our vow? You’re my blood brother.”
“And she’s my mate,” Damian said quietly.
“Then, t’ frère, you have a big problem. If you don’t bond with her, you’ll turn feral. But how can you mate with a human who wished you into a coffin?"
Damian leaned back, edgy and wanting. A male’s draicara pumped up all his testosterone, driving him to prove his strength and sexual prowess. In Alphas, the mating drive tripled, turning males wild and unpredictable. If he didn’t mate, he’d be dangerous even to his pack. Would they drive him away as his father’s people had?
He wanted only Jamie now, her scent, the taste of her skin, the feel of her soft, naked body beneath his. He couldn’t shake off his lust.
“Let it go, Rafe. I can handle her.”
“Then do it fast. Sounds like she’s running out of time. Sex can slow the porphyry cunja. If you trust her not to slam a knife in your back while you mount her.” Rafe’s jaw tightened.
Sex might be a solution. A Draicon’s cells, including blood and semen, contained magick. As a purebred Alpha, his magick was more powerful than other males'.
“Could I cure Jamie by infusing her with my magick when we have sex?"
Rafe raised his gaze to his. Damian tensed against the haunting sorrow swimming there.
“No. Your blood, or coming inside her, will only slow the spell. It can’t stop it.”
He stared at the big vein on Raphael’s neck, throbbing with life. His immortal brother whose blood contained immense energy and power. “Maybe …"
Rafe tensed and looked away. It was forbidden for Rafe, and he knew the consequences would be drastic.
“I have to find the book.” Damian ran a hand over his face. “But I can’t leave her alone. It’s too risky.”
“Then let me help. I’ll send Adam and Ricky. Keep watch. They’ll do anything to keep her from leaving.”
“Don’t you dare let another male near her.” Damian growled, his fingers digging into his napkin. Instinct urged him to stake a claim. Rip apart any male who glanced her way.
“Damian, easy, easy.”
Shreds of linen napkin lay on the table. Willing himself to calm, he retracted his claws.
Raphael’s wary look said it all. He dug into his gumbo, ate in silence. After a minute, Damian felt his control returning. His brother gave him a mild look.
“So tell me. Is she really dying?”
Raphael cursed in French after Damian told him. “My guys are yours. Take Adam and Ricky. Best warriors, can kick Morph ass from here to Houma. Or any of my other males. There’s twenty now, all show promise of being good fighters. Anything to help, t’ frère.”
Raphael had taken unmated male Draicon with no blood relations, taught them discipline and bonding and formed them into a pack to fight Morphs. Too many wild, frustrated males roved the streets. A grieving and angry Draicon without the close-knit society of a pack was dangerous.
“Merci,” he managed. “But I can’t risk a pack trailing me. Do your part. Find and kill Morphs, as many as you can.”
“It’s war,” his friend agreed.
Damian narrowed his gaze as his mouth flattened into a ruthless line. “Laissez les bons temps rouler.” Let the good times roll.
“Damian? This Jamie. She’d better not try anything
on you again. Mate or not. You’re blood, t’ frère.” Raphael removed a gold dagger from the sheath hanging on his jeans. Light played over the intricate runes carved into the sacred Scian. He flipped it into the air, catching it by the hilt. His eyes were stone-cold.
“My business, Rafe. Leave it be.” They locked stares, muscles quivering until Raphael sheathed the blade with a small nod.
“What can I do, then?” Rafe asked.
“Be available. I may need help. And fetch my stuff from the hotel, bring it over when I call.” A grim smile touched his mouth. “I’m moving in with her.”
“Later, then.” The other Draicon clasped his arm.
Damian left, glanced around the busy sidewalk. His priorities were clear. Get Jamie to trust him and find the book. He’d go back to her, she was probably hungry …
Fresh fruit. Natural fructose might help. He stopped at a small grocery store and purchased peaches.
He retuned to her house, headed upstairs with the bag. Jamie sat on the couch as she typed on a laptop. Damian nearly dropped the fruit. Elongated purple elfin ears stuck comically out of either side of her head.
She glanced up as he set the peaches down on the coffee table. A question in his eyes, Damian sat beside her and playfully tweaked an ear.
“I’m a warrior Night Elf,” she said, yawning. “I’m too tired to wear the rest of the outfit. Cosplay makes me feel better. It’s comforting.”
“I thought women liked dressing in old T-shirts and sweats to get comfortable.”
Her mouth turned down. “When I cosplay, I am Celyndra, my elf. She’s a tough fighter, courageous and doesn’t fear much.”
“Ah, she’s your alter ego,” he said softly in understanding. A frown puckered his forehead. “Such an imagination. Where did you get the idea?"
She grinned at his expression. “Haven’t you ever heard of WoW?"
“Wow?”
“World of Warcraft. My avatar is a female Night Elf warrior. Some who were in my alliance used to meet at the square Saturday nights to hang out and cosplay.”
Jamie’s grin deepened. “Don’t tell me you never heard of cosplay, either. Everyone knows what it is. What are you, a hundred?"
“Eighty,” he muttered, feeling as old as an ancient mage. Merlin, maybe.
“Eighty! You look like you’re in your twenties. No wonder you don’t know what anything is.”
“I know what hanging out is,” he said defensively.
“Cosplay is costume play. You dress as a character from a book or game and role play. World of Warcraft is an online video game. You pick a character and fight battles. It’s a lot more complicated than that, but …"
“Battles?” he echoed. Damian narrowed his eyes. “You learned to fight and organize an army? This skill you taught the Morphs came from a game?"
“I did learn some skill from it. But that’s nothing compared to some guys I know. Former marines, army guys. Friends.”
Raphael’s pack had checked out all her friends in New Orleans. Jamie had few. A
