Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5)
Lycan Legacy
A Soulmark Series
by Rebecca Main
www.RebeccaMain.com
http://www.ViaGraphia.com
© 2018 Via Graphia. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
I
Farewell
By the Moon
Running Wild
II
Yuletide Cheer
The Reading
Winter Tidings
III
New Acquaintances
The Countdown
I Spy
IV
Prove It
Under Pressure
Balance
Witches Know Best
V
The Calm
The Storm
All is Fair
Aces all the Way
Warrior’s Words
A New Order
The Witching Hour
Amends
The Challenge
The Golden Birch
Epilogue
Connect with Rebecca
Acknowledgements
I
Magic wasn't a science. Merida believed it was a feeling. A sixth sense. An indescribable knowledge set deep in your bones. One that couldn't be disputed or swayed. One that held you until death did you part.
Merida, the local witch doctor—emphasis on the witch—perceived magic as a precious gift.
Her gift was particularly powerful, but she knew precisely how to wield it—re-emphasis on the doctor.
Merida liked to keep to herself. She lived on the outskirts of her village in a comfortable little cabin that certain villagers liked to call a shack. She didn't mind an awful lot what they said, for she understood their nature well, and they, hers.
It was an anomaly, her little village, for she wasn't the only supernaturally inclined inhabitant.
Amongst the mundane, who carried on about their lives in willful ignorance, was a pack of wolves—or rather, a pack of lycans. They lived together in a strange sort of harmony, politely ignoring each other's vast differences in favor of focusing on surviving.
The pack brought security to the community, for no outsider dared to test their strength.
Merida brought safety and reassurance. Her remedies and tonics were regarded as acts of miracles in the eyes of those brave enough to try them.
As for the humans, they reminded the supernaturally inclined of their place in the world: beneath them. For one singular outcry from them meant the gruesome end of the others.
Everyone had their place and role to play in the village. It was understood by all that so long as no two factions intertwined irrevocably so, the tentative peace would remain. Merida believed heartily in this fact. She also thought, if no one was any the wiser, she may intertwine as she pleased. And so she did with Luc Blanc.
Luc was the second son of the alpha.
He was beautiful and passionate and utterly wild. Merida had been smitten at first sight, along with the rest of the general populace. Their entanglement spanned years. With each event that brought them together, the need to know more about the other grew stronger. Until that need turned into an ache.
An ache that no spell or potion could rid. An ache that could only be subdued by their union.
Again, and again, and again.
"You look so stern whenever you work," Luc pronounced, lounging comfortably on the many furs strewn over Merida's bed.
The lines creasing Merida's forehead did not lessen, though a few more appeared with the raising of her eyebrows. Her look of unimpressed amusement was met with a satisfied smile from her lupine lover.
"Hush," Merida said. "I'm working."
The wolf reclined with an exaggerated huff until his lithe body was stretched artfully atop the bed. "When you asked for a short break, I assumed it would involve sleep not work."
"And you were wrong," she replied smartly.
Her hands took up the task at hand with uncanny ease, while Merida chanted a spell under her breath. Eyes half closed, her hands chose pinches and spoonfuls of this and that across the large wooden table that sat in the far corner of her home. Luc watched, mesmerized as always by her confidence and magical ability.
Most of Merida's home was littered with supplies. Pots and bowls were lined flush against the walls. Jars and boxes found themselves stacked upon rickety handmade shelves that remained aloft purely by magic. Even Merida's bed was framed and cocooned with enchanted elements. Dreamcatchers of various sizes and lengths hung at either end of her bed. A set of candles bordered the piece of furniture. They never dulled or diminished, no matter how long the wick remained aflame. Last was an arrangement of mirror fragments that formed the shape of a diamond if one turned their head an inch to the left.
It was rare for Merida's patients or customers to see the inside of her humble home. She kept her business dealings to the small domed dwelling only a short walk away.
"What are you making?" Luc asked once Merida finished her chant with a small sigh. Her pale blue eyes flickered to Luc. His face held the pinched look of curiosity one got when they attempted and failed to portray indifference.
"A tonic to reverse the effects of the murwood and mugroot draft I gave to Margery Travers last week," Merida replied.
"It looks complicated."
"It isn't," she replied with a breathy laugh. "There may be many ingredients, but I've found the strongest spells need very few. What matters far more is the intent behind them. I crafted the draft with weak intent, and so my concentration in fixing its remedy need not be all-consuming."
Luc snorted with amusement and rose to rest on an elbow. Merida stopped her idle stirring of the tonic to grace the second son with a generous once-over. She enjoyed the coarse hair across his chest and the way it trailed far below the blanket covering his most noteworthy body part.
"Tell me, is the draft you made for Ms. Travers the reason why the youngest Travers brat lost his voice?" he asked.
Merida smirked and set aside the tonic. She glided over to the bed, wide hips swinging back and forth as she stripped from her long robe.
"Perhaps," she purred with a wicked, all-knowing smile. "She's yet to ask for any sort of remedy, but it's only a matter of time."
Luc sprung forward with a burst of laughter, looped a muscular arm around Merida's waist, and dragged her forward. They tumbled around on the bed until the wolf's might pinned down the witch.
"You are brilliant," he proclaimed somewhat reverently and brushed a wayward swath of deep brown curls from Merida's face. The witch blushed and averted her gaze in an attempt to conceal her pleasure.
"It's not difficult," she admitted. "Not really. Everything has a purpose. A beginning and end. Magic follows this course to a fault. There is no spell, potion, or hex made that cannot be undone."
Luc took on a thoughtful reprieve, studying his lover's rosy cheeks and small, pert nose. Merida allowed him his moment, tracing her fingers over his square jaw and cleft chin.
"And what remedy is there to this?"
Merida's questing hand was
stolen by Luc's roughened one and placed over the patch of skin treading below his rib cage. There a dark mark adorned his fair skin in the form of two arrowheads nestled into one another. Merida eyed the mark with a pang of discomfort.
"You know as well as I this is a gift. Somewhere out there is your perfect match. The other half of your soul," she said with tired longing. "Finding them is the remedy you speak of, Luc. Find them, and you will know happiness to your heart's content. Do not think cruelly of this blessing you only see as a curse."
Luc remained silent for a time until Merida began to squirm beneath his weight. His gaze grew dark with unabashed heat at the action, and he pressed his growing shaft against her with firm insistence. Merida locked eyes with Luc and drew in a sharp breath at his expression.
"My heart is content with you," he said. His brown eyes began to speckle with gold. "You are my happiness."
"And you, mine," she atoned, meeting his hungry kiss with equal enthusiasm.
Farewell
Chapter 1
I tend to avoid wearing white. The color against my skin only accentuates my fair pallor. But here I stand, drenched in white lace from neck to toe, marveling at the sheer beauty of the brilliant white draping me. A sigh tumbles past my parted lips as the wonder and awe fade.
"Are you wearing your hair up or down?"
I glance to my left. Juniper, or June as close family and friends call her, sits with her legs tucked beneath her at the end of the nearby stiff-backed couch. She observes with wide-eyed admiration as I grant her a soft smile.
"Mother hasn't decided yet," I respond.
June hums. "You'll look stunning either way. I wish I were as pretty as you, Winter."
I give a good-natured shake of my head as my first reply. "You're very sweet to say so," I say as all of my mother's ingrained teachings of niceties and pleasantries kick in.
Remember, Winter, when given compliments, always accept them graciously. No one likes a woman who fishes for praise.
I cast my eyes back to the full-length mirror a few feet in front of me. Staring back is a lovely woman, but I wonder if anyone else catches the sadness that always seems to linger in my slate gray eyes.
"Did you know the white wedding dress was made popular by Queen Victoria in the 19th century?" June continues with careless enthusiasm. Her honey-blonde hair, dressed in wavy curls, swings in front of her face as she leans forward. "Isn't that so interesting?"
"I did know that, as it happens," I reply and give my younger cousin a warm smile. But do you know white is a common color of mourning in several Asian cultures?
"Oh," she murmurs a bit dejectedly. Her sky-blue eyes dart to the floor then back to me, their vigor and excitement returning only as a teenager can conjure. "You must be so excited to be with your soulmark, Winter! How long is it since you last saw him?"
I flush unwittingly and look away from the mischievous grin now present on June's face.
"Twenty years, give or take."
June makes a noise that is a cross between a sigh and whine. "I think the betrothal is rather romantic!" A startled laugh crosses my lips before I can help it, but June charges on. "Truly! You actually found your soulmark, and you get to marry him. You're so lucky, Winter. I wish I could be with mine… wherever he is."
At the sudden sound of dejection in her voice, I step from my small pedestal and walk to her side. Kneeling down—much to June's distress—I grasp her hands.
"June, you know as well as I, I'm not lucky at all," I say with gentle finesse. She sets her sights upon our clasped hands and swallows.
"Because of the curse...."
I swallow as well and nod. "Yes."
"But the soulmark curse only prevents you from having children," she goes on with sheepish hope. "You can always adopt."
The words sting, even when delivered with such earnest. The curse upon my family—my pack—is as old as the lycan curse. It prevents us from carrying children to term with our soulmarks, and it mercilessly stunted the growth of our pack. It's done more than that. The curse has taken apart the pack piece by piece. And I am the last of the Blanc family line.
Centuries ago the Blancs flourished and were incontestably the strongest pack in Northern America, not to mention the oldest. Without the added boost of bound soulmarks integrated into our pack, we were forced to adapt to stay strong.
Our males became more aggressive and territorial. Our she-wolves, which we possessed in unusual abundance, created a strict hierarchy among themselves to rival the men. Mine is not a pack that is easy to live in, but I am lucky enough to bare our pack's namesake and enjoy the rank of fifth in the pack.
"We'll see. Regardless, I'm sure it will be more than enough to know I'm with my soulmark."
June stays quiet. Her eyes lift slowly to mine as she takes her bottom lip between her teeth to worry at the pink flesh.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Are you going to tell him about the curse?"
I blink back in response, and then give a quick shake of my head. "You know I can't do that, June. We're—"
"Not allowed," she finishes. June urges me to stand then makes a fuss of dusting off the bottom of my dress. The task is pointless, for the room we occupy is kept in pristine condition at all times. Any speck of dirt that dare enter the house would be banished immediately upon sight. Most visitors applaud the neatness of my home, but I cannot shake its sterile hold no matter how hard I stare into its gleaming surfaces.
When June persists in her chore, I drag her up by her arm. "Stop that," I scold without any bite. "And please don't feel any sorrow for me, okay? I'm going to be just fine and happy as can be," I assure her. Even without children.
June shoots me a small smile. "I just want you to be happy. You always try to make sure that I am."
"That's what cousins do," I tease. June's smile grows, but a touch of forlorn still lingers in it. "I wish I could go to your wedding."
A soft "aw" makes its way from my mouth before I envelop the seventeen-year-old into a hug. "Me too," I mumble against her head then plant a kiss there.
Truth be told, June is far more a sister to me than a cousin. During our shared childhood, she was a constant source of comfort to me. Her brightness eclipsed the dark life I lived at home.
Where my parents tore me down, June brought me up.
Where my parents questioned my merits, June never even thought to ask.
Where my parents disciplined and groomed my wolf and me for the prestigious life as their daughter, with June, I could be free—to an extent, at least.
"Your fitting went well before I came?"
June's question snaps me out of my reverie, and as she pulls back to retreat to the couch, a more subdued smile arises onto my face. Catching June's eyes, I nod to her question.
The dress will be taken in one last time, due to my mother's insistence. The local seamstress, a low-ranking she-wolf in her mid-fifties, made no protest even as I had. In the end, I can’t fault the seamstress for her submission. No one says no to the alpha she-wolf.
Apparently, not even me.
"It went well," I say. "Would you mind unbuttoning the back for me?"
June is back on her feet in a second and behind me. Her slender fingers work the parade of pearl buttons from their loops, and my chest expands with great relief.
"Thank you," I breathe.
"Tell me again how everything is supposed to look?" June asks once she's finished. A small chuckle bursts from me.
"Haven't I told you this a hundred times?"
I walk behind the privacy screen at the other end of the room and change from my wedding dress into my daily wear—a cozy, thick wool sweater paired with slick black leather leggings. I tear away my treacherously high wedding shoes in favor of the fuzzy slippers I like to wear around my home.
"Let's make it an even one hundred and one," she quips. Another laugh is elicited from June's playful demeanor.
&nbs
p; "White and red roses and lots and lots of greenery." I flop down on the couch. The cushions begrudge but an inch of leniency, and I give an exaggerated grimace as my snowy hair tumbles in front of my eyes. I brush the curly strands away with the back of my hand. "You know it will look picture perfect since my mother is at the helm."
June nods along with an eagerness that befits her age. "Aunt Adele throws the grandest parties."
"What else?" I cock my head to the side, a mischievous smile crawling into place as I pretend to think. I cup my chin in hand and smile wider. "A four-course dinner with the seasons finest game and vegetables, and a cake topped with powdered sugar and a winter berry compote." My mouth waters at the mere thought of the tasty dessert.
June grins back. "Isn’t that your dream cake?"
I nod. It had been one of the only elements of the wedding I had taken a stand on. The "naked cake" trend appeals to me greatly, and it fits my style far more than the traditional frosted cake. My mother hadn't been pleased with my insistence, but she caved eventually so long as it "stopped my perpetual whining."
"It is!"
"Good! It's your day. You should get whatever you want."
I take June's hand and squeeze. She is effortlessly affectionate and supportive, as always. I wonder if she realizes I look up to her just as much as she looks up to me.
"And when you get married, what will it look like?"
"I want something rustic and dreamy. With wildflowers everywhere."
My smile widens. Rustic chic is what I want too. Although my sentiments on the matter are relayed to my mother, I get a distinct inkling it will be far more winter chic than a classy rustic affair.
"Wildflowers suit you," I say. "They're resilient and beautiful. They grow where they please, sometimes in the most unlikely of places. In cracks and crevices. In the heart of the darkest wood."
June blushes. "I can't believe how much you know about flowers and plants—especially since you never went to college!"