by Nikki Sex
“Another reason to rejoice is that your pack Alpha, the Beast Lord has taken his mate.”
Enthusiastic applause and cheers ensue. Stafford gestures to me to come forward.
I hesitate, stunned by him. God, he’s so male, so gorgeous. From his striking, familiar face, to his cut, super-stud body. Moving forward, I stand by his side at the podium. My demon is buzzed from the crowd’s energy, my wolf stands tall and proud.
Mmm. I could throw him down on this stage, jump on top, and screw his brains out right now.
Enthralled with the image, I imagine fucking him silly in front of everyone. That would really make the crowd go wild.
Stafford raises one dark eyebrow.
I smirk. He knows I’m thinking about wild, wonderful sex. Judging by the huge erection he’s sporting, he’s thinking about it, too.
Stafford clears his throat. “Some of you may have noticed that Victoria hasn’t been around. That’s because she’s dead.”
Many in the crowd gasp with shock. People move restlessly as they mutter anxiously between themselves. The overall feel in the stadium shifts to a darker, more sobering tension.
“Using an underhanded trick, Victoria and two of her friends—her accomplices—attempted to murder my mate.” Stafford’s voice lowers, adopting a menacing tone.
A moment of stunned silence turns into low, vicious snarls.
“These conspirators have spent six weeks in separate cells. They’re sick from being denied moonlight, ill from being isolated and alone. I’ve severed their pack bonds.”
A few shocked cries of “Oh!” and “No!”
Isolation.
No pack.
My inner beast whimpers. This is cruel punishment, as wolves are highly social. Their beasts must be suffering pure torment.
“I should’ve killed them for such betrayal, it was my right,” He says through clenched teeth, swallows. Takes a deep breath. “Instead, I showed them mercy. Let them come forward to publicly confess the details of their treason.”
Stunned to silence, every shifter remains still and hushed. It’s as quiet as a church before an Easter Sunday sermon.
The prisoners, wearing silver wrist cuffs with chains held by burly enforcers, are brought to the stage. Shoulders hunched, shadows under their eyes—they look like shit—and guilty as hell.
My demon hums, sending out tendril of awareness, enjoying their anguish. Do the women fear for their life? Are they tormented by remorse? Or is this merely the result of forced seclusion? Were they determined culprits, or victims of Victoria’s manipulation?
A spike of heady demonic power flares through me the instant my inner monster encounters rich, werewolf blood under their silver cuffs.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I mutter to him under my breath. “I taste it, too. Keep out of it, buddy. It’s not the time or place to feed.”
Chapter 21.
Head lowered, one prisoner begins speaking, recounting how the stupid bitch, Queen Victoria (my name for her) was jealous. The plotting, murderous, fool thought killing me would clear the way.
Victoria’s accomplice clears her throat. “Victoria told us she deserved to be the Beast Lord’s mate.”
Stafford growls. Loudly.
Wincing, the woman visibly shrinks, then continues her testimony. “Victoria believed Janice St. John bewitched our Alpha, otherwise he never would’ve chosen a human to be his mate.” Nervously glancing at Stafford’s angry, glowing eyes, she swallows. Hard. “Victoria said that because Jan wasn’t a shifter, she had no right to even be in the Magic Lands.”
The Beast Lord bares his teeth, silencing the quivering jailbird.
Apprehensively, she adds, “Victoria convinced us that men couldn’t see when they were being seduced, or were under a magical spell.”
When Stafford starts growling again, the woman goes very still. The other prisoner picks up where she left off.
The two women seem to have a system. When one becomes too scared to continue, the other takes over. With pinpoint accuracy, they go into details. Between them they lay it all out.
They explain how Victoria found out I was a doctor. That’s why she pretended to be injured on the road outside the Magic Lands. The sneaky bitch knew I’d stop, get out of my car, and come to her assistance—which I did, of course.
When I’d bent down to help her, she thrust her claws deep into my gut. From what they saw, I then used powerful magic to kill Victoria. They’d been astonished when I healed from, what should have been, lethal wounds. Thanks to Leonidas, they mostly remember running for their lives. Later, compelled by my Jugulo, they snuck back to furtively bury Victoria.
When the cowering, sickly women finish, the Beast Lord growls, “Live or die, my mate will pronounce their sentence.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, shocked by his pronouncement. Sheesh. You’d think he’d give a girl a heads up! On the other hand, I should have known. In wolf culture, the male Alpha controls the males of the pack—the females by the Alpha female—although either may dominate the subordinates of either gender.
I step up to the podium. “You’ve had ample time to reflect upon your actions. Do you genuinely regret what you’ve done?”
“We do, my Lady,” they reply in unison.
I look toward my lie-detecting mate. He looks so commanding, my heart—as usual, flutters. Stafford nods, confirming they speak the truth.
I tilt my head, study them. “You’ll never raise a hand against your Alpha or his mate again?”
“Never,” they parrot.
I shrug. “We all screw up, but you two managed to screw up big time. You’re lucky to be alive. I’ve often observed that those who live can learn. It’s my judgment that you live. I forgive you and ask no further punishment.”
People clap at my decision for leniency.
Stafford raises a hand commanding instant silence. “They will live, as my mate decrees. As Beast Lord, I pronounce further judgment. You will remain separated. Forest, the Northern Pack Alpha has agreed to take one of you. Iron, the Western Pack Alpha will take the other.”
Eyes lowered from their Alpha’s direct gaze, the girls nod.
“Furthermore, you’ll each stay with your new pack for a minimum of five years. During that time, neither of you can cross into the human world. You will obey your pack leaders. After five years, I’ll reassess your behavior to ensure there’s no need for further action.”
More obedient nods.
“My mate has shown you kindness. You have her to thank for your lives.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“I am not as forgiving as she is,” he snarls. “If you break any of these commands, I shall rescind my leniency. I will find you. Then, I will allow my beast to tear your throats out. Do you both understand?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Take them away.”
Quentin and another tough looking guy I don’t know, hustle them off the stage.
Stafford glares at the crowd. In a voice resonating with power he vows, “From this moment forward, if anyone attempts to harm my mate, I’ll not be so generous. I’ll hunt them down, tear out their throats, and leave their bodies to rot.”
The Beast Lord looks scary as fuck, an intimidating combination of testosterone, primal energy, and menace. With that dangerous look on his face, I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.
On the other hand, to my wolf, he smells delicious.
“If you have a problem with Jan, speak to her. If it cannot be resolved, speak to your pack Alpha, your superior, or me. We are pack, but we have enemies! We must stand together, be united to fight. Internal squabbling and bullshit will be harshly dealt with. We are pack!”
Pack! Pack! Pack! Pack!
His tension lessens. “On a related subject. You all felt the instant Jan and I became fully mated. The taste, the power! That moment when our magic fully joined—” He breathes in a deep, steadying breath.
Cheering, laughing.
“I hesitated bef
ore third level bonding—not because I ever doubted Jan was my mate—I desired only her. However, as Beast Lord, custom held that my mate must be a werewolf capable of shifting.”
Murmurs and whispers of agreement.
“Jan has an inner wolf—you’ve sensed her strong Alpha beast. Tonight, when we hunt together under the new moon, my mate and her beast will join me in spirit form—not as a wolf. In taking Jan, I have broken with tradition, but what is tradition? Is something right because it was done before? We defy tradition by using artificial wombs. Most of you have seen Wyatt. Is going against custom wrong?”
“No!”
“Never!”
The crowd is in complete agreement.
“Progress means change—it cannot be prevented. As Beast Lord, the Alpha of the United Packs, I chose not to fear change. Instead, I vow to embrace change. More developments, growth, and improvements.”
“Beast Lord! Beast Lord! Beast Lord!”
My mouth curves into a broad grin. My sweetie has everyone in the palm of his hand. Animal magnetism, or just plain charisma? Whatever it is, I see why Stafford is the Beast Lord of the Magic Lands.
Chapter 22.
Stafford waves the crowd to silence. “Jan and I are now bonded in magic. Nothing can break us apart.” Possessively, lovingly, he wraps an arm around my waist while the crowd howls, whistles and applauds.
“Recently, I came close to putting down four werewolves. Each one insensible, caught in wolf form. Countless times, I’ve tried my best to assist trapped humans to shift. Countless times my attempts resulted in failure—and in death. This time, thanks to Jan’s magic, I was able to heal all four pack members.”
“Beast Lord! Beast Lord! Beast Lord!” the crowd chants.
“As a powerful Alpha, I never expected to mate a woman as powerful as myself—but I have. Do not underestimate Jan. I’m proud she accepted me. If anyone has anything to say about her inability to shift, speak now—or forever shut the fuck up!”
Cheers, laughter, playful cat calls. My inability to shift is a lesser problem. The magical influx I bring to the pack excuses my flaws.
Kalev shouts, “It used to take me up to three agonizing minutes to shift. Now my change is painless, and nearly instantaneous! Thanks to the magic influx of the Beast Lord’s mate, I’ve reached a whole new power level!”
A much older man calls out, “I used to envy human knee replacements, my arthritic knees used to swell like ripe fruit, and crack like broken tree branches. I could’ve had surgery, but then I’d be unable to shift. During the Beast Lord and his mate’s bonding, my knees were restored. My pain is gone!”
Other werewolves chime in, “I have more power, more connection to my beast—more control of my magic.”
“I can shift just my claws!”
A very old woman shouts, “For the first time in ages, my mate can make love the whole night long!”
Everyone laughs, slaps her mate’s back. They tease, wink, joke, and whistle.
Dare I say—wolf whistle?
I’m Stafford’s second mate. The Beast Lord’s previous mate passed away while trying to have children. She’d been sedated through six full moons. Moonlight is an essential part of lycanthrope magic. Without the light of the moon, wolves sicken and die.
“I never thought I’d find happiness after losing Susanna,” Stafford says quietly. “After twenty-two years, I have. I thank God the day Janice St. John answered the call of the Magic Lands. Jan is my equal, my superior in many ways. Let’s hear it for my mate, Jan!”
The crowd goes wild! Energy levels—already off the charts, reach a new high. The mob stomps their feet in time to the rhythmic chanting of my name. I’m overwhelmed with a golden aura of energy. So much love. Valued, appreciated, and accepted, I feel a sense of belonging I never felt before.
I’m touched beyond description.
“My mate can see and communicate with ghosts. Recently, a murder victim told her where her body was buried. Our wolves—working with Detective Joseph, discovered three human corpses.” He grins. “They were paid a tracking fee for services well rendered. Thanks to Jan, a serial killer was discovered, caught, and locked up in a maximum-security prison where he belongs.”
“Jan! Jan! Jan! Jan!”
“Our youngest newly turned wolf found the first corpse. He’s one hell of a tracker. Well done, Owen!”
“Ow-en! Ow-en! Ow-en!”
Kalev, who obviously knew this announcement was coming, escorts Owen onto the stage again, where he takes a bow and smiles with pride. Stafford heartily pats his back. Shakes his hand.
“And who brought us Owen and his sister, Hope, our apprentice shaman? My mate did!”
“Jan! Jan! Jan! Jan!”
I look out over the huge sea of faces, all staring up at me. There must be eight or nine-hundred wereanimals, all calling my name. All accepting me. It seems Miss Optimistic had good reason to be hopeful, after all.
I finally have family.
How much of this positive emotion toward me is real? And how much compelled?
I crush the niggling thoughts before they fully push into my mind. Fuck that shit. Unconsciously, I embrace repression and denial. Always go with your strengths.
I’m home.
For a girl who spent her life constantly changing her name, always moving away from the places and people she knew, never revealing who she really was to anyone, I’ve come a long, long way.
In my extended lifetime, I’ve never felt such a warm sense of belonging. Damned IVF hormones must still be running through me. Overwhelmed with profound emotion, I think I’m gonna cry.
I turn, smile tremulously at Stafford. Lowering all magical safeguards, I bare my soul to him, surrender everything—not that I needed to let go.
I’m so far gone already.
I’ve never felt more vulnerable, more completely exposed. At the same time, I’ve never felt more in control, more completely supported than by a wonderful man I trust and love.
From Stafford’s tawny knowing eyes, he feels what I feel.
I’m in his hands, as he’s in mine. Completely committed. A poker player would say, we’re “all in.”
With everyone watching, he joyously lifts me up, swings me round and round.
Everyone loves it! They whistle, cheer, and chant. The Beast Lord sets me in a seated position on one muscular shoulder. Nearly dancing with enthusiasm, his other arm punches the air in rhythm with the crowd still chanting, “Jan! Jan! Jan!”
Chapter 23.
The Beast Lord waits for the wereanimals and werewolves’ merrymaking to slow down to a dull roar, then sets me back onto the stage. Raising both hands, the arena falls silent.
“I have an extremely serious subject to discuss. The Spirit-Orb, an object of immense power was stolen a few months ago. Kalev is sending a picture to your phones.” He nods to his second.
A thousand cell phones go off at once, emitting a mixture of low vibrations, or soft animal sounds. While a human would barely notice, thanks to their acute hearing, shifters easily do.
Heads lower as everyone studies the picture of the missing charm.
“The Spirit-Orb is intended to be worn by the Regius Magnmus, the head of the Sorcerer’s Guild. In the wrong hands, it can be used to summon demons or command the spirits of the dead.
“Recently, we were attacked by a supernatural from another world. With magnificent white wings, he looks like an angel. The being is lethal, a formidable enemy to us all. After stealing the Spirit-Orb, this creature summoned a demon to work dark sorcery.”
Gasps, growls, and snarls echo around the arena.
Oh, yeah. BTW, the evil angel of death also happens to be my dad.
“Kalev is sending you a photo of this magical creature.”
The artist who drew the picture is Gazelle, a werewolf and perfectionist, who hails from Montreal. When I’d described my angel father to her, she’d been amenable, but got pissed off when I mispronounce her name. It’s Ja-ZE
LL, not gazelle, as in the animal.
Marveling, everyone stares at the drawing I directed Gazelle to make. This talented woman works as a police sketch artist, she nailed my dad exactly. All are awed by his deceptive external beauty.
What they can’t possibly realize is how intimidating his overwhelming presence feels in real life.
“This creature is one of many different types of fae,” Stafford continues, “The fae once lived on Earth, but were banished thousands of years ago. Attempting to destroy Earth’s protective wards to reopen a rift to our planet, this cocksucker orchestrated the kidnapping of forty-nine human men, women, and children—all strong psychics. During the demon’s incantation, all but two died from that demonic spell. My mate was one of those abducted. Fortunately for us, she survived.”
Gasps of shock hiss throughout the crowd.
Human psychics are rare and precious, to imagine even one dying is horrific. So many psychic deaths are a catastrophe. My pack mates weren’t happy to discover I’d been kidnapped again, either.
Now they realize my value, at any rate.
A flash of guilt runs through me with this snarky thought. We are family, all of us are pack. On the other hand, I haven’t managed to live this long by being gullible. My trust issues aren’t merely trust issues—they’re deeply ingrained. One might call them survival strategies in disguise.
“What happened to the other psychic who lived?” someone in the crowd shouts out.
“To save her life, she was turned to vampire.”
This news triggers dark murmurings. After the long-running feud, no one likes bloodsuckers.
Stafford runs a hand through his thick shock of hair. “The psychics were bespelled by a demon—a demon summoned and commanded by the SOB in the picture we just sent you. This is how I met a powerful predator named Leonidas Sparagis. For those that don’t know, Jugulo is Latin, meaning ‘throat slitter.’ Jugulo is the title given to highly respected vampire assassins, one of the few, elite members of the Demon Hunter’s Guild.”
He nods to Kalev, who sends several photos of Leonidas to everyone. At Stafford’s request, I took these pictures of Leonidas, front, back, and side views.
