“So said every werewolf before his craving overtook him and his witch lover killed his naïve, stupid ass. We always love them. Our love for them has never been an issue.”
Alarick punched Zev in the arm as hard as he’d hit him. “You’ve never loved a woman, witch or full-human.”
He shrugged, black T-shirt tight across his broad shoulders. “I never said I did. But witches are like the air we breathe, essential and all-consuming. We want them, need them. Too damn much. Our lust is for more than sex, making us a danger not only to them but to the very fabric of our society. How can we be so perfectly matched but each other so much pain?”
Alarick poured himself a drink, sipping in that dainty way he’d adopted to impress females. Both of his brothers needed a serious wake-the-heck-up call. “Our craving for their magic, their blood is the splitting of the sun and the moon. One cannot exist without the other, yet they can never be in the same place at the same time. Forever together, forever apart, an endless cycle.”
“Well, aren’t you the freaking poet of the year. Ever heard of an eclipse?”
“Say what you want, my point is sound. I don’t like wearing a collar any more than you, Zev, or any other werewolf.” Alarick gripped his mug tighter but didn’t drink. “I hated wearing that thing. But I remember when puberty hit. The bloodlust, the hunger pangs, the need to sate my lust on the first willing witch.” He stared into his mug, voice lowered to a rough admission. “The unwilling ones. I stalked them to their homes, to school, to the park, wherever. I couldn’t stop myself. I just knew I had to be close to a witch, to taste her, to have her. So I found one alone in the park one night.” Alarick downed his beer in one long gulp. “I had her pinned to the ground, the werewolf having broken free and given chase when she ran. I overpowered her, slammed her to the ground, hard and needy and out of control. She cried, and only a part of me cared. She cried, and all I wanted to do was slate my hunger, to devour her whole.”
Marrok poured Alarick another drink, no one speaking into the silence Alarick had left. Zev knew the blood-magic lust well. At some point, every werewolf did. They were animals, their human form a disguise for the beast within.
“She was a little younger than me. Eleven, twelve at the most. She hadn’t gone through the change, so she had no metal to help funnel her wild magic. I snarled at her, hating what the sweet smell of her sun magic had turned me into.” Alarick drank his second mug of beer, nothing dainty about how he grabbed the mug, lifted it to his trembling lips, and opened his mouth, letting the gold liquid slide down his throat. “She should’ve fought me, but she was too scared. I saw myself ripping into her, slashing her throat with my teeth and drinking her blood before shredding her chest in search of her heart and soul magic. I saw myself doing it, killing her and becoming the worst version of myself.”
Marrok’s arm lifted, settling across Alarick’s shoulders, pulling him in for a one-arm hug. “None of us will ever become white werewolves.” Marrok touched Alarick’s forearm then his own, the long-sleeve pulled up to the elbow. “Our skin is brown, but our fur is black. We aren’t white or even gray. Our black fur will never fade because, animals we may be, but we aren’t rapists and murderers. We don’t hurt our witches, no matter the strength of our lust. As awful as your story your is, you’re still a black moon werewolf, so I know you didn’t hurt that girl. Scared the shit out of her, yeah, but nothing more than that.”
“Scared me right into having Dad take me to the clinic to have the Rage Disrupter implanted the next day, a week before my fifteenth birthday.”
But Alarick’s lust had kicked in a month earlier. Zev had seen the change in his younger brother. In hindsight, he should’ve told their father. But he’d wanted to give the young werewolf his last taste of freedom. Werewolves weren’t meant to be chained and controlled, which was what the Silver Snare did—a collar and leash in one ball-stealing spell.
“I hate the collars, but witches have a reason to fear us. They are the warm sun to our cold moon, but we can’t share the same sky.”
Marrok scooted away from Alarick, face drawn, jaw twitching. “You agree with Zev?”
“Most of the time, no, but about this, yes. I like Oriana. She’s never been anything but kind to me, to us. She’s not her mother, but she’s also only twenty-six.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning witches and werewolves live a long time, Marrok.”
“That’s not what you meant.”
“No, Alarick meant there’s plenty of time for sweet-smelling Oriana to turn into a heartless bitch like her mother.”
Alarick balled his fists, and he thought he would call him an asshole and punch his arm again. He didn’t, but he did refill his mug and began that damn dainty sipping. “My point is that you’re both a little young and a lot naïve. You’re a virgin, and I bet she is too. You have no idea how it feels to be inside a witch and to lust for more than her body, even when you’re wearing the Silver Snare. It’s not so bad, when you and a witch are scratching a mutual itch, but it’s hell when you love the witch you’re with. The blood-magic lust is even greater.”
Marrok’s frown didn’t surprise Zev. The young werewolf had a stubborn streak as wide as the planet, and a loving heart that went deeper than the biological rift between witches and werewolves. A biological rift that placed the even-tempered witches at the top of the food chain.
A goddamn matriarchy. What bullshit.
“Once I’m Oriana’s consort, we’re going to move to Steelcross.”
“Wait, she’s taking you out of the realm? And you agreed to leave with her?” Zev ignored the pitcher of beer Alarick slid to him. “Werewolves don’t live in Steelcross. Hell, after giving us Janus Nether, the Matriarch kicked most of us out of Irongarde.”
“That was Matriarch Kalinda’s decision, not Oriana’s. Besides, Matriarch Kalinda only booted out the werewolves who refused to wear collars while in Irongarde.”
“Not helping,” he snarled at Alarick. “Do you hear this? Our baby brother is moving all the way to Steelcross. There’s nothing but full-humans and witches there.”
“Oriana wants to change that. She has a lot of great ideas. Have dinner with us tomorrow night. I’m sure, once you’ve heard her plans, you’ll like them. She has all of us in mind.”
Marrok grinned at Zev, voice werewolf soft whenever he spoke of Oriana. If he looked hard enough, Zev was sure he’d see little red hearts in Marrok’s eyes.
“She’s Matriarch of Steelcross. Has been since she turned twenty-one. I’m the reason she hasn’t permanently moved to Steelcross. But she can’t keep staying in Iron Spire with her mother. When she moves to her realm, I’m going with her.”
“I don’t care about her matriarchal plans or where in the hell she decides to move. I’m not stepping one paw back into Irongarde City, not if it means they’ll throw a collar on me just so I can have a meal with my brother. I won’t do it, not even for you.” Forgoing civility, Zev all but drowned himself in the beer, liquid running down his chin and neck to the top of his T-shirt.
“I love her.”
The burp escaped Zev, mixed with, “So, you’ve said, and that will be the doom of you both. Witches can’t control their magic without a dampening source strong enough to contain it. If they wanted, they could level this entire city. But they won’t, not because they’re any more moral than the rest of us, but because they have nothing inside of them driving them to do it, drawing out the vilest part of themselves. But us werewolves,” Zev snorted up beer then swallowed it back down, “don’t get off that lucky. If you and Oriana can beat thousands of years of genetics, well,” he raised his pitcher of beer to Marrok, “cheers to unrealistic expectations. You won’t be seeing me at your funeral because, well, you know, you’ll be the dead idiot in the metal box.”
“Asshole.”
“And damn proud of it.” Pushing past Alarick, Zev went in search of the cute full-human waitress. All that talk of sex, collars, and blood made h
im horny. If the waitress wasn’t available, there were other options.
He loved the color black but hated the Silver Snare. Someday, Zev promised himself, he’d be free of the collar.
Someday.
April 28, 2243
Irongarde Realm
City of Wild Moor
He growled. The delicious witches’ scent lingered in the metallic air. Licking his claws, he tasted the residual of Oriana’s magic, felt the burn of her counterattack to his side and shoulder. The next time he saw her, he’d make her pay.
“You’re bleeding.”
He growled again, a warning to Phelan to get the hell out of his face. The mood he was in, he’d rip the werewolf’s throat out, saving the witches the effort of killing him.
“Blood of the Sun.” Phelan raised his face to the sky, blood coating his human mouth. “This is their time. When witches are their most powerful. Why do you think they retreated? They lasted the night, and we were evenly matched all the way until the end.” Phelan licked his teeth, clearing away blood and chewing the small piece of flesh he’d freed from between white teeth. “With the sun at their backs, they could’ve taken us, but they retreated.”
Wounded Muraco dragged themselves through the carnage, sniffing for what remained of the dead witches. They wouldn’t find any leftovers. Oriana had made sure of that, the murdering bitch that she was.
The witches had left Wild Moor just as the tide of battle could’ve turned in their favor.
“I don’t like it.”
He stared down at Phelan, having forgotten the werewolf was beside him speaking nonsense. A small but strong hand shoved him in the stomach, setting off blazing heat from Oriana’s attack. He growled, grabbed Phelan by the neck, and lifted his scrawny body into the air. He’d only allowed two werewolves to touch him like that. One was dead, and the other might as well be. He blamed Oriana for that too. The witch had so much coming to her.
“C-can’t breathe.”
He shook Phelan, unsympathetic at the sound of snapping bones. If Phelan had stayed in his werewolf form, he would’ve had a better chance of surviving his anger. Stupid Phelan for shifting then deciding to touch him before he’d cooled from the battle. Phelan wouldn’t die. Even in human form, werewolves were mighty creatures.
He dropped him to the cracked cement.
Phelan, holding his neck with one hand while pointing behind him with the other, spat up blood onto his bare chest.
He twisted to see what had the werewolf’s eyes bulging from his head. He’d lived in Wild Moor his entire life, had traveled to every part of the region. In each city, there were multiple Starmount Towers. At least two hundred feet tall, the steel edifices, shaped like trees with a sturdy square base, were insulated in unbreakable glass and protected by sun magic. He saw them, yet he didn’t see them because they were nothing but an ugly waste of space. They’d always reminded him too much of the buildings in Irongarde City, so he’d ignored them.
He couldn’t ignore the one a block from him, though. The three crossed arms, which had always been gray, like the rest of the tower, glowed a familiar shade of blood sun red. The arms sparked, like Oriana’s magic that still stung his side and shoulder.
“W-what in the hell is going on?” Phelan croaked from behind him.
He had no idea. He’d stopped in his tracks, so did every other Muraco. As if in a trance, they watched the Starmount blaze to life. From the gray base, magic leaped, shooting up the tower walls like blood through waiting veins.
He felt the tower pulse with magic, heard the crackle as it reached the glowing crossed arms, and watched as a beam of sunburst breach the top of the monument just as the protective glass came tumbling down. It shattered to the ground, startling the werewolves, effectively ending whatever hold seeing the Starmount come to life had had on them.
He couldn’t see where the beam went, but he knew what was in the direction it had gone. Two more beams shot through the sky, and he ran. Yeah, he knew where those beams were going--to the other Starmount Towers in Janus Nether.
Muraco scattered, running in every direction. He’d left Phelan behind. He’d left them all behind. He had to get underground. Had to—
An explosion threw him to the ground. He got back up, running faster. More explosions rocked him, sending him back to the ground. To his right, a building burned. To his left the same. Unnatural flames beat against the buildings like hammerheads on fire, a magical demolition no one in the buildings would survive.
Using his claws to help him up, he ran again, dodging debris, jumping over vehicles, and staying clear of the sunburst beams.
Werewolves howled, sliced and burned, the beams leveled at the city instead of the sky.
He couldn’t outrun them. The starbursts were too fast, too many, and too unrelenting. He reconsidered hiding underground, not with the buildings crumbling to their foundations. He’d be buried alive.
Turning, he darted in the direction of Starmount Tower. If only he could reach it. A speeding vehicle hit him, clipping his right leg as the full-human hauled ass out of there. His side and shoulder hurt, even more, the closer he drew to the tower, witch magic calling to witch magic.
He fell onto the base, hot to the touch, his paws cut and bleeding from the broken glass around the structure. He climbed on top of the base, pressing his body against the tower wall. He heard sizzling, and knew the magic was burning him everywhere he touched the wall.
Other Muraco fought to join him, some making it to the base, most dying a brutal death. All he could do was watch his clan lose a war he’d thought they’d won, while he took refuge at the epicenter of their pain.
He howled again, and he didn’t stop until the Starmount Tower powered down. He staggered off the base, leaving three layers of skin and fur behind. Looking out at Wild Moor, he dropped to his knees. It was gone. Destroyed. An Armageddon Strike that had only one origin.
Irongarde City.
Blood of the Sun Decree #135
February 1, 1715
By Matriarchal decree, werewolves fifteen and older
must submit to the injection of the Rage Disrupter.
Failure to comply will result in incarceration until which time the offender receives the mandatory injection.
Be it further decreed, it is unlawful to remove or assist
in the removal of the Rage Disrupter.
Elaine, Matriarch of Irongarde
Elidi, Matriarch of Steelcross
Steel Dreams
May 30, 2240
Steelcross Realm
City of Bronze Ward
“So, what do you think?” Oriana bit her bottom lip, twisted the edge of her blouse, and hoped Marrok couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart.
An hour ago, they’d arrived at Oriana’s home of Steelrise in Steelcross City, the capital of Steelcross Realm. Instead of jumping them to her home, Oriana decided to treat Marrok, who’d never been beyond Irongarde, to the beautiful landscapes between realms. They’d taken the Magerun shuttle, a transporter tube fueled by the sun and magic. The sky transporter system connected every part of the planet, a delicate balance of metal and magic, like everything else in Earth Rift.
Holding her hand, Marrok continued walking down the center of the desolate street, dilapidated brick buildings on each side. Twisted Spruce trees, in full bloom—red-and-blue leaves—lined the street. While placed equidistant from each other in an unimaginative design typical of areas as old as this one, one tree seemed to bleed into the other, so tall and wild did they grow with no one around to stunt their expansion.
Bronze Ward was off the beaten path. Having gone unused for decades, it wasn’t connected to the Magerun transport system. Oriana had to use Whisperer of Echoes magic, the weakest of her magical abilities, to transport them from what would soon be their permanent home in Steelrise to Bronze Ward. Once they’d completed the Moonless Sky ritual, and they were settled in Steelrise, she’d be able to share details of the realm with Marrok, beginning
with her decision to create Steelburgh.
“It’s really rundown, Oriana. I mean, I haven’t seen buildings made of brick in . . .” He stopped, shook his head, and smiled down at her. “I’ve never seen a brick building in person. Read about them, of course. Seen them in old vids.”
They continued to walk, a leisurely pace Oriana enjoyed. Once in residence at Steelrise as Matriarch, she wouldn’t have time for such banal pursuits, although she would do her best not to allow governance to strip her of the simple joys in life, like spending a summer’s day with Marrok dreaming of their future.
“Is this ward condemned? If not, it should be.”
“You don’t like it?” She started to bite her lower lip again but stopped. “I hoped you would. This is the place I told you about.”
Marrok’s frown always revealed so much. Her werewolf possessed zero ability to keep every emotion he felt from finding its way onto his handsome face.
Pushing up on tip-toe, she kissed his sexy, warm lips. “Moonvale Forest buttresses Bronze Ward and, behind that is Blackridge Mountains. Between the two, it’s nothing but miles of protected land perfect for werewolves.”
The hand that had skated around her waist when she’d kissed him, tugged her closer, his mouth going to her neck and nibbling. “I’ve never been this far north. When you mentioned giving werewolves a place of our own, when you moved to Steelcross, I assumed you meant a city like Wild Moor.”
Tilting her head back, she enjoyed the surge of pleasure his mouth and hands created. In a ward once home to werewolves and witches, they stood alone in the middle of the downtown area—boarded-up, overgrown, and left to rot. But, just over the horizon was Moonvale Forest, verdant green as far as the eye could see was divided by Silentdrift Lake, the name befitting the tranquility she hoped werewolves would find there.
Promise Forever: Fairy Tales with a Modern Twist Page 35
