clearer than he recalled. And he knew why. He’d been sober since that crazy night in Vegas.
The door opened again and she stuck her head out. He caught the scent of coconuts and was instantly transported to that cheesy motel room amidst giggles and haphazard sex. “I don’t have time for this, Ridge. I’ve an emergency.”
The door slammed again, obliterating all images of that crazy night. For the better.
This time he leaned against the door, but as he thought to twist the fancy glass knob and walk right in, his manners—and his sense of self-preservation—reminded him he’d probably be safer on this side of the door. With a wince, he pondered how well the thin slab of wood would protect him against magic.
There wasn’t much he feared. Vampires gave him no challenge. Faeries were amiable toward him. Demons just plain creeped him out. But a smart wolf never returned to a place—or person—of danger.
“Just a few minutes, please, Abigail?”
It was cold today, and no matter how many layers he wore, he still felt the wind tickle down his neck and ice over his shoulders. But he had to be here. Jason had said an actual signature was required. Email wouldn’t cut it for a divorce.
“No, we don’t need to talk,” she called, opening the door a crack and gifting him with a flash of heat from inside. “It never happened. I’ve moved on. You’ve moved on. We’re all good. Life goes on. Goodbye.”
Ridge blocked the door with a fist. He pressed against the weight of the tiny witch trying her best to defeat his strength. “I happen to have a piece of paper that says it did happen.”
“You what?”
“Signed by Elvis, even. It’s a little wrinkled, but it’s legal. Elvis was his middle name. The guy who married us was an actual ordained minister, can you believe that?”
“Well, tear it up!”
That would be the obvious action. But Jason had checked online and their nuptials had been recorded in the Clark County Marriage Bureau of Las Vegas. The receptionist, appropriately named Priscilla LisaMarie Jones, had signed as a witness. Richard Addison’s marriage to Abigail Rowan was legal, whether or not he had the paper to prove it.
“Maybe I don’t want to tear it up,” he said, trying a new angle. It wouldn’t serve his purpose to barge in and demand. And he didn’t want to walk away with another scar. Kindness never hurt a man’s position. “I did save your life.”
“And I am very thankful for that,” she said through the slightly opened door. He couldn’t see her, but could feel her determination; she was putting all her weight against the door. Did she hate him so much she couldn’t give him a few minutes? “Really, I am thankful for the rescue. I don’t think I ever said it to you while sober.”
“I don’t need your thanks.”
“But you need to keep me your wife? What’s that about?”
“That is not what I want from you.”
“Then tear the damn thing up and leave me alone.”
“What if I want to convince you I’m worth a shot?” He winced. It was a means to get him inside, to talk rationally with her. He wasn’t seriously considering keeping her as his wife. But he had to play the witch carefully.
And protect his balls against sudden blasts of magic.
“Please, Ridge, we don’t even know one another. You know nothing about me.”
“I know you like vodka.”
“Used to like vodka. I haven’t gone near a drop of that devil’s brew since that night.”
“That bad of a memory, eh?”
“Something like that.”
“I had no idea I was responsible for such a horrible memory.” Then again, wolfing out on an unsuspecting woman was enough to scare anyone for life.
“It wasn’t you, Ridge. Well, it was, but there was also the part where I was strapped to a stake and flames were whipping about my ankles. I’d say that was the worst memory.”
“Thank