Chapter 9 #2
Rafferty shifted to the side, pulling me against his chest in a position that was becoming familiar. “Not as long as you remember there are some secrets that need to remain secrets.”
The reminder sobered me. “The world isn’t ready to know about werewolves, is it?”
“No.” His voice was grave. “History hasn’t been kind to those perceived as ‘other,’ Eliot. My kind has been hunted, experimented on, exterminated when discovered. Why do you think silver features so prominently in werewolf lore?”
I frowned. “I assumed it was symbolic—silver associated with the moon, purity against the beast, that sort of thing.”
“It’s literal. Silver burns us, weakens us. In sufficient quantities, it can kill.” His expression darkened. “Hunters discovered that centuries ago. Used it to great effect during the purges.”
The implications chilled me. “There were organized hunts? Like witch trials?”
“Worse, in some ways. At least accused witches sometimes survived their trials.” He shook his head.
“We’ve learned to hide, to blend in. The legends that persist—the Hollywood version of werewolves—provide useful cover.
Most people are looking for mindless monsters, not pub owners who get clumsy around cute professors. ”
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, I smiled at his description. “I suppose I should be flattered that I disrupted your supernatural cool.”
“You should.” His fingers traced idle patterns on my shoulder. “It’s not easy to fluster a Guardian.”
We lapsed into comfortable silence, my mind processing everything I’d learned. Finally, I voiced the question that had been forming since our conversation began.
“What happens now? With us, I mean.”
Rafferty’s arms tightened around me. “That depends on what you want, Eliot. I know what I want—you, here, with me. But I understand this is a lot to take in. If you need time—”
“I don’t,” I interrupted, surprising myself with the certainty. “Need time, that is. This is all… unprecedented, yes. Challenging to my worldview, absolutely. But you…” I turned in his arms to face him. “You feel right. In a way I can’t explain with research or rational thought.”
The smile that spread across his face was brighter than the full moon had been. “Are you saying your feelings don’t care about your facts, Professor?”
I rolled my eyes at the teasing, even as I smiled back. “I’m saying some things transcend rational explanation. You’re one of them.”
“That might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to my lips. “So you’ll stay? In Cloverton?”
The question should have given me pause. I had a life back in the city—a teaching position, colleagues, a neat apartment filled with books. But suddenly all of that seemed pale and insubstantial compared to what I’d found here.
“Yes,” I said, the decision feeling right as soon as the word left my mouth. “I’ll stay. Though I’ll need to figure out some things—my job, my apartment…”
“We’ll sort it out.” His confidence was reassuring. “The university in Burlington is always looking for visiting lecturers. And as for living arrangements…” He gestured to the bedroom around us. “This place is half-empty without you in it.”
The casual offer of cohabitation should have terrified me. Instead, I found myself nodding. “Your place does have better water pressure than my hotel.”
“High praise indeed.” His smile turned sly. “And think of all the research opportunities. Living with a supernatural creature. The observational data alone—”
I silenced him with a kiss, which quickly deepened into something more heated. When we finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, I rested my forehead against his.
“There is one thing I need to know,” I said seriously. “One question that’s been bothering me since last night.”
Rafferty tensed slightly. “Ask.”
“When you’re in wolf form…” I paused for dramatic effect. “Do you still hate the mailman?”
His startled laugh filled the bedroom. “You utter bastard. I thought you were going to ask something serious!”
“It is serious! Your vendetta against the postal service is concerning.”
“He comes to my territory every day smelling like every other house he’s visited,” Rafferty grumbled, the complaint somehow both ridiculous and endearing coming from this powerful supernatural being. “It’s provocative.”
“Mmm, sounds like a you problem.” I pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Maybe we should get a P.O. box.”
“We,” he repeated, expression softening. “I like the sound of that.”
“So do I,” I admitted, settling against his chest. “Though fair warning—I will absolutely be taking detailed notes on your transformation process at the next full moon. For science.”
His answering growl was playful as he rolled us over, pinning me beneath him once more. “For science, hm? Well then, Professor, let me give you something else to document.”
And as his mouth descended on mine, I mentally revised the title of my book from “Debunking the Guardians of the Green” to something altogether more accurate: “How I Fell in Love with a Werewolf and Learned to Stop Worrying About Rational Explanations.”
Some truths, it turned out, were better experienced than analyzed.