An Immortal Christmas Read online

  Monica La Porta

  An Immortal Christmas

  Book Nine of The Immortals

  Copyrights and More Information

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Monica La Porta

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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  Dedication

  To Roberto.

  Prologue

  Seattle, December 24th 2015

  Sheltered from the rain under the Starbucks’s canopy, Constantine nursed his caramel macchiato. The cup radiated warmth, but did little to disperse the sadness afflicting him.

  She hadn’t called him in several days.

  He should have known better than to relegate his happiness to an imaginary relationship, but that was the way it had been for the last century and a half, and he had grown accustomed to it.

  Mist rose from the asphalt as the pelting rain slowed to a drizzle, then stopped. Christmas lights were reflected in the puddles, and the scent of cinnamon reached Constantine from a nearby bakery.

  The coffee was now cold, but he never bought the rich beverage to drink it. Not the entire venti cup at least. He liked the combined smell of caramel and vanilla, and how they triggered his brain to remember the taste of the flan his Spanish nana used to bake for him. Smells and tastes from a different life. A life when he had been happy.

  Pushing himself off the wall, Constantine threw the cup in the trash bin by the corner, then sauntered into the empty street toward the Olympic Sculpture Park. He was almost done reading a science fiction novel he had downloaded on his Kindle the night before and couldn’t wait to discover if the hero escaped the prison planet at the end.

  With his long, black leather trench coat, his matching Western fedora, and his squared boots with the silver spurs, a tall and fit werewolf in his prime, Constantine always attracted the attention of onlookers, both of men and women. Usually, he welcomed the mindless chat that would end in someone’s bedroom. The sex was never fulfilling, but he craved the physical contact and imagined she was in his arms instead of the faceless, nameless one-night stands moaning his name.

  Tonight, he wanted to be alone, and after dusk, the park was the ideal place to enjoy the foggy atmosphere and finish his read on one of the stone benches facing the seafront. It didn’t matter to him it would be raining again soon. Seattle’s ever-changing weather didn’t scare him. In fact, he enjoyed it because it often suited his mood. His shifter body was always hot, and he could remain outside until the wee hours of the morning without getting cold. He owned a loft overlooking Pike Place Market and the bay behind, but nowadays he preferred spending most of his time wandering through the city.

  He would be leaving Washington the next day, and he missed Seattle already.

  His home for one hundred and fifty-nine years, the moody city was in his blood as much as Salamanca was still part of him. Known as the Spaniard among the renegade community because of his accent, he hadn’t spoken a word in his mother tongue in a long while.

  Immortality in the modern age wasn’t easy to hide. At a brief glance, Constantine was a tall, fit man in his early thirties. Problem was, he had been in his prime since moving to Seattle, and he would stay that way forever. Passing from job to job and changing his identity wasn’t cutting it anymore. Despite popular belief, the digital revolution connected individuals, whereas Constantine needed to remain isolated from humanity.

  Had he not interfered in mortal affairs, he might have stayed undetected in the city for a few years longer before retiring, but what was done was done. In any case, he would have never looked the other way while a girl was raped. Sure, he didn’t know someone was recording his rescue operation from a window overlooking the alley, but he would have never changed his decision to attack the gang. Unarmed against six, he and the girl were the only ones who remained standing five minutes later.

  The video went viral, and his face was plastered everywhere.

  It wasn’t his first heroic act. In the past, he had quietly saved people from thieves, and even serial killers, but that night was the first time his actions were recorded. Two days later, one of the employees at the fishing company he owned saw Constantine on the news.

  Hailed as a superhero, he became famous overnight and hated every moment of his stardom. The result of his new public status was that people recognized him even after five years, and that he would have to leave Seattle and start again somewhere near Juneau. Waiting would only make things worse, and his exile to Alaska was long overdue.

  So he sold his company, the one his great-grandfather—none other than himself a century earlier—had built, but he kept both the loft in Seattle and the lodge in Bainbridge Island. He couldn’t part with them for sentimental reasons.

  Kindle in hand, he was about to discover the fate of the unlucky hero, when the sky was illuminated by colorful fireworks coming from the Space Needle. The few couples sharing the park with him tilted their chins up as well. Soft feminine voices squealed in surprise, reminding Constantine of how mortals lived life with a childlike appreciation for the small things.

  The pyrotechnical display was unexpected though—usually the Needle put up a show for the New Year’s countdown—and it piqued Constantine’s curiosity. Enough to prompt him to close his Kindle and walk toward Broad Street. His legs were used to hiking Mount Rainier and his stride was strong. In a matter of minutes, he reached the futuristic landmark, now decked with festive garlands at its base.

  The last fireworks blossomed all around the rotating top of the spire, then darkness reclaimed the night, but Constantine wasn’t ready to go home yet, and there were ten pages left in the book. The Chihuly Glass Museum with its ethereal sculptures was just a few steps ahead. He tuned his wolf senses toward the building.

  Judging by the level of noise, a corporate party must be underway, which would have explained the fireworks. He debated for a moment if he wanted to go somewhere else instead, a quieter place maybe, but he experienced a sudden and insistent tingle to the base of his neck. Mild nervousness blew into anxiety when he stepped back with the intention of walking away, as if the colorful, floating sculptures were calling to him. The unsettling sensation abated when he took a step toward the museum. If he had learned anything in his long and solitary life, it was to follow his instincts. He would find a secluded spot.

  With his mind made up, relief flooded him. He pushed the brim of his hat down and walked through the Space Needle Loop, the circular side street at the base of the structure. He noticed the crowd at first. A multitude of photographers circling the museum’s garden wall. Voices and smells assailed him.

  Constantine didn’t like to be among crowds, because his senses went into overload with so many stimuli. But when he thought for the second time to pivot on his heels and face the other way, the tingling reached down his shoulders.

  Then, as unexpected as the tingle, a memory played for him. A smile. A lithe body lying among silk sheets. Eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea. Fingers tracing his arms. Long, dark-blond hair fanning over his chest.

  I love you, she said in his mind.

  Looking around, Constantine gasped.

  Next, a faint flowery scent hit his nostrils. Heedless of the bystanders staring at him, a hand pressed on the front of his trench, he stopped in the middle of the street, tilting his head from one shoulder to t
he other. It was just a suggestion of a smell, but achingly familiar.

  Wolf senses in high alert, his nose led him around the loop, and closer to the museum’s garden. His heart skipped a beat. The scent, no longer a mere hint, but a full-blown replica of her unique perfume permeated the air. It couldn’t be. Yet it was.

  Constantine filled his lungs with a perfect combination of woman and essence of Parma violet flowers. An inimitable scent he hadn’t thought he would ever smell again. A scent he had licked from the sweaty skin of his soulmate after sleepless nights of lovemaking. A scent he had sought after in every lover he took in the last century and a half, but no one had ever come close to the sensual richness of her earthy bouquet.

  Unable to reason with his willful wolf, eyes closed, he let his heart explode against his ribcage, as the rest of his body reacted to the Soulmate Call. Shaking for the need, he walked the last few steps toward the garden’s fence, scattering people away in his progress, and when he opened his eyes, Constantine shook. Lost love, betrayal, hurt so deep there was no comparison, elation, all swelled in his chest, demanding an out.

  Under one of the glass sculptures, there was the woman he was cursed to love until the end of time.

  And she was kissing her husband.

  Chapter One

  Chihuly Glass Museum, Seattle, December 24th 2015

  Fireworks illuminated the night sky above the glass ceiling of the greenhouse. Amidst blooming colors and white fog, the Space Needle towered over the floating glass sculptures, as if ready to fly away toward a distant planet. Bathed in yellows and oranges, and feeling at peace for the first time in years, Camelia looked at the dais with watery eyes.

  Her best friend, Quintilius, was getting married to Ludwig, the love of his life. Words could not quantify the affection and devotion she felt for the werewolf, and her heart filled with joy when the High Priestess celebrating their wedding pronounced them husbands.

  Camelia’s mind brought back memories of her own wedding day. To Quintilius. A wedding that never happened.

  ****

  Rome, Italy, Early Summer, 1856

  “I need to confess something to you.” Walking a few steps ahead of Quintilius, Camelia faced the handsome alpha her clan had chosen for her to marry. Her maid had buttoned her dress too tight, and she was now clawing at its collar, trying to lower it.

  “That sounds serious.” Quintilius opened his arm to the side, and led her toward the circular colonnade bordering the Italian gardens and the gazebo in its middle. Bamboo patio furniture, soft-looking rugs, and a coffee table already set with appetizers and pitchers of fresh lemonade awaited them under the wrought iron structure. “It’s better to have an unpleasant conversation in a nice place,” he said.

  Camelia groaned. She had asked for a stroll in his gardens, because the Roman heat was positively horrid. Used to the mild summers in Salamanca, she wasn’t lying about the weather. But the real reason was that she needed to talk to Quintilius before he signed their marriage contract. “I don’t love you and I can’t marry you.”

  Quintilius’s full lips curved up as he pointed at one of the cushioned chairs. “I appreciate your honesty, and I must confess I’m in love with someone else as well.”

  She didn’t sit. “Good. Then send me away—” She had plenty of time during the lengthy crossing from Salamanca to Rome to think about her predicament, but she hadn’t taken into account that her betrothed would not be interested in marrying her. That simplified the situation.

  The werewolf stared at her as if she had sprouted a second head. “I can’t—”

  She threw her hands in the air. “Of course you can. You say whatever you need to say to annul the wedding and we both live happily ever after.”

  “The only reason our union can be considered null is if I found you lacking.” He raised his eyebrow in challenge.

  She was losing her patience. Travelling for days with a bitter sister and an entourage of maidens who could only talk of the wonders of the first night wasn’t conducive to being pleasant. “Then do it.” She didn’t cower before the powerful alpha staring at her with supercilious confidence. “You are in love with someone else. Tell them I don’t have whatever your soulmate has, and that makes me unworthy of you.”

  Relaxing his stance, Quintilius leaned against one of the gazebo’s columns and folded his arms before him. “A penis?”

  “That I’m definitely lacking. See, we’ve talked for less than five minutes and we already agree I can’t possibly please you.” She shrugged, and started pacing between the couch and the chairs. “We can’t marry.” Her long, linen overcoat got caught on her heels, and she stumbled, but he was at her side, supporting her by her elbow. “Thank you.” Mortified, she lowered her eyes and considered the patent leather of her shoes. She couldn’t help but notice that while hers were scuffed with mud, his polished black riding boots were immaculate.

  Quintilius went back to his column, his eyes studying her with an intensity that hadn’t been there before. “I won’t repudiate you. Doing so would ruin your life.”

  Loathing to cry in front of him, Camelia raised her chin. “My life is already ruined.”

  “You think so now, my dove.” He shook his head. “Your clan will shun you, and you’ll become a renegade. Nobody will ever give you sanctuary.”

  Anger filled her chest and she saw red. “I am the most powerful aura healer—”

  “I’ve been told so.” He gave her a small smile.

  It was a gentle gesture, and it enraged Camelia even more. “People camp outside my house for weeks to see me.”

  Quintilius softened his expression. “I have no doubt, but you won’t be allowed back in Salamanca. Or anywhere else. You’ll lose all your patients, because they won’t risk being shunned by association. But you will be able to use your invaluable skill to help the renegades all over the world. There’s that.”

  In her pacing, she kicked one of the coffee table’s legs and sent a few plates rattling over the Murano glass surface. “Why are you willing to go ahead with this farce?”

  “Because I’ve been an egoist and I’ve skirted my clan duties long enough. It’s time I act like an alpha and do the right thing for my wolves.” He passed his fingers over the buttons on his waistcoat, absentmindedly caressing the gold circles with the wolf head and the laurel—his clan’s insignia.

  “But what about your soulmate?”

  “What about him?” Quintilius asked with a bitter tone in his otherwise calm demeanor. “I won’t ever be able to marry my soulmate, and he doesn’t want anyone to know we are together.”

  The sadness of his words hit Camelia like a blow to her stomach. As if recoiling from the imaginary punch, she fell on the couch. “Mine will come for me,” she breathlessly said.

  ****

  One hundred and fifty-nine years later, Camelia was witness to the impossibility of Quintilius’s marriage. Whereas, her blind faith in her soulmate had proven misplaced. Live and learn.

  The two newlyweds, radiant in their happiness stepped down from the dais. The archangel who had played coy for two millennia held his granddaughter in his arms while smiling at Quintilius. If there ever was an example that love always triumphed, the trio before her were it.

  Ludwig had been willing to give up the Archangel Seat for Quintilius. And Maya, the dual-shifter toddler giggling between them, was the daughter of Lupo, Quintilius’s biological son, and Jasmine, a were-panther who belonged to the Purists—alongside the angels, one of the most racist sects on the planet. Neither Ludwig nor Jasmine were supposed to end up with werewolves. Yet, here they were, after going through hell and back, two families united by a love so pure it blinded the bystanders.

  Camelia considered herself lucky to be part of those two families. People regarded her either with pity, because she was the cripple who lived under Quintilius’s roof without being his wife. Or with hate, because she took the place of any other able she-wolf who could have given the clan alpha healthy cubs
and reinforced ties with neighboring tribes. She knew Roman society barely accepted her because of Quintilius’s say so, but his unwavering affection more than made up for the sly comments.

  After hugging their son and giving him back little Maya who was still bouncing and shaking her dark curls every which way, Quintilius and Ludwig walked toward Camelia.

  “Congratulations, my loves. You are the handsomest husbands I’ve ever seen.” She entered their open arms, and the three of them hugged for a long moment.

  Flashes captured their intimate interlude.

  Interrupting the group hug, Ludwig sighed. “I can’t believe they found us.”

  Despite the fact the venue for the ceremony had been kept secret, hordes of journalists flew from Italy for a scoop. Not only had the paranormal press arrived uninvited, but also the mortal paparazzi. Led by the insufferable Lena Chiosi, the gossipmongers wanted to know as much as possible about the nuptials of two of the most famous bachelors among the Roman high society.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m too happy to care about them.” To prove his point, Quintilius waved at the crowd plastered outside of the gardens, then brushed his husband’s lips.

  The rest of the wedding party waited to congratulate the couple, and Camelia slipped outside into the garden, needing a moment alone. She was tired, not a physical fatigue, her health was completely restored, but a burden of the heart that never left her.

  On the other side of the garden’s fence, the paparazzi called her name, but she ignored them, and eyeing a bench walked toward it. A pleasant drizzle played a tap-tap-tap symphony on the glass surfaces of the outside sculptures. Flowers and plants made entirely of blown glass bordered the empty promenade. Camelia raised the hood of her opera coat, tucking her chignon under, then lowered herself to the bench. The wood was wet and drenched the superfine wool of her coat, but she didn’t care. She liked Seattle’s rain.