Page 1 of Her Reborn Mate

Chapter 1: Alexis

The three architects of my demise stared from the shattered window, their wicked faces contorted in sick glee as they watched me fall, eager to see me become one with the pavement.

But little did they know, it was a pleasure to fall.

Suddenly, all my problems ceased to bear their crushing weight on me.

Fiddler’s Green had never looked so beautiful. The sun coming out from behind the cascading waves of the sea seemed to beam at me, telling me that I shouldn’t worry, that it would keep a watchful eye on everything on my behalf—the gentle trees swayed in the wind, disaffected by the politics of power. The blue sky, ever so vast in its unendingness, tilted in the opposite direction, making me think as a raindrop completing my trajectory from the sky to the ground.

And then this euphoric moment ended, leading me to the horrific realization that my wounded and bleeding body was in free fall. As my body achieved terminal velocity, I, through much pain, morphed myself into my wolf self. If it would not save me from the fall, at least it would allow me the honor of dying with my dignity within my true form.

But something happened then that my enemies nor I expected.

My wolf body broke the fall. Whatever bones were bruised and shattered in the great fall gradually healed themselves as I limped away from that hellish tower and sought to escape from the rapidly appearing army of mercenaries. I watched from behind shadows as they scoured the area with their guns held up and their laser sights aiming every which way. Of all the injuries that had been inflicted on my body, the only one refusing to heal itself was the bullet wound.

This much was clear to me: With Will dead, there was no future for me in Fiddler’s Green. Our tragedies have a way of moving us, sometimes through spectrums of hitherto uncharted emotions, sometimes literally from one secluded town tucked away in Northeast America to the state capital.

I did not make that journey alone.

While the mercenaries under contract by Blair ceased their chase within the town’s limits, the vampires, instigated by their leader’s victory, raced after me under the watchful shade of Fiddler’s Forest. But they could only keep up with me while the sun was rising. Once it had completely dawned, even the vampires fled to their lair. It made perfect sense from their perspective, or so it appeared to me. Here was a werewolf, shot with a silver bullet, bleeding across the trail in the forest. The vampires might have thought that I’d die within the hour from blood loss.

What they hadn’t accounted for was my resolve. More than the desire to take revenge for what they had done to me, even more than the pain of my mate’s parting that kept me alive, the reason I kept inching towards the end of the forest was pure survival. Before I had become fated mates with Will, I had wanted to leave Fiddler’s Green. If it took the death of my mate, a silver bullet to the chest, a broken heart, and some broken bones to accomplish that goal, then so be it.

Fiddler’s Green extracted a huge toll on those who tried to leave it. Why should I have been the exception? Akin to an evil entity, it took everything from me. My parents, my mate, and all the opportunities I could have availed in my youth had I been a resident of Bangor, New York City, or San Francisco. Those old timers who sat at the marina would say something banal along the lines of, “You’ve still got the rest of your life ahead of you,” but they’d be wrong, wouldn’t they? I’ll never have my twenties back. I’ll never have my parents back. Will won’t ever come back to me.

***

“Christ, you look like you’ve seen better days.” The bartender was a thin figure, both arms covered in tattoos, and her head shaved from one side in a funky hairdo. She was wearing a black wifebeater that was completely soaked in the front. As she stood across from me, I could see that her expressions were reflecting the same feminine worry that crossed every woman’s mind when she saw another one of her kind looking beaten up. The same question lingering unsaid:Was it a man who did this to you?

“You would think that, but you know what, barkeep? I ain’t ever seen better days,” I said.

“Well, this one’s on the house,” the bartender said, sliding across a shot of whiskey. “You need it.”

I lifted the shot glass and raised it to her, then downed it in a single gulp, letting that fiery fluid scorch a trail down my throat, warming up my insides.

Behind the bartender, the wall lined with liquor bottles was entirely made of glass, offering me glimpses of my battered self. The bandages only served to hide the really terrible bruises; as far as any onlooker was concerned, the aftermath of the battle I’d been in was as apparent as day.

“You ran away, didn’t you?” the bartender, ever so persistent in trying to get me to engage in a conversation with her, prodded.

“Excuse me?” I slid the empty shot glass back to her and rapped the counter. She poured me another.

“Fella who did this to you. I’ve seen countless women come through these doors, never seen ‘em in Bangor before, women looking like their good-for-nothing boyfriends or husbands beat ‘em up. I don’t mean to assume….”

“Well, that’s a huge assumption. No fella did this to me.”

“Right. Youfell.That’s what they always say,” the bartender said, shaking her head morosely.

“I didn’t fall, and my boyfriend didn’t beat me up. That’s not what happened,” I said, a bit vexed now. It didn’t help that the bullet wound that I had self-sutured was throbbing painfully, that the bruises on the rest of my body were, for some reason taking their sweet time recovering, and that I was alone in a big city with not a dollar to my name, and that this nagging bartender was creating a pathetic sob-story that she was imposing on me.

“All I’m saying is, it’s a Tuesday morning, and the bar’s empty save for one weary soul, and that’s you, sister. As I said, I ain’t ever seen you before, and you’ve got small town written all over you. So, if it isn’t some hick boyfriend who’s done this to you, I marvel at the premise that caused someone so young like you to get so beaten up like this. When the dust settles, when all’s well and done, it’s only women who ever stand up for women. I didn’t mean to pry, but I’m being sympathetic.” She extended her hand and squeezed mine, giving me a small smile.

“My world ended in a single night,” I said, downing the second shot. “Does that make sense? The man I loved…dead. And before he was about to die, he said something that made me question whether he had loved me at all. This state that I’m in, it’s nothing. I’ll heal in time. Those responsible for it will pay for it. I’ll recover. But there’s no recovery from heartbreak, is there?”

The bartender poured me another shot, then settled down on the barstool. “The moment a woman gives birth, people start that godawful jest, telling her that she’s never gonna be tight down there the same again. People are stupid. Within the first forty days or so, the woman’s body recovers from the pregnancy and the childbirth, and all her ‘loose’ muscles go back to being tight the same way as they were. Now think of your heart. You may think it’s shattered or broken beyond repair, but the heart’s not made of glass. It’s a muscle. It might feel all messed up, loose, displaced, or whatever else you’re feeling right now, but remember this: It’s a muscle. And it will recover. And you’ll be back to normal,” she said.

“How maudlin of me to be oversharing in a Bangor lobster-themed bar with a stranger on a Tuesday morning,” I said as the bartender poured me yet another drink.

“We ain’t strangers. We’re two sisters on different paths, is all. You can call me Izzie, and I’ll call you…”

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