A few moments earlier…
“The occult section is private, Miss—”
“Please, call me Delia,” she said, smiling at the young human male.
“Right, Delia. Like I was saying—”
“Your name is?”
“Oh, it’s Robbie,” he murmured, tugging on his collar.
Poor Robbie looked as though he was about to have a heart attack just from talking to her. She understood completely.
Shifters had a sort of natural, er, supernatural appeal to humans or normals as they were often referred to by folks like Delia. She knew he couldn’t help himself as he stared wide-eyed at her.
Shifters were simply very appealing, at least physically, to the normals. To be honest, she did not mind one bit. It meant Delia rarely had a difficult time getting things she wanted. Like access to invitation only rooms inside one of the world’s premier occult booksellers.
Eeeeeek!
She still could not believe she was finally there! Grinning her best grin, careful to keep her Wolf under wraps, Delia chatted poor Robbie up a little more.
“You see, your name is not on the list. Mrs. Wulver would have said—”
“Ah, yes, but you see, my trip was last minute, but I promise I emailed her, Robbie.”
“You did?”
“Uh huh. Why don’t you see if you can reach her?”
“Alright, um, one moment, please,” the poor confused man mumbled.
Her animal was so excited, it was a bit of a struggle to rein her in. Her inner beastie loved a good hunt, and this guy was just too easy.
“Um, I am sorry, Mrs. Wulver is not available it seems—”
“Oh drat,” she murmured. “Did I forget to mention I am here looking to procure some new items for my shop back home in the states? I do apologize, Robbie. I’m Delia Crescent from Crescent Moon Books, maybe she has me penned in somewhere under my store’s name,” she told him.
“I will check again,” he replied, and while he did that, Delia scrolled through her emails trying to find one from Mrs. Wulver.
“I see you in the contacts here,” Robbie murmured.
“Excellent, and look, I found an email,” Delia replied, handing over her phone.
She had it open to an email she’d recently received from the owner of the impressive bookshop, inviting her and Clara to come overseas and check out her stock.
“Oh, I see. That does seem to be in order. It’s just, well,” he hedged. “Miss Crescent, no one really goes in that room, except for a local gent, and he’s a right curmudgeon of a man,” Robbie informed her, rubbing the back of his neck like he was uncomfortable even mentioning the person.
Delia nodded her understanding. She knew what it was like to have difficult customers whose expectations were often unreasonable. Self-entitlement was running rampant in all corners of the world, apparently.
It was catching, she supposed, like measles.
“Oh, I see. Well, thank you for the warning and I promise to stay out of his way, Robbie.”
“Aye, I’d advice that, Miss.”
“Fingers-crossed, I miss him, but even if I don’t, I’ll be perfectly quiet and well-behaved,” she replied with another teasing grin.
Delia could see him wavering and silently applauded herself. That smile of hers had earned her more than one round of drinks from the local pub, courtesy of Mickey.
The old bartender was cute as a button, with his long white beard and sparkling blue eyes. Like a sexy Scottish St. Nick. Delia had gone so far as to call him that, earning her a manly chuckle from the old gent.
There was just something about Scottish men she found ridiculously sexy. Delia had always teased Clara about her penchant for crushing on anyone with an English accent—something gangs of American women had in common.
Delia was never really about all that, but after ten minutes in Scotland, she was a downright slut for the sexier, rougher, and better all-around Scottish brogue.
Maybe it was the Gerard Butler marathon she’d binged on the airplane over. Or her love of classic Bond films. No one beat Sir Sean Connery in her not so humble opinion. But whatever the reason, she was having a great time chatting up the folks hereabouts.
“Just give me a second to log you in and grant you the proper permissions in the system,” Robbie said, taking her information and entering it as he said he would.
Delia’s mind wandered while she answered things like name and address automatically. The trip was long and tiring, but she bounced back quickly.
Her first stop had been the hotel, followed by an immediate hunt for food. Delia needed sustenance after her long flight, and likely, she should have napped, but being a Werewolf and all, she was ready to go.
After a meal of perfectly fried fish and chips, and a few tap beers served slightly above room temperature—strange for sure, but Delia was into trying new things—she felt wonderful. It would have all been better with someone to share it with, but that was okay.
Sad whine.
Shushing her Wolf, Delia exhaled a calming breath. Unlucky at love was her unwanted yet earned motto. She’d tried dating men and women as they appealed to her, but no one stuck. She was tired of the whole game.
Delia felt lonely, unseen, and a little envious of her sister’s newfound happiness. It was that ugly part of her, the one hovering way too close to the deep green waters of jealousy, that drove her to seek a healthier outlet.
What better way to get through emotional upheaval than to bury herself in work? The bookstore needed new stock, and Delia needed a change of scenery.
So, here she was, in bonnie old Scotland, talking to a nervous human who looked like he was going to crap his pants at the prospect of allowing her entry to the occult section of the shop.
“Well, there we have it. All done. Now, it is early yet for a Saturday, and since the client I spoke of rarely works on the weekend, I suppose you should be fine. Go on then, Miss. Top of the stairs, and to the right,” Robbie explained.
“Thanks Robbie. And call me Delia. I’ll bring down my selections to be shipped home. Appreciate it.”
“My pleasure, Miss, um, Delia,” he said with a sheepish grin.
Just like that, Delia was off to really start her adventure. Anticipation buzzed along her skin like electricity dancing in the air. Her Druid magic might be the reason too. It was as if it recognized Delia was on the very continent of its origins.
“Easy does it,” she whispered, tilting her head back and allowing her senses a moment to catch up with her.
Wulver & Dracos Booksellers had a wonderful old smell to it. Beneath the books, printer’s ink, and leather were wisdom, turmoil, joy, and every other emotion expressing the human condition as told by men and women for hundreds of years.
Her breath caught in her throat. She had a profound love of literature, something she had indulged in since she could read at the tender age of three.
It was not uncommon for the Crescent girls to be seen with their noses buried in one harrowing adventure or lusty romance, she supposed, but books had always been the destination for Delia.
A fast reader, Delia simply devoured novels. She went through three to five a week regularly. Sometimes she read so quickly, became so engrossed in the story, Delia hardly knew who wrote the thing till way after she was finished. She never was one to follow the crowd or hype surrounding book releases. She chose her stories like she chose her partners, based on how they appealed to her as a person.
At least I have better luck with books than mates…
It was easy to forget writers were real people. Especially in this technological age where one story after another could be easily downloaded and read on a handy little e-reader or cell phone app. All good things, for sure, but people created the stories she loved, and Delia worked hard to remember that.
Must be hard to see so much and imagine even more only to despair over what words to choose to say what you mean.
Delia did not envy authors. Having been part of more than one book group gone sour due to over-zealous criticism of an author’s work, she’d put off her own plans to write. Following her dreams was turning out to be harder than she’d thought, but that was life.
No pain, no gain, right?
Except Delia wasn’t a huge fan of pain to begin with. Still, she admired those who pursued a writing career. Brave souls, that lot!
Delia supported authors she adored whenever she could. Especially indies. Secretly, she hoped someday she would be strong enough to try her hand at penning something. Maybe poetry. Maybe romance. Who knew?
Not a coward by nature, still, Delia chose her battles. In her humble opinion, writers had to be some of the bravest people on the planet. She would love to join them someday, but timing was everything, or so they said.
That’s it. I am just waiting for the right time to take that leap.
Meanwhile, she’d keep looking for inspiration everywhere she went, and in everyone she met. Goddess knew she could use some more of that in her life. Every day was the same old thing, until now.
That was why she was here, right? She’d come to Scotland to have her very own adventure.
“Okay,” she mumbled to herself as she reached the infamous occult room.
“Pict and Druid histories, according to Roman scribes, of course,” she muttered, reading the sections aloud.
She was intent on finding more information concerning that half of her genetics she knew so little about. Being a Druid Shifter hybrid was tricky most of the time but following the fairly recent end of the Curse of St. Natalis, well, Delia and Clara had both discovered a surge in their magic and Wolfish traits.
It would be good to find more histories of such pairings if she could. But that was why she was here. To lose herself in this wonderland cultivated by generation after generation of the Wulver & Dracos family.
How truly marvelous to be as much a part of the histories inside these writings, cared for in this place as the first people who wrote them.
Lost in her musings, Delia’s gaze raked the shelves, stopping on a tome with an interesting looking rune carved in the leather spine. She stopped, bent over, and tried to remove the book.
“Stubborn, aren’t ya?” she muttered, giving it another good tug.
So lost was she in her battle, trying to get the book out of the shelf, which seemed determined to keep the thing from her, she hadn’t any clue someone was coming. Not until she heard, er, make that felt, the enormous male slam right into her.
“Hey!” she yelled, as a man’s body plowed right into her.
“Och! Watch out!” was the growly reply as strong hands gripped her waist, turning them in their downward spiral so that she landed on top of him.
Gasping for breath and stunned by the impact, Delia had nary a moment to spare before her Wolf was panting for the stranger. Dazzling eyes, a body to die for, hair that was just the right length for tugging—hells to the yes, this man was smokin’ hot.
Holy cow!
She wasn’t usually so shallow as to judge a book, er, mate by their cover, but it was like she just got hit by lightning. Her Wolf snarled inside her. Delia’s magic started buzzing along her skin. Her gaze zeroed in on his sparkling eyes.
“They’re like sapphires,” she murmured.
“What?” he asked, his gruff voice loud in the otherwise quiet bookstore.
But Delia did not answer him. She couldn’t. Her inner beastie was stuck on one word, and she could hardly think of anything else. Delia tightened her grip on him, like she was trying to survive the tidal wave of emotions crashing over her.
Mine. Mine. MINE.