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* * *
Paris, present day
The scent of freshly baked bread wafted up from the boulangerie four stories below, and Clara inhaled deeply, cuddling closer to the man at her side. That was one of her favorite smells, because it had Paris written all over it. Paris and lazy mornings with her true love. Sunlight was dancing through the east-facing windows, and her cozy apartment on the Île de la Cité still held the chill of an early spring night.
She lay quietly in one of those pinch me, I’m dreaming moments that still hit her after decades of living the good life. Just about the only thing that could make life more perfect was fresh-brewed coffee and a few goodies from the bakery downstairs.
She slid a leg out of the covers, but Hugo cuddled her closer, mumbling, “Just a little longer.”
She chuckled and turned in his thick, muscular arms — her own personal fortress.
“You said that forty-five minutes ago.” She kissed his brow.
His eyes sparkled like sunlight glinting off a glacial lake. “Forty-five minutes? Forty-five years hasn’t been enough.”
She chuckled. His count was off by more years than she cared to admit, but otherwise, she agreed. “It’s never enough. But we do have that meeting later this morning.”
Hugo shook his head. “That’s hours away.”
Rubbing up and down one cheek, she slowly worked her way to the other side where she nuzzled some more. Hugo’s beard had gone as white as his hair over the past decade or two, but it was as soft as ever, and his body was just as firm. Otherwise, Hugo barely showed his age, looking every inch the warrior. She, on the other hand…
Reading her mind, he cinched her closer and kissed her cheek. “You’re more beautiful than ever, my mate.”
He said it like he meant it, because Hugo didn’t know any other way. Didn’t he notice the deep lines time had carved into her face? The streaks of gray in her hair? The way her full cheeks were losing their battle with gravity?
Apparently not, because he ran a hand softly over her hair and sighed like a man who’d snagged a true prize. “Most beautiful woman in all Paris.”
She sighed, nestling in his embrace. Was it possible to feel this happy?
Yes, it is, an inner voice purred. Now, stop rushing and enjoy life.
She gave in and settled back, abandoning thoughts of breakfast and the coming day — for the time being, at least. Her eyes drifted to the vase of pink roses on the bedside table, and she smiled, letting her eyes close.
“Just a little longer,” Hugo murmured, lulling her back to the world of dreams and memories.
* * *
Paris, October 1953
Clara clapped the morning chill out of her hands as she turned a corner and entered the Tuileries. Trees flanked the footpaths, and the long, narrow lines of the park drew her gaze to the fountain at one end. A sight for sore eyes, and one that reminded her she really was living in the City of Lights. A place a small-town girl could escape the wartime traumas of her parents’ generation. Better yet, a place an adventurous girl could really live…maybe even love.
She hurried toward a tiny green shed — the crêpe stand where she earned just enough to scrape by. A splotch of pink on the windowsill beckoned — or was that wishful thinking?
Don’t get excited. Maybe he didn’t come, she told herself.
But her heart was already beating harder, and her cheeks flushed. The long braids that tamed her wavy chestnut hair swung over her shoulders as she rushed ahead, and her brown skirt swished. She forced herself to slow down over the final steps, when she beamed from cheek to cheek. That really was a pink rose, and that really was a note beside it.
She lifted the flower gently, as if it were made of chiseled ice, because something so beautiful must be fragile. Like peace. Like love. Like promises, sometimes. Closing her eyes, she twirled the flower under her nose. The silky, floral tones were nice, but her mind mostly concentrated on the scent engraved in her memory — a strong, oaky scent laced with leather and a hint of pine. A fresh, open-air scent — that of an honest, hardworking man.
There was a note too, and she clasped it to her chest, whispering, “Hugo.”
In her mind, she could see him stealing over in the early hours to place the gifts there — all six-plus feet of him moving with the stealthy step of a man who’d risked a hundred secret missions. She could practically feel the soft touch of his dark beard under her hand and the layers of muscle that corded his arms.
She sniffed the paper, taking her time the way a child might with a gift — shaking, smelling, touching, and imagining what might be inside. Would it be like the very first note Hugo had left her, the day after they’d met? Two lines from Baudelaire’s In Passing, some of the most romantic lines she’d ever read.
Un éclair… puis la nuit! it started and went on from there.
A lightning flash… then night! Oh fleeting beauty,
By whose glance I was suddenly reborn…
Or would the note contain Hugo’s own words, not quite as eloquent but still perfect in her eyes, like those he’d penned the day after their first kiss?
Your kiss made my soul sing for the first time in years. Finally, I am alive.
Or would the note contain something enigmatic, like the crescent moon and howling wolf he’d sketched for her the previous week?
Whatever the note said, she knew she would love it. She was a plain Jane from nowhere with brown eyes and brown hair, but Hugo made her feel like a movie star.
Turning the new note over in her hands, she finally unfolded it. As she read, she started to frown, then smiled again.
See you at noon had been written in script so painfully neat, she could picture Hugo hunched over a desk, a tiny pencil in his huge paw of a hand, concentrating hard. But that had been scratched out and in its place came, Work has called me away today. Until tomorrow, my love…
He’d trailed off with three dots, then tagged on the punch line in scratchy, impatient letters that said he was as disappointed as she was.
If I can survive that long.
Clara grinned. God, she loved that man. Did she dare tell him that the next time they met?
Yes. Three weeks wasn’t too soon, was it?
A raven flew overhead, and its harsh caw might as well have been her mother’s warning.
The more thrilling a man is, the more dangerous he is to love.
Clara sighed as she worked the key into the lock. According to her mother, her father had been everything a woman could dream of — handsome, adventurous, and courageous. A man who had swept her mother off her feet and given her the giddiest, most exciting days of her life. Those same qualities prompted him to defend France in a military campaign everyone assumed would be over in a few weeks. But the war had dragged on for years, claiming her father’s life, along with millions of others. Clara’s mother had gone on to marry the blandest, most boring man she could find — the local postman, twice her age.
A quiet man. A quiet life, her mother had counseled. Believe me. Guard your heart.
Clara frowned. Hugo broke every one of her mother’s rules. He was thrilling. Honorable. Rugged. Mysterious, too. And as for guarding her heart… She snorted. It was too late. She’d fallen in love on day one, when Hugo had walked through the park, intent on some urgent assignment — until he halted in his tracks and looked at her, as stunned as a man struck by lightning. Or maybe it was Cupid’s arrow, because she’d been struck too.
She propped the flower and note in a corner where they would be safe from splattered batter, butter, and powdered sugar, then took a deep breath. All right, Hugo had been called away to work that day. Well, she had work, too. Nothing as glamorous as she’d pictured from the ruins of the tiny border town where she’d grown up, but work, nonetheless.
Within twenty minutes, she had everything ready. Eggs beaten, batter mixed and left to rest, ingredients prepped. The sun rose higher, shining brightly enough to melt the frost on the ground, and the first customers trickled past. There were some new faces and a few regulars, like the widow with her son, the war veteran with one leg, and the night guardsman who stopped by regularly on his way home. Then there was a mother with two adorable daughters in pigtails and homemade coats, and not long after, a honeymooning couple from Marseilles.
Jam crêpes. Sugar crêpes. Crêpes with cheese or ham. Every customer had their favorite, and Clara loved serving up each one. Every little goodie offered a few bites of joy and peace, and she did her best to add to that with a cheery voice and bright smile.
“A beautiful day,” she said to the businessman who frowned at the headline on his newspaper.
When he looked up at the sky, the lines on his forehead eased slightly. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
To the older couple who bickered about everything, right down to which type of crêpe was the best, she’d said, “Madame can have sweet, and monsieur can have savory.”
And for a few moments, they had smiled and chewed in peace.
Peace. Clara might never sign a treaty to end all wars or teach children the harsh lessons of history, but she could do her part in her small way. God knew the world needed that.
Throughout the day, she peeked at her rose, picturing where Hugo might be. He worked some kind of security job, though he’d never shared the details. She’d never asked, just like she’d never asked what had ripped that scar across his cheek — the one that made him look as fierce as a native warrior if he frowned. When he smiled, though, it softened, and his whole face lit up.
She yearned to trace that scar. Truthfully, she yearned to touch the rest of him, too. So far, he’d been a true gentleman, and she’d managed to keep her raging fantasies to herself — somehow.
Just one? She’d joked after their first kiss.
Hugo had stroked her cheek with his thumb. His touch was light, but she could see the heavy beat of his pulse at his neck.
More than one may kill this simple soldier, I fear.
He’d been joking, of course, but a sad something had clouded his eyes, and his lips had twitched with some terrible revelation she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. Something to do with the war, perhaps?
Whatever you had to do, whomever you fought, I don’t care, she burned to say. All I want is the man before me now and a fresh start.
But a carriage had come clip-clopping by after that, and once it passed, the moment for confessions had slipped away. They’d ended that evening with him walking her home then leaving her at her doorstep with a second soft kiss.
À demain, he’d whispered in a voice so full of yearning, she could have cried.
À demain, she’d replied. Until tomorrow.
She whispered those same words to herself throughout that long day of work. Was it normal to fall so deeply in love so fast? Studying every passing couple, she wondered if they had felt something similar at the start and whether the feeling had faded or stood up to the test of time.
Faded, she decided, watching two couples stroll by together. The two women chatted, totally ignored by the men, who were deep in a discussion of some kind. But then an older couple creaked by, arm in arm, and her soul lifted. Maybe there was something like true love after all. Maybe even destiny.
Destiny, a whisper drifted on the wind. Probably another figment of her imagination, but she smiled all the same.
As the sun rose higher overhead, the shadows in the park grew smaller, then stretched throughout the afternoon. All business as usual, until she heard an unwelcome voice call out.
“There she is. My favorite crêpe chef.”
Clara snapped around to the two men approaching with intent, prowling strides. Both sent a chill down her spine. One was Branix, the arrogant jerk who kept stopping by despite her clear signals of disinterest. The other was Calviorix, his surly sidekick. Both were from Brittany, or so she’d assumed from their unusual Celtic names.
I was just closing, she nearly said. But that would be a lie, for one thing, and bad for business too, so she settled for a frown instead.
“Yes?”
“I’ve missed you, darling.” Branix splayed his meaty fingers over the counter and leaned in.
She stuck up the long, dull blade used to flip crêpes. I haven’t missed you, you jerk.
“Would you like a crêpe?” she asked through clenched teeth.
Branix was big and broad, with a pasty gray complexion that reminded her of granite. When he leaned closer, letting his eyes rove her body, the chill that seemed to cling to his shoulders seeped over toward her.
“I’d like more than a crêpe.”
His friend gave a lusty chuckle, and she scowled. “All we have is crêpes.”
Branix’s eyes darkened like a spoiled child about to throw a tantrum. The man was used to getting what he wanted, and it showed. So, she crossed her arms like her bossy aunt used to do when unwanted visitors stopped by the house. If only she had a rolling pin to heft the way her aunt had.
“I see your lover has abandoned you. Again,” Branix sniffed.
He meant Hugo, of course. The two had stared each other down the couple of times they’d crossed paths. Clearly, they knew each other, though she couldn’t imagine how.
Not my lover, she nearly shot back. Not yet, at least.
“What do you see in that dog, anyway?” Branix added.
His buddy chortled at his choice of words. Dog. In a way, it fit, but only in a positive way. Hugo was as loyal as a canine and just as steadfast. And hell, if Hugo had been with her, Branix wouldn’t have ventured so close. But Hugo wasn’t there, and she could handle this on her own.
Or so she hoped.
She stabbed a finger toward the menu. “I’m working. Would you like to order something or not?”
Branix grinned. “When do you get off work?”
She turned up the force of her glare. “No order? Quel dommage. I’ll get back to work, then.”
Then she looked up and nearly cried out in relief at who she saw. Not Hugo, but the next best person — Monsieur Thierry, the gendarme, walking his beat.
“Monsieur Thierry.” The moment she called out, Branix and his friend slunk away. “What can I get you?”
The policeman strode up, glowering at the two young men. The thing was, Monsieur Thierry was well over sixty, and Branix was a strapping twentysomething without a trace of respect. Not for older folks, not for the police, not for mankind in general. But he did back away, snickering under his breath.
“Let’s see…” The policeman made a show of scratching his chin with the thickest part of his baton.
By the time Clara had the policeman’s crêpe confiture ready, Branix and his troublemaking buddy had disappeared. Whew.
“You take care, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Thierry called and set off on the rest of his beat.
Oh, she intended to. Especially around the likes of Branix.
As the afternoon passed, she alternated between busy spells and lulls filled with thoughts of Hugo. Gradually, the sun descended, casting the Tuileries into sharp lines of shadow and light. A large group came along as she was about to close, keeping her later than usual. When she finally cleaned up and locked the stand for the night, it was growing dark. Which was fine, because the end of one day meant she was that much closer to seeing Hugo the next.
Until tomorrow, my love…
She hummed as she walked home, clutching his note and her rose. The next time she saw Hugo, she resolved to tell him she was ready for more than a kiss. She was ready for a lifetime with him, whatever that might bring.
Her girl parts tingled as she imagined the fringe benefits — the physical pleasures along with a lifetime of companionship and love.
Moonlight sparkled off the Seine as she walked along the embankment, and her first thought was how beautiful Paris was. The elegant townhouses…the grand halls of the Louvre…the elegant spire of Notre Dame. But then she noticed how dark it had become. Usually, she didn’t think twice about taking the riverside route home, but she didn’t usually leave work so late. That, and daylight hours were growing ever shorter as autumn stretched on.
Briefly, she considered. She’d already passed the Pont du Carrousel, and the Pont des Arts wasn’t far ahead. Steps led from the embankment to each of those bridges and the more brightly lit sidewalks along the streets above. But it didn’t make sense to backtrack, so she walked a little faster, heading for the stairs at Pont des Arts.
She glanced back. No one there but a fisherman packing up for the night. From ahead, a couple approached, walking arm and arm, and she smiled. There was no need to worry with them around, right? As the pair passed, she pictured herself and Hugo, stealing kisses and strolling along.
Then something swooped overhead, and she ducked. But when she whirled to see what it was, there was nothing. Had it been a bat? The shadow of a bird flying too high to see?
She walked on, more attuned to her surroundings than ever. Boy, it was darker than she thought, and the Pont des Arts suddenly felt miles away. She swung her arms, taking ever longer strides.
“Not far now,” she murmured to herself.
Finally, the next set of stairs drew into view, and she relaxed slightly. In a matter of minutes, she’d be up at street level and taking the safer route home.
But steps scuffed behind her, and she whirled. Again, there was no one and nothing to see. She hurried onward, intent on escaping her own imagination. Then another shadow swooped through the blood-red sky, and she swore she sensed a faint cackling sound and a wafting body of cold air.
She shivered. Did ghosts haunt that part of Paris?
Breaking into a trot, she focused on the stairs. Every step she took grew faster, because she was nearly there. But the cold behind her turned to sheer ice, and out of nowhere, someone dragged her back.
She started to scream, but a bony hand slapped over her mouth.
“Quiet,” a raspy voice hissed.
Like hell, she would. She kicked, bit, and managed another scream, but no one seemed to notice. No one but the man dragging her backward, cackling in glee.
“Such a feisty thing. Makes it all the more fun.”
Her blood ran cold. God, no. This could not be happening. Not to her, not now. The dangerous days of wartime and Allied occupation were over, and women no longer had to fear open attacks by outsiders.
Attacks by locals, on the other hand…
Hugo’s rose flew out of her hand, along with the note she treasured, both of them trampled amidst her desperate kicks. Anger welled up in her, and she scratched at the man’s arms. But it was like scratching stone, not flesh — he was that cold and hard. The face she glimpsed was harsh and angular, more like a statue than a man. He shoved her to the ground and loomed over her, laughing.
“There she is. My favorite crêpe chef.”
Clara scrambled up from bruised knees, ready to curse. Branix. That bastard.
But before she could utter a word, the blood drained from her face. It was Branix, but his features were grotesquely exaggerated, like an effigy of the man carved from stone. His hooked nose was centimeters long. Beady eyes bulged from his skull. His ears were long and pointy, and his fingernails curved like claws. When she spotted the leathery wings protruding from his back, her jaw dropped.
That was some kind of monster, not a man.
She turned to flee, but a second man blocked the way — Branix’s sidekick, his features just as distorted as his friend’s.
“What do you think, Calviorix? Is she not a prize?”
Branix’s friend shrugged. “If you say so.”
Clara held up her hands. “Get away from me.”
Her scream echoed under the stone bridge. Couldn’t anyone hear?
“Oh, but my dear. You are mine. I knew it the first time I saw you,” Branix said.
She stepped right, then left, but there was no way to edge past that monster. Not without jumping into the Seine — not a good option for a girl who had never learned to swim.
“Leave me alone, you monster.”
Branix gave an exaggerated sigh. “Monster? Well, just for you, I shall reveal my second self.”
The air around him shimmered, and his features softened to a more familiar, human shape. Not that Clara found any comfort in the sight — not with the way his greedy eyes locked on her.
She stared. “What are you?”
Branix laughed. “You humans. Unable to see the obvious.” He leaned closer and growled in a low, scratchy voice. “Gargoyle.”
Clara blanched. How could that possibly be?
Her disgust must have shown, because Calviorix grumbled. “I told you she’s just another haughty human.” When she turned to stare, his hands sliced the air. “We guard your cathedrals. We chase away your primitive fears, just as you humans would like us to. But the moment we leave our perches, we’re not good enough, are we?”
Her lip wobbled, but no words came.
“No, this one is special,” Branix purred, stalking closer. “Can you not see? She is a Peacemonger.”
Clara had no idea what that was, but Calviorix seemed impressed.
“Peacemonger,” he breathed.
“Having her as one of our own will force the Guardians to bargain with us.” Branix grinned. “Just think of the power we can gain.”
“Brilliant.” Calviorix nodded.
Clara tilted her head. She didn’t understand half of what they were saying. What was going on?
“Yes.” Branix’s eyes glowed at her. “She shall be mine.”
She shrank away, but he beckoned her to his side.
“My dear Clara. We gargoyles live lonely lives, you know. The time has come for me to take a mate, and I have chosen you.”
Lucky you, his tone said, making her stomach churn.
When he stepped closer, she inched away.
“I will make you my bride. We shall live together on the south tower of Notre Dame. Ah, the views,” he gushed. “You will love it.” Then his eyes sparked dangerously. “You will love me, too.”
“Never.” She took another step back, only to bump into Calviorix, who locked her arms at her sides.
Branix smiled indulgently. “Not never, my dear girl. Now.” His lips peeled back, revealing a row of pointy teeth. “Oh, don’t worry. My bite won’t hurt. In fact, I am sure you shall find it pleasurable.”
Terror froze her joints, and she couldn’t move or cry out. All she could do was scream in her mind. No. No. No.
An image of Hugo jumped into her mind, and she silently screamed for him, too. Hugo!
But Hugo wasn’t in earshot, and neither was anyone on the street above. She was on her own, with Branix inching closer, and Calviorix locking her in place.
Branix reached out with one cold, clammy hand and brushed her braid aside, exposing her neck. Slowly, he trailed the tip of his claw along her skin.
“One little kiss.” His voice went faint, almost reverent. “One little bite, and you shall be mine forever.”
“I am not yours,” she spat.
“Of course you are. I have decided, and thus, it shall be.” His fiendish grin flashed in the night. “Don’t worry, my pet. You will have the honor of being a gargoyle. Together, we will return my clan to a position of power. Can’t you see?” He made a sweeping gesture over the river. “Side by side, we will fly over Paris. We will roost wherever we like. The roof of the Louvre! The top of the Eiffel Tower! Wherever we like, whenever we like. Then we will fly home to the cathedral and make love under the moon.”
His eyes glittered with joy, but all Clara felt was horror.
Hugo, she screamed in her mind.
Branix frowned as if she’d screamed aloud. “That stupid canine doesn’t deserve you.”
Canine? She shook her head and looked around. She had to escape, and fast. But how? Scaling the underside of the bridge wouldn’t work, not when her attackers had wings. The river, perhaps? Maybe she could keep herself above water long enough to get away. If not, then heck. Drowning was better than what Branix proposed.
In one whirlwind movement, she stomped on her captor’s foot and jabbed her elbows into his ribs — a move that probably hurt her more than it hurt him, given his stony physique. Still, the element of surprise was on her side, and his grip loosened enough for her to twist free and dash to the edge of the embankment.
“Stop!”
Branix’s order didn’t halt her, but the voice in her mind did. A deep, familiar voice she loved to replay in her dreams.
Stop.
She whirled, positive she would see Hugo rushing to her rescue. Somehow, he had heard her cries and come running, just like the hero of her dreams.
But the footsteps rushing up to the bridge were soft and padded, and they stemmed from four feet, not two. Wolf’s feet.
Clara stared. A wolf? In Paris?
It ought to have been impossible, but it was a wolf. A huge one, with a dark scar across its muzzle and blue eyes so bright, they shone in the dim light. Its long, pink tongue hung out, rimmed by ivory teeth.
She nearly screamed for Hugo again, because now she was facing two gargoyles and a wild beast. But the wolf’s eyes locked on hers and begged, Look closer.
She didn’t want to look. She wanted this nightmare to end.
Still, she couldn’t help but obey, not with the way the wolf’s eyes beseeched her. For a moment, all she saw was the calculating eyes of a predator. Then the wolf tilted its head, and its blue eyes sparkled the way sunlight glinted off a glacial lake.
Clara froze. Hugo?
Branix scowled and spoke to the wolf as if it were an ordinary human. “I told you before, and I’ll tell you again. She’s mine. Now, get out of here and let destiny run its course.”
Destiny? Clara frowned. Hugo was her destiny. She’d sensed that from the moment they’d met.
The wolf bared its teeth, snarling.
Calviorix paled. “Um, Branix…”
Branix grabbed his friend before he could retreat. “Don’t fall for it, fool. That wolf is all bark and no bite.”
The wolf’s eyes sparkled dangerously. Are you sure about that?
Clara gulped. Surely, she was imagining things. Wolves didn’t resemble people, and people didn’t resemble wolves. Just because Hugo bore scars similar to the wolf’s…
But it wasn’t just the scars or eye color that reminded her of Hugo. There was something about his bearing, too, and the way his eyes softened when he looked at her. Above all was that warm, fuzzy feeling she got whenever Hugo was near, promising her everything would be all right.
Still, she would be insane to mistake wolf and furry for warm and fuzzy, right?
The wolf slid between her and Branix, growling at the gargoyle the entire time. It was so big, its back came nearly to her waist. Its tail lashing back and forth in slow, dangerous strokes, warning Branix away.
“You and Alaric believe you command Paris, but no,” the gargoyle hissed. “This woman is mine. Go tell that to your dragon friend.”
Clara did a double take. Hugo did have a friend named Alaric — the scariest, most intense man Clara had ever met — once, which had been enough. Clearly, Alaric was a man of power and importance. And, heck, she could absolutely picture the man spitting fire. So, dragon fit, but only in a figurative sense.
Her knees wobbled a little. Wait. What if it wasn’t figurative?
The wolf advanced on Branix, snarling. Not a low, continuous snarl, but one that changed pitch and emphasis, much like human speech.
Branix went red. “How dare you?”
Clara glanced between him and the wolf. What? What had the wolf just said?
Of course, wolves couldn’t say anything. Unless…
Her mind spun. If some men could change into gargoyles, others might be able to morph into dragons or wolves. Reclusive, secretive men, like Branix…or Hugo, who had never explained anything about himself. Hugo, who had shied away from questions like where he was from, what he did for a living, and where he went at night. Hugo, who exuded the kind of loyalty and fierceness she’d always associated with canines.
Could it really be?
The wolf’s tail tapped her leg, and she nearly skittered away. Then words formed in her mind, and her breath caught.
Watch out. Keep clear. Stay safe.
It was Hugo’s voice, coming to her like a distant whisper.
She wrung her hands. Watch out for what?
A split second later, the wolf launched itself at Branix, and a fight erupted before her eyes. A terrifyingly primitive fight of teeth, claws, and fangs. Wings fluttered. Roars boomed. Paws scraped against the stone embankment, and someone — or something — yelped in pain.
Clara scrambled backward, nearly toppling into the inky river. Catching her balance, she rushed to the staircase, determined to flee.
But in the midst of her escape, she halted for reasons she didn’t understand. Just a few more steps would bring her to the safety of the human world at the top of the stairs.
Still, a sinking sense of shame made her stop and look back. How could she leave Hugo now?
Which made no sense. She had no proof that wolf was Hugo — and every reason to flee. So why couldn’t she move?
The answer came to her in the middle of the deep breath she forced herself to take.
Because that is Hugo, and I love him.
She stared at the fight. Somehow, she just knew. That was the man she loved, and he was fighting for her.
How he could ever succeed, she couldn’t imagine, not with the gargoyles using their wings and stony armor. Every time the wolf lunged, they moved out of reach in jerky little hops. Every time the wolf snapped its jaws, they struck back with stony fists. And yet, the wolf persisted, moving like a whirlwind. Slashing, biting, and somehow landing his own blows, because Calviorix cried out in agony. Still, the sounds they made were muted, as if the only rule they’d agreed to was one that said they couldn’t attract human attention, no matter what.
Clara found herself inching back down the stairs and reaching for a thick branch washed up by the last flood. With shaky hands, she gave it a couple of experimental swipes, then stepped forward. She’d reached the point where fear tipped over into anger, and anger turned into power. A useful, if fleeting kind of power that would only take her so far.
So, act before you lose your nerve, she ordered herself.
Calviorix leaped away from the wolf, moving into her reach. She swung the branch with everything she had, aiming for the gargoyle’s wings. Her teeth rattled when the branch connected, and she nearly toppled back. The gargoyle toppled, too, nearly dunking into the river before regaining his balance. Then he stared in surprise.
A little thing like you dares attack me? His reddish eyes raged.
She swung the branch again. All she’d ever wanted was peace, but heck. This was about survival.
Calviorix bared his teeth, and she blanched, imagining him shredding her with those inch-long claws.
But just as the gargoyle sprang at her, a dark, furry shape exploded into Clara’s field of vision. It was the wolf, tackling Calviorix. They slammed to the ground, snarling and wrestling, and Clara feared the worst. But a moment later, Calviorix fluttered shakily into the sky and fled, giving up the fight.
Clara nearly cheered, but Branix’s dry mutter stopped her cold.
“That fool may flee, but not me. Surrender, wolf. The woman is mine.”
In gargoyle form, his voice was rougher and more dangerous than ever before. But the wolf growled in response, and Clara regained her courage, holding up her branch in self-defense.
A blur of noise and action ensued as the fight resumed. So tightly did the two engage, that Clara was afraid to swing for fear of hitting Hugo. All she could do was hope as the wolf wrestled the gargoyle to the ground. When they rolled, splashes of red mixed into the melee. Finally, the wolf grunted and pushed the gargoyle away. Branix sailed through the air, bashed into the sloping embankment, then splashed into the river.
Clara ran over, staring down, but there was no sight of man or beast. Not even a ripple on the water. Branix had sunk like a stone — fitting for a gargoyle, she supposed.
The wolf stepped up beside her, and for a moment, they watched the water, making sure Branix really was dead. Then their heads slowly swiveled, and they stared at each other.
Clara’s knees really buckled, because that wolf was huge. But when she gazed into his pale blue eyes, her heart warmed.
Slowly, she reached out to cup the wolf’s muzzle with trembling hands. Her voice shook too. “It’s you. It’s really you.”
The wolf gazed into her eyes, and she saw Hugo as clearly as if he were in human form. Then his head dipped, but not so much in exhaustion as…as…
Shame? Her heart ached, and she kneeled, bringing them face-to-face. Her knees shook, but deep inside, she knew she had nothing to fear from him.
“Hugo.” Gently, she tipped his muzzle up. “What’s wrong?”
Sad, canine eyes searched hers, full of sorrow and regret.
“What is it?” she asked.
His ears drooped as he looked over his own body. When Clara followed his eyes, realization dawned on her. That was his big secret — being a wolf. And yes, it was a doozy.
For a moment, she hesitated too. But when she closed her eyes, all she saw was the man she loved. And she opened them again, she still saw him — the man within the wolf.
Then she took a deep breath. Love was love, and she wasn’t about to give up on him now.
“You know, I made myself a promise today,” she whispered.
Hugo looked up, though his tail hung motionless.
“That the next time we met, I would finally tell you how I feel.” She took a deep breath, then went on. “I love you, Hugo. And I think… I think you love me too.”
Of course I love you, those pure blue eyes swore.
She smiled in spite of everything — her bruised body, the lingering fears, her pounding heart — and stroked his muzzle, picturing his beard the whole time.
“Then what’s holding us back from…from being together? Loving each other the way we want to. Fully. Completely. Forever.”
Then she blushed, because those words made her sound — well, on the one hand, hopelessly naïve. Taken a different way, those same words were unspeakably risqué. But she meant both those things. She wanted to love Hugo in all possible ways. As purely and intently as the love she felt, and as lustfully as her body demanded.
Hugo’s eyes shone a little brighter, and his tail wagged. Then he licked his pink lips and glanced at his body as if to ask, Even with the scars? The fur? The fangs?
She shook her head. Didn’t he see?
“I love you no matter what you look like, Hugo. Forever.” Then a stray thought struck her, and she bit her lip. “You can change back, right?”
She would love him forever, but having a human to hug, kiss, and — ahem, get intimate with — sure would be nice.
The wolf’s mouth curled into an amused grin, and his head bobbed. Then he backed away and reared up to two feet. Clara stared as his front paws lengthened and his fur thinned. His muzzle shortened, and his ears rounded. Before she could so much as utter her surprise, Hugo stood before her in human form. For a few heartbeats, they stared at each other, then fell into a tight hug.
“Will you forgive me?” he murmured, holding her close.
“Forgive what?”
“For not explaining what I truly am.”
“I know who you are. Who you really are, I mean.” He was a man of honor. Of courage. A hero.
He nuzzled her shoulder with his scratchy stubble, and it felt incredibly good. So good, that images of him nuzzling forbidden areas of her naked body rushed through her mind.
Hugo’s breath caught. Was he thinking the same thing? Coming out of wolf form had left him naked, and she couldn’t decide whether to shield her eyes or to peek down to check.
“You really think you can live with a man who turns into a wolf?” he asked, keeping her nice and close.
Sinfully close, her girl parts cooed.
“It’s not the body that counts. It’s the soul.” Then she grimaced. “Do you think you can live with a boring girl from the provinces?”
He snorted. “Boring? Not the woman who makes a difference to everyone she meets.”
“You’re not just saying that because I make good crêpes?”
He laughed. “You make the best crêpes in Paris, but no. You do much more than that. It’s as if peace follows wherever you go.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Peace that fills me in a way nothing ever has before.”
That might have been the most beautiful moment of her life, but then she remembered what Branix had said.
“Wait. Is that what this is about?” She didn’t pull away from Hugo, but she did study his eyes intently. “Branix called me a Peacemonger. What is that?
Hugo’s eyes were blank, then went wide with wonder. “Peacemonger? I knew you were special, but I never suspected…”
She gulped. Was that good or bad?
Hugo cupped her face. “It’s an old legend. A woman with special powers, like a witch—”
“A witch?” she screeched.
He laughed. “Forgive me. I am better with weapons than with words. Not a witch. A person who…who…” He stirred the air. “Who does what you do. Spreading peace. Looking on the bright side of things.”
She gulped. That sounded a little grand for a girl who made crêpes. But who knew what she’d inherited from her father’s side?
Then a massive shadow swooped overhead, and she yelped. Was Calviorix back with reinforcements?
But Hugo waved casually and called out to it. “Everything is all right, my friend. At least, it is now.”
Clara’s jaw dropped, because he was calling out to a dragon. A huge, coppery dragon with icy eyes and a long, whipping tail.
“Don’t worry. That’s just Alaric,” Hugo said.
Just? the dragon protested with a snap of its tail.
Clara gripped Hugo’s hand to keep from running. Holy mother of God. A dragon?
“I’ll explain later. Thank you for coming,” Hugo called to the dragon, then shooed it away.
Clara nudged him in the ribs. Surely, one didn’t order a dragon around?
But Hugo pinned the dragon with an uncompromising look, and it flew off toward Notre Dame with a snort. Clara watched it go, almost feeling sorry for any gargoyles in its path.
“I’m sorry,” Hugo murmured. “There’s so much I have to explain.”
She gulped, pulling herself together. Yes, he did. But her mind was already spinning, and only one thing really mattered now.
“Yes, you do. But I’m already overwhelmed.” She closed her eyes, drawing on the settled feeling she always got near Hugo. Then she squared her shoulders, determined not to stand around helplessly. “First things first. We need to cover you up…”
She motioned shyly to his groin, though Hugo didn’t seem the least chagrined.
“…and get you to my place, where we’ll…we’ll…”
She hesitated, trying to put it delicately.
Hugo raised one thick eyebrow. “Where we’ll…talk, perhaps?”
She swallowed hard. “I was thinking more along the lines of…well, uncovering you again.”
He broke into a sinful smile. “Just me?”
She shook her head. “Uncovering me, too.” Then she looped her arms around him and kissed him to cover up her blush. “Letting me demonstrate just how much I love you.”
Hugo’s lips moved over hers like water from a freshly sprung well. Pure, clean water seeing the light of day for the very first time.
“No, my love,” he murmured. “I’ll show you.”
* * *
Paris, present day
Clara sighed at the soft play of Hugo’s hand over her ribs. When she opened her eyes, he smiled and nuzzled her with his grizzled white beard. They had left the windows a handbreadth open, and the curtains stirred lazily in the breeze, just as they had that first morning she’d woken in the arms of her true love, so many years ago.
She brushed her lips over his, sighing. “I still feel twenty. Why don’t I look it?”
“A wise woman once told me it’s not the body that counts, but the soul. Besides, you’re more beautiful than you were at twenty or thirty or forty.”
She made a face. “If you even mention fifty or sixty…”
Hugo shook his head. “I mean it. You are more beautiful every day we share.” His eyes shone as he traced a finger down her cheek.
Nuzzling his chin, she thought about how much had changed since they’d first met. She’d gone from wide-eyed country girl — pure human with no clue about the shifter world — to experienced, confident wolf shifter, thanks to Hugo’s mating bite. Over the years, she’d learned that not all gargoyles were bad, which vampires to watch out for, and above all, the pleasure of howling to the moon at her mate’s side.
As for being a Peacemonger — well, she still wasn’t convinced. She’d always had a knack for calming people down and looking on the bright side of life, but that didn’t seem like much to her, no matter how Hugo gushed about it. Still, it helped in her line of work. Both lines of work, in fact. Out of love for the job, she still worked a few hours a week at the crêpe stand. And, like Hugo, she had taken over from an older generation to become one of the Guardians of Paris — an elite group of shapeshifters who maintained law and order in the city. Well, they did their best, but it was a challenge. Alaric, the alpha dragon who ruled over the city, had just launched a bold new strategy in hopes of reviving an ancient spell of protection.
She drew back to look Hugo in the eye. “Do you really think Alaric’s plan to locate a Fire Maiden will work?”
“It could, but the risks involved…” Hugo grimaced. As Alaric’s right-hand man, he’d lobbied for a less drastic course of action, but the dragon shifter had insisted on an all-or-nothing plan. “Plus, the woman he’s identified has no idea she might stem from a long-lost line of royal blood. Who knows how she will react? Poor thing.” He sighed. “I suppose we’ll find out later today. But right now…”
He went back to nuzzling. Clara cozied up to him, letting her hands stray down his body. She had her reservations about Alaric’s plan too, but there was nothing she could do until the meeting. In the meantime, they had an hour to spare. Time enough to make sweet, slow love just as they had that very first morning way back when.
Hugo’s eyes shone, and his lips drifted down her neck.
A ripple of anticipation went through her body, and she chuckled at herself. “Isn’t growing old supposed to come with aches, pains, and regrets?”
“Only if you’re a dragon.”
She burst out laughing. “Only if you’re Alaric, you mean.”
Hugo groaned. “Don’t remind me. He’s gotten grouchier than ever. That man needs a mate.”
She frowned. “According to him, he needs no one. Except us at that urgent meeting all too soon.”
“Nothing can be urgent enough to get me away from my mate this early. So what if that new hire — whatshisname — tangled with vampires last night? I’m sure they had it coming.”
She poked his broad chest. “You know Tristan’s name very well, my dear.”
Hugo laughed. “Once he proves himself, I’ll admit it. Though I have to say, the boy has potential.”
She snorted. “He’s no more a boy than you were where we met. More like a seasoned warrior.”
Hugo’s eyes drifted into the past. “A warrior, he is. However, he has yet to prove how much heart he has when it comes to…other matters.”
Clara smiled. Once upon a time, Hugo was exactly like Tristan, the strapping young dragon shifter Alaric had recently hired. Barely thirty, but already hardened by battle. Honorable and confident, yet lovably headstrong. Still, something was missing in young Tristan, just as Hugo had been lacking a certain something when Clara had first met him.
Love, a little voice whispered. Destiny, calling from deep in her soul. Hugo found love, and it brought him an inner peace.
“I found you,” Hugo whispered, reading her mind.
She smiled, holding him close. So few people were blessed with the kind of love she and Hugo shared. Would young Tristan ever be as lucky?
Hugo let his hands drift higher along her ribs. “Now, now. There’s only so much time before that meeting. Let’s make the most of it.”
She sank back in the sheets, letting her man work his magic on her. Before long, her body was burning, her world a haze of sensual pleasure. Whenever she opened her eyes, she saw glimpses of the past and present. The pink roses at the bedside might have been from the previous day or previous decade. The sweet scent of her mate’s arousal, mingling with hers. The low murmurs of desire and the love in Hugo’s eyes, as fresh and sincere as ever.
Every time she bonded with her mate, it felt as if life couldn’t get any better. And every time they dropped back to the sheets, sweaty and satisfied — like now — she nestled in his arms, feeling more at peace than ought to be possible in such a troubled world.
Hugo stroked her arm as her heart rate slowly settled.
She sighed, because it truly was time to face a busy day — and that meeting with Alaric in that palace of his over in the ninth arrondissement.
But Hugo held her firmly in his arms, chuckling in her ear.
“Just a little longer, my love. Just a little longer.”
* * *
Thank you for reading Paris Rose, a prequel to Anna Lowe’s Fire Maidens: Billionaires & Bodyguards series. This short story sets the stage for full-length Book 1, Fire Maidens: Paris, a steamy, suspenseful, paranormal romance. Get your copy today to see more of Hugo & Clara and to discover more about dragon shifter Tristan Chevalier. You can also click here for a sneak peek!
You can travel throughout all of Europe with the Fire Maidens: Billionaires & Bodyguards series, and every book is available in audio — including Paris Rose! Get all the details here.
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