Immortal Wolf - By Bonnie Vanak

Prologue

O nce she restored life. Now she brought death with her touch.

Emily Burke brushed a tender hand across the cold marble gravestone. Beneath it lay Helen, her favorite aunt. Around the stone, daisies planted in loving care were withering and dying on their frail stems.

Never had she felt this forlorn. Not since she’d killed her father a year ago.

Sunlight dappled fading gold-and-red leaves on the canopy of trees. Stray beams drifted onto the small clearing in the deep woods. Here and there, rounded markers etched in the Old Language marked the places where family eternally rested. The Burke pack had ruled this section of eastern Tennessee for generations, living and dying on these same three hundred wooded acres.

If her people had their way, soon her gravestone would join the others. Then the curse haunting her would be broken at last.

A shiver skated down her spine as a cool breeze caressed her cheek. In a few days, the most revered of all Draicon, the Kallan, arrived to prepare her for the rite of trasna. The ritual passage to the Other Realm required formal meditation, farewells and anointing. Though fairly young, the Kallan was renowned. Females whispered of his legendary sexual prowess. Males lowered their heads in respect for his tremendous power.

Without the Kallan, her own pack would be forced to execute her.

Stretching out her hands, she studied the chamois men’s gloves that covered them. She pulled off the right glove and the thin latex sterile glove beneath it. Emily touched the gravestone again, relishing the feel of the hard surface, cool marble. Just to feel…anything.

I can touch you now, Helen.

A daisy plant drooped by the gravestone. Emily swallowed hard. She glanced around and picked up a sharp rock. A sharp swipe across her palm and she winced.

She held her bleeding palm over the plant. One, two, three, four drops of crimson, her life’s fluid, dripped onto the flower.

Emily allowed the cut to heal and watched the daisy with faint hope. The white petals unfurled and the lemon-yellow center glowed with health. Once more, she’d brought back life. The last descendant of the pureblood Draicon, she could restore life with her blood. Emily had healed many, including the animals of the forest who lay sick and dying.

Yet for a year, her touch now killed her own kind.

Oh, to be cursed with the touch of death and the blood of life. Why? Did the goddess curse her because Aibelle saw Emily as vain?

“What have I done?” she whispered. “Please, tell me how I can amend it. I did not abuse this gift I was given at birth. I only wanted to heal.”

A year ago in a dream, the goddess Aibelle mysteriously told her the balance of life and death was within Emily. And the next day, Emily had touched her father and…

Tiny crescent marks gouged her palm as she squeezed, her nails digging into tender flesh. Swallowing hard, she covered her hand. Both gloves had been purified in sage smoke and bathed in a rich mixture of spices and herbs before drying. No matter. Her hands killed her people.

She had killed her father after touching him. Killed her aunt Helen as well. Now she must pay the price, before her curse spread to other Draicon.

She had one hope. Recently, she’d telepathically found her dracairon, her destined mate. Amant. His deep, sexy voice in her mind didn’t hint of origin, and it sent a thrill through her. Worried he might have heard of Emily, the cursed one, she’d given her nickname of Erin. She imagined him as big, powerful and slightly threatening to anyone who dared to hurt her.

Even the Kallan, the Draicon who would execute her.

Amant was her knight, who would charge to her rescue. If Amant knew of her fate, he would do anything to save her. It was his duty. Instinct would drive him to risk all to keep her safe.

Emily closed her eyes and mentally reached out to call out to her white knight.

Help me.

Raphael Robichaux sped toward Bourbon Street on his Harley toward his favorite bar for one last prowl through his turf in New Orleans. Miles away, a female awaited him to deliver her to death. A quick death, but death nonetheless.

The big bike purred as wind whipped his ragged shoulder-length hair. Riding the Harley gave him the only true freedom he knew. But as Raphael neared Bourbon, a voice called out in pained insistence.

Kallan. Kallan. I have need of you.

Raphael turned the bike around, toward the weak, hopeful