was dead. Years ago—it had made front-page news, everywhere. Besides, even if the papers had gotten it wrong, Nina would be in her sixties now. This woman looked to be in her twenties. Blond hair that fell in soft, barely-there waves to her shoulders, hazel-gray eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, and a pale complexion that was currently just the slightest bit flushed. She was pretty. Hell, she was more than pretty, but...well, it felt weird, thinking of her like that, particularly with the confusing mishmash in his mind with Nina. He frowned.
“Uh, I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t really look old enough to be a professor,” he remarked tentatively. He kept his tone light, perhaps there was even a hint of flirtation, but there was also some doubt. She looked like she should be a student, not the lecturer.
Her lips tightened briefly before curling into a smile. “I’m older than I look,” she said. “Used to be a problem when I was younger and trying to get into bars.”
Her response was light, but he got the impression his remark hadn’t been received as a flattering compliment on her youthful looks.
“You wanted to ask me something?” she reminded him as she turned a corner down a tree-lined street.
“Uh, yeah. I hear you’re an expert on all things mystical and mythological?” He still couldn’t quite believe it. He’d thought, when Dave had mentioned this woman, that she’d be much older. He frowned. Hadn’t Dave said she’d been here for some years? How did that work?
She nodded. “I’ve spent some time studying the old stories and legends,” she conceded. “What did you want to know?”
He glanced around the street. He wasn’t exactly eager to discuss his mission in public, but he’d detected a wariness in this woman and sensed this might be the easiest way to get her attention—and her assistance. He didn’t have the time to leave it until some assistant managed to find an empty slot in the professor’s schedule.
Fortunately the street was mostly clear of people. A woman walked her dog further along the block and a man carried two big bags of trash out to a bin on the curb.
“I’m wondering if you are aware of any myths or legends that discuss survivors of lycan attacks,” he said casually.
Her eyebrows rose. “Well, yes. There are any number of ancient legends that include a lycan survival story. Particularly before the time of The Troubles, when humans still viewed werewolves as creative fiction. For a time, there was a belief that if one did manage to survive a werewolf’s bite, one also turned into a werewolf.” She smiled briefly. “We know that’s not true now, though. We know that there has to be a bloodline, for example, for lycanism to develop.”
“What did people do to survive the lycan’s bite? In those legends, I mean,” Lucien amended casually as she again led him around a corner. This street was quieter. Lights were on in some homes and the streetlamps gave a charming glow to the wide street. Shadows stretched between the lamps and colored leaves littered the sidewalk and gutters. He scuffed at a pile as he walked along, the movement almost instinctive. His lips curled briefly. Nina used to love the leaves. He glanced up and down the street. She’d love this neighborhood. He sighed. God, he hadn’t thought of Nina in years. That familiar ache was still there, though, edged with regret.
“Oh, they didn’t. Not really,” the professor said. “Usually, the stories showed the victim dying a painful death, often shot with a silver bullet.”
Lucien blanched. “At least they got that detail right,” he muttered. Silver was toxic to both shifters and vampires, and the humans had used it to good effect during The Troubles.
She nodded. “It’s surprising that some of the beliefs manifested in these legends were obviously born from some aspect rooted in reality.”
She halted at the gate of a modest Colonial-style house with white columns on a wide porch. An old-fashioned coach light spread a warm glow in front of the red front door. “Well, this is me. Thank you for walking me home.” She smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She turned away from him and suddenly he didn’t want her to go, didn’t want their time to come to an end.
“Let me walk you to your door,” he said, following her through the gate.
Her eyebrows dipped. “Oh, no, you don’t need—”
He met her gaze. “Please, let me walk you to your door,” he said smoothly, using a light compulsion. He almost felt guilty, but he quashed the emotion before it caught a foothold. He reminded himself he was there to save his sister, and he didn’t have time for polite pleasantries and stop-start conversations. But, deep down, he couldn’t shake his fascination with this woman. Was it just that she looked so like someone he’d once known? Someone he’d once...felt something for?
Something flashed in her hazel-gray eyes—irritation?—then it was gone and a polite smile crossed her face.
“I would love it if you walked me to my door,” she said in a low voice.
The husky sound curled deep inside him and he tried to think of any excuse to stretch out this meeting, this discussion, just a little longer. He took a deep breath as he walked down the garden path with her. He didn’t need an excuse. His sister was lying in a coffin, slowly being consumed by a poison he desperately needed to find a cure for. This was not a first meeting. This was the meeting until he got what he needed.
She opened her bag, retrieved her keys, unlocked and opened her front door and then turned to face him. “If that’s all, Mr. Marchetta—”
“Lucien,” he prompted, and she dipped her head.
Her glasses had slid down her nose and she now pushed them back into position. He wondered if she realized she used her middle finger to do it—although the gesture looked natural.
“Lucien,” she repeated. “I really have to go in and mark some papers—” She gestured with her thumb over her shoulder, but his gaze remained on the woman in front of him. She really was quite stunning. There was no reason why perhaps this meeting couldn’t be an enjoyable one, for both of them.
“I’d love to talk some more,” he said, his throat dry, his voice husky.
She tilted her head as she looked up at him, her eyes that fascinating blend of warm golds and cool grays. “Perhaps you’d like to call me some time,” she said, her voice matching his in the husky stakes. She pulled a business card out of a pocket of her bag and offered it to him. He grasped the small rectangle of quality print stock and her fingers held it for just a little longer.
He lifted his gaze to hers. There was curiosity there, for sure, and an awareness of him that matched his unexpected appreciation of her. Something warmer flashed in those eyes, something he knew shone deep within his own. His gaze drifted down over her slender, straight nose to the sweetly curved lips.
“Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside?” he suggested softly. He placed his hand on the doorjamb and leaned closer. He could hear her soft intake of breath, the spark of surprise, the flare of heat that shifted her eye color to more golden than gray. Her lips parted.
He could feel the muscles in his groin stir, tighten, as her scent drifted to him, something soft and sweet, and yet...familiar. He leaned closer still, saw the pulse flutter at the base of her throat.
“I’m not in the habit of letting men I’ve just met inside my home,” she replied, her gaze dipping to stare
