A Kiss at Midnight

Chapter One

24 April 1926, Whitby

Rain lashed the cobblestones outside Whittaker's Pub. The dark street was devoid of life, even the rats were taking shelter under worn floorboards or behind cupboards. A streetlight's soft glow was fighting its eventual fate as the water droplets taunted it. Or maybe it wasn't such an empty street.

A hulking mass in a tattered travelling cloak rounded the corner, striding toward Whittaker's. A large hand reaching for the pub's fern green door. The oil lantern sitting on the hollow above the door shone a spotlight on the faint scars riddling his hand. He opened the door, light chasing away the unwelcome shadows.

The barman lifted his head, his brows furrowing with a slight frown. Yet no words left his lips and soon the rag in his hand got back to work, cleaning glasses.
The pint glasses might be clean but the pub itself sure as hell wasn't. Thick veils of spiderwebs obscured the ceiling. A spider dancing beneath the soft yellow glow of an oil lantern. A man in a rumpled shirt of chiffon was at the far end of the mahogany bar. One hand still grasping his glass, his head slumped on the bar. His chest rising and falling in the steady beat of snores.

Finn Peterson was a man of average height, sitting at a nearby table. Strands of carob brown swept back from a face many barely spared a second glance at. His clothes nondescript and dark. One booted foot hooked over his ankle. His fingers stilled on his glass of amber liquid as his blue gaze landed on the newcomer.

The man reached up, pulling back his hood. Waves of walnut brown hair cascading down his broad shoulders. There was a ruggedness to his beauty. A close cropped beard covered his prominent jawline. The hairs encircling a sensual, sardonic mouth. Defined cheekbones, a visual stepping stone to his eyes, aegean blue. Though gazes tended to falter on the jagged slashes marring the left side of his face.

Scars from a rather vicious werewolf attack six years ago that left him destined to become that very beast at the next full moon. Finn knew this because he too was a werewolf although his beast side came from his mother's blood not from a scratch inflicted by an alpha. He also would be a poor informant and friend if he didn't know who this man was.

Carrick Ellis, the Devereaux Pack's new rouge. A rouge wolf was the one who took care of matters plaguing his pack when the alpha was unable to do so. Such as travelling from France to England to retrieve an object of great significant. He took a seat on the wooden bench opposite Finn.

"Well, what news have you?" Carrick asked, his voice a deep baritone voice yet there was hoarseness to his words. Pleasantries were not his strong suit at the best of times and this wasn't a good time. Finn paid it no heed as he leaned forwards.

His voice quiet as he spoke, "I tracked the item down to the town of Burr, it is a two day trip north of Peyton."

"And who has possession of it?"

"Lord Barrymore."

Carrick inhaled sharply at the name. Of all the rotten luck, it had to be the former alpha of the Carpathian Pack. Whose hands were stained by the blood of his original pack and his pockets lined with money from unjust taxes.

"He has new hounds guarding that stronghold of his. The town calls it a stately home, I call it a bloody fortress. Carrick, you will be ripped limb from limb if you take one step near his door." Concern lacing Finn's voice.

He briefly closed his eyes. "I don't have a choice, Finn. I have to get inside his residence. They are counting on me." His voice growing quiet. "I cannot let them down."

The other man let out a sigh. "I knew you would say that. Look, you cannot just waltz into Barrymore's estate unless you happen to be in the possession of an invitation to his annual ball. A week of revelry, daily jaunts and game hunting. Whiskey and port will be a flowing." Finn reached into his coat's pocket and then held out an envelope with a red wax seal of a dagger stamped across the front. "And as it just so happens, I have one."

Carrick took the envelope. He felt a sudden knot of unease tighten in his stomach, seeing Finn's expression.

"What is it?" He asked, bracing himself for the other shoe to fall.

"There is one stipulation to the invitation, the presence of a female is required. Preferably your wife according to Barrymore himself though he is willingly to turn a blind eye to any mistresses in attendance."

Carrick let out a snort. "Both of which I am in short supply of."

"What about her?" The informant asked, earning himself a glare. "Surely, she will be willingly to help you especially since you are her..."

"Don't." Carrick's voice a crack of thunder. "She was never truly mine and now another holds her in his arms."

A short pause.

Carrick's expression softened. His gaze dropped  down to some unseen object at his side before looking at Finn once more. "How long do I have until the ball?"

"Five days," Finn answered, rising to his feet.
He walked away only to pause a short distance away. The informant glanced back over his shoulder. "Good luck."

He was going to need all the luck he could get his hands on.
When the pub's door closed behind his friend, Carrick pulled back the corner of his cloak to reveal a small wooden chest. He placed it on the table. A dragon carving acted as the box's locking mechanism. His finger tracing along the sharp, tapered end of the dragon's wing, thinking.

Can I live with seeing a smile upon her lips, having her on my arm but knowing her warm caress isn't truly for me?