The Lycans Luna Witch

Chapter 7

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Addie

"When will she wake up?" Gravelly, deep, rough. This voice is how I imagine thunder would sound if it could talk.

"We don't know. It is up to her now. We have done all we can do." Another male voice, but not with as much authority.

They continue speaking, but I cannot hold onto it, my struggle for consciousness failing as I am swallowed up by darkness.

"How is she?" I surface again, this female voice breaking through the never-ending fog. It is the woman from the forest—the blond woman who told me to go.

"Most of her physical injuries have healed, even her ribs." It's him, the man with the voice that I can hear floating around in the darkness with me. Always there.

"That's a good sign?" The woman sounds unsure.

"It is, but it is also because she hasn't been conscious for three weeks. Healing is progress, but not waking up isn't. What if she never wakes up?" He sounds...afraid. His fear is reflected in the very slight crack in his voice at the end—so subtle that I think most people would miss it.

"She will wake. It is her destiny. And yours. You know what she is to you?" An older voice, female with an accent—Spanish, maybe? Similar to Valerie, one of the vampires who frequented Silas castle.

"It's not possible." He sounds angry, and then a bird starts squawking as if agreeing with the older woman. I had heard it before, in the forest.

"Even your familiar knows it." The old woman's words earn an exasperated sigh from the man with the delicious voice.

"Familiars have not existed since The Great Cleansing. And they were linked to witches, not Lycans."

"Stranger things have happened. Look at this scenario. It is unheard of for the moon goddess to bless our kind with two fated mates, yet it has happened. Needs must, and things change Hades. It is the way of life. You must accept it. For all our sakes." I don't get to hear the rest of her words as the fog always just around my peripheral engulfs me, and I am sucked back into the darkness.

This is how it has been: an endless string of darkness interspersed with moments of conversation I am not involved in but can hear, and then other things. Sometimes, a hand tenderly glides down my cheek, or a kiss is placed on my forehead. Warm and big and comforting hands stroke my arm or hold me gently. In them, I feel safe. Sometimes, when nightmares of Silas join me in the dark, those same strong hands cradle me and whisper in my ear that I am safe and that nothing will happen to me. I almost believe that delicious voice. Almost.

Time goes on like this until one day, the fog lifts. The darkness drifts into the recess, and awareness kicks in.

Mmmm, it's so warm. And that smell. God, it's like lying in a bed of mint. I just want to roll around in it. My hand shifts, the palm gliding over something solid. Hard. I remember my bed feeling like concrete due to the lack of foam in the less-than-springy mattress, but this is a different kind of hard. I like it. I like it so much that a little moan of delight is pulled from my body.

Followed by a growl. Wow, I did not even know I could make that sound.

My brain, which must be short-circuiting, reloads, and I freeze. My eyes snap open when I realize that sound is not coming from me and reverberation is coming from the hardness beneath me.