THE WEREWOLF'S SIN by The Werewolf's Sin (v1)

Author:The Werewolf's Sin (v1)[html] [Sin, The Werewolf's]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-12-24T00:06:59.630000+00:00

PART THREE

The Golden Apples of Discord

Present-day Louisiana

“Damn, cherie,” Achille complained to the lady lying next to him, “I think you done broke it, dawlin.” Just look at that.

He reached down and held up his unresponsive member, which amused itself by flopping to one side. He flipped it irreverently back and forth a few times.

“Oh, yeah,” he said positively, “it’s done for.”

The lady, whose silky black hair and velvety white skin had been the hallmark of beauties in her family for generations, looked dispassionately at the offending appendage. “I’m not fooled by appearances,” she said.

But Achille wasn’t so sure. He dropped the thing, laid his head back on the pillow, and sighed. “Don’t be too sure,” he advised. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

She gave him a very sour look: she was older than Achille. “Don’t be insulting.” She spoke fluent English, but with a lovely French lilt, like Zizi’s. And like Zizi, she had originally come from France. He knew that much about her, but not much else, and that was fine with him.

He ran a hand through her long hair and over her face, only slightly etched with lines. “How much older than me are you again? It just knocks me out when you say it.“

She laughed. “Five hundred and thirty-three, more or less.”

He peeped under the sheet. “Ooo-wce! You held together real good, girl.”

“The loup-garou’s gift, mon ange,” she said, getting out of bed and wrapping Achille’s old terry-cloth robe around her. She opened the curtains and looked out at the mid-morning light. The sun streamed in brilliant ribbons through the old trees, and the gray stone birdbath was full of late risers taking the waters, chirping and chattering at each other.

“It’s absolutely beautiful outside,” she said. “I’m getting coffee. Want some?”

“Nuh uh, dawlin“. It might age me, and then I couldn’t keep up with you. Then that husband of yours might come after me and my tail’d be draggin’.”

“I told you,” she said patiently, “he’s not my husband. You know how these things work. As far as looks, some of us age slower and some age faster. He’s one of the real slow ones. Now we look too close in age for anyone to guess we’re really father and daughter. So we tell everyone we’re a married couple. It’s less explaining to do.”

“Even worse,” Achille said with mock alarm. “One thing I don’t need is somebody’s daddy in here, horse-whippin' me for seducin’ his five-hundred-year-old baby girl. You must be a slow ager, too, dawlin'. You should look fifty, nearly sixty and you look about late thirties. You got good genes from your daddy, whoever he is.”

“How old are you, again?” She looked at him curiously. He was a young loup-garou, to be sure, born into the life at age eighteen, he had told her.

He had genuinely forgotten. “Human years? Um maybe mid-fifties, damn near it. Who counts?”

“Not me,” she said, leaning over and pulling the sheet away from his hard body. “I don’t measure in years.

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