Promise Forever: Fairy Tales with a Modern Twist

by Pauline Creeden

  With two hands, Oriana lifted Marrok’s face, holding him in place so she could look into gorgeous eyes—light-brown with red around his irises. When in werewolf form, Marrok’s entire iris was the most luscious shade of scarlet she’d ever seen. “It’ll take a few years to turn this ward and the surrounding area into a haven for werewolves. Once we do, though, it’ll be a model.”

  “We?”

  Sliding her lips against his, she smiled. “Yes, we. You agreed to be my consort, remember?”

  “Hmm, yes, consort to the young Matriarch of Steelcross.”

  Oriana hadn’t asked to co-rule Earth Rift with Kalinda, not that dual matriarchs were unprecedented. Twins Elaine and Elidi, during the eighteenth century, were the first siblings to rule together. Thea and Marisol, lovers, co-ruled for two hundred years during the early part of the twenty-first century.

  But there had never been a mother-daughter rulership. The power dynamics were an issue Oriana and Kalinda were still working through. In truth, it was a constant struggle. Every gain—a dedicated werewolf region, a collar-free Janus Nether, rebuilding of Bronze Ward, and opening of Steelburgh—were all battles that left Oriana feeling as if she hadn’t won, even though her mother had eventually consented.

  Hands still on his cheeks, she pulled him in for a sweet kiss. He tasted of green mint—refreshing—and smelled of earth—woodsy. Marrok felt even better, his tall, muscular body wrapped around hers as he deepened the kiss. Oriana moaned into his mouth, the sun high in the sky, feeding her magic and desire.

  She stepped away from him, breathless.

  Heavy-lidded eyes lifted, irises redder than they’d been a minute ago. Marrok’s hand rose, fingering the Silver Snare around his neck. The collar was crafted of pure silver-soft, reflective, and shiny. Bordered with reddish-brown copper, the collar resembled a woman’s high neck collar necklace more than it did a dog’s collar with buckles and straps. The ends of Silver Snares fused together when placed on, collar crafted in a witch’s version of a forge. The collars weren’t adorned or engraved. No werewolf tried to pretty them up or pretend they were something other than what they were—a means of control and protection.

  “I’m fine. I’d never hurt you.”

  “I know. That’s not why I stopped.” Hands on her hips, she took in the street, trying to envision it as it had been so many years ago. “Bronze Ward was a failed experiment. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “I don’t believe you did.” Retaking her hand, they resumed walking, her shoulder-length hair blowing in the sudden breeze.

  “Matriarch Helen and her consort Tuncay—”

  “Tuncay means bronze moon. That explains the name of the ward.”

  He led her around a corner, the buildings on the street even worse than the others they’d been down. More trees populated the area, roots having bulged up, forcing their way through the cement, reclaiming the earth the way nature was wont to do.

  “Right. Actually, I like the name Tuncay. We should add that to our list.”

  “I bet you do. The werewolf was your grandfather. By the time we have him, our list will be as long as my arm. I thought you wanted to have a girl first.”

  Oriana shrugged. “The gender doesn’t matter to me but, as Matriarch, it’s my duty to add to the witch population before I birth a son of the Black Moon.”

  They stopped again. Ironically, in front of a hospital.

  “That’s why you’re trying to bring Bronze Ward back to life, isn’t it?”

  “Grandmother failed, as Mother has taken to reminding me. She thought, if werewolves wore the collars at night when they were the strongest, they and witches could live together full-time as a mated pair, like full-humans. Grandmother speculated that if pups from the union had the opportunity to imprint on their witch mother, their blood-and-magic lust wouldn’t be so strong. She theorized it was the absence of the maternal bond that made them so vulnerable to our magic when they reached puberty. She may have been correct about pups and imprinting. There is some evidence to support that contention.”

  “What about the rest of it?”

  “I don’t know. Mother closed Bronze Ward after my grandparents died.”

  Marrok stepped closer, and she thought he’d kiss her again. Hell, she wanted him too . . . and more. The way his eyes lowered to her lips, licking his own, his mind ran along the same lines as hers.

  “Except for wearing the collars only part-time, your plan for Bronze Ward doesn’t seem much different from Matriarch Helen’s.”

  “That’s because it isn’t. Not really. Like her, I believe it’s important for pups, as well as witches, to be co-parented. When we aren’t, when so much of our lives are kept separate from each other, it leads to greater misunderstandings. We are as we are, Marrok. Greater minds than ours have pondered our biological compatibility yet incompatibility. Neither magic nor technology has solved the fundamental issue between us.”

  Placing her hand to his chest, over his heart, she felt it pulse, his werewolf strength a primal call to her witch magic.

  “From my research, Grandmother, like too many Matriarchs, limited the werewolves to urban areas. Part of the reason our cities are so overpopulated is that only full-humans reside in the Eastern and Western regions. Mother won’t agree to me building werewolf settlements in those territories, but I’ve been able to convince her to permit me to bring this ward into the current century and to grant those who live here access to Moonvale Forest and Blackridge Mountains.”

  Two years of arguing and one year of negotiating had resulted in a huge win. Not for Oriana, not even for just werewolves, but for all of Earth Rift. Witches and werewolves couldn’t continue this way, coming together to procreate but little else for fear of hurting the other.

  “You’re right, I’m also doing this for us . . . for me. You hardly know your mother, and my father refuses to visit me at Iron Spire. I want to be a mother to all of our children, and I want you to be able to be a father to our daughters.”

  “I want that too.” Tugging her to him, he hugged her with the same tense fierceness she felt. “I want that more than anything. For us to be a family, the way full-humans are.”

  Oriana laughed. “Not exactly like full-humans. You make their relationships sound idyllic. They aren’t. They’re complicated too.”

  Marrok kissed her cheek. “No relationship is more complicated than that of a witch and werewolf. So, you’re giving werewolves a place to run, hunt, and play.”

  “Grandmother had this ward built with bricks for a reason. It’s the opposite reason why we have Steelcross, Irongarde, Ironmere, and every other region with a type of metal in its name. Bricks aren’t as werewolf friendly as forests and mountains, but they also aren’t a constant reminder of the beast that dwells within us all.”

  “Witches aren’t beasts.”

  “You’re wrong.” Oriana lifted her hands, palms out to him. “We can wield our power like a firestorm. Witches have used the threat of werewolf attacks to stop learning and growing. We’ve turned over our lives to the metals we put into our bodies, using those same metals to build fortresses for hearts that can’t cope with not having its other half. We are a doomed people, Marrok, whether we admit it or not.”

  “Don’t say that. You sound too much like Zev.”

  Oriana arched an eyebrow, and he laughed.

  “Okay, you’re nothing like my brother. But he used the same word—doomed—about our relationship.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course Zev did. That explains why only Alarick had dinner with us the other night.”

  She hadn’t been surprised. At thirty-two, Zev challenged every rule. To her knowledge, he hadn’t broken any, although she wouldn’t be surprised to find out he had. He was the kind of werewolf, overly aggressive and purposefully intimidating, Kalinda used to justify keeping the werewolves on the proverbial short leash. She’d relented some only because Oriana had asked it of her. Kalinda, despite her stubborn nature, wasn’t immune to
the rare moment of sentimentality. After all, she’d cared enough about Oriana’s father, Bader, to give him a daughter and a son. Unfortunately, her younger brother had died at four when he fell from a tall tree and broke his neck while in Bader’s care. Heartbroken, Kalinda blamed Bader. Her father blamed himself more.

  “Our relationship will grow on him. Zev just needs time to get used to the change. After that, he’ll be fine.”

  Oriana doubted that, but she kept her own counsel. The last thing she wanted to do was cause a rift between the brothers more so than taking Marrok as her consort would create.

  “I also don’t believe you truly think we’re doomed.” He tapped the temple of her head. “The wheels in there are always turning. You don’t want to admit you’ve been trying to find a solution to a problem everyone has deemed unsolvable. You’re afraid.”

  “I’m not.”

  He tapped her nose. “Liar.”

  She waved his hand away from her face. “Fine, I am. I’ve scoured the Matriarchal Archives, going back as far as I can. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “We know there was patriarchal rule long before the brutal and life-changing war between witches and werewolves. From patriarchy and patrilineal descent to matriarchy and matrilineal descent in a single generation.”

  “I’m surprised any of our ancestors survived the War of Eternal Hunger. The hunger to keep power, I guess, is as bloody and violent as the hunger to claim it for yourself or at least not to be consumed by the powerlust of others.”

  Very true. The War of Eternal Hunger was taught in school, although not as thoroughly as other major historical events. But few events were as significant as a war that toppled one cultural regime only to replace it with another. Did it matter whether werewolves or witches ruled if the other wasn’t elevated to equal status in society?

  “There are chunks of our history that are gone. No records. Nothing. It’s as if Earth Rift didn’t exist until after the war.”

  “I know. I’m a student of history, remember?”

  “Who said ‘history is always written by the winners’?”

  “I have no idea, but I follow your point.”

  Oriana didn’t know if he did. Matriarch Alba, for whatever reason, all but wiped werewolves from Earth Rift’s history before her reign. Little remained as to what life was like for witches, werewolves, and humans before the War of Eternal Hunger. The effort to destroy over a thousand years of history would’ve been a massive undertaking that had to have taken years. All of which begged the question of what Matriarch Alba wanted to hide from future generations of witches and werewolves. Or perhaps her motivations had less to do with hiding truths but the overwhelming desire to forget them.

  “ ‘History is always written by the winners.’ I read that line in one of Matriarch Helen’s journals. Of all my ancestors, Helen was the most prolific writer. I’ve only read a third of what she wrote.”

  “Since we’re in Bronze Ward, it isn’t hard to figure out what part of her reign you’ve already studied.”

  Ironically, now that she was Matriarch, her duties to the realm limited her time to study a topic that had the potential to change their lives for the better.

  “Would you like to see Silentdrift Lake?” she asked, changing the topic. Based on his response, Marrok didn’t seem to care. Although, as he’d said, he was a student of history. They’d revisit this topic. Perhaps, with his help, they’d solve the mystery.

  “Umm, yeah, I would but, well, it’s kind of far away.”

  Oriana crossed arms over her chest. “It is, and your point?”

  Rubbing the back of his head, he looked from Oriana, kicking a piece of displaced cement before lifting his eyes again to meet hers. “Shit, you’re still frowning. Your Whisperer of Echoes magic makes me, well, uh, kind of nauseous. The magical jump is jarring in the extreme. I don’t think my stomach could take it if you had to use it longer to get us from here to the lake way over there.

  Marrok pointed down the street, not at all in the direction of Silentdrift.

  With the back of her hand, she moved his arm until it pointed to the west. “That way,” she told him.

  “There’s no need to smirk, Matriarch Oriana. I’m still not letting you jump us there, no matter you know the direction and I don’t.”

  “You just said I make you sick. Of course, I’m going to smirk.” When she went to fold her arms across her chest again, Marrok yanked her flush against him.

  “Your magic, not you. Nothing about you repels me.”

  “First nauseous and now repels. Whoever said werewolves weren’t charming knew what they were talking about. You’re quite handsome, though, so I think I’ll keep you.”

  “How magnanimous of you, Matriarch.”

  “I am, aren’t I?”

  “And humble.”

  “Yes, let’s not forget humble.”

  They laughed, hugging each other. Breathing in his scent, smelling the werewolf beneath the human veneer, Oriana opened herself to Marrok. Magic warmed her body, suffusing with the steel in her hands and arms.

  “Oriana, I—”

  “Trust me. I’ll do better this time. I promise.”

  Marrok held her tighter, his head in the crook of her neck, arms around her waist.

  She wound her magic around him, letting it flow from her into the midday air, a whip of magic that could, if she were in battle, could be used to slice the skin and fur from a werewolf. This close, she could kill him with her magic. This close, he could sink his fangs into her, killing her before the Siren Snare registered his endorphin spike, a neurotransmitter released when werewolves were angry, scared, or about to strike.

  When that happened, the collar emitted soothing pulses sent through the werewolf’s skin to his central nervous center—resulting in a calming effect. Despite witches’ desire to mitigate the vicious impulses of their werewolves, they had no desire to hurt them in the process. Perhaps, in the very beginning when collars were mandated by Matriarch Alba, pain and revenge had been the goal after so many werewolves had eaten countless witches. Her reign was marked by blood, the landscape red, the werewolves white.

  Trust broken.

  But trust could be reformed. Time had a way of turning the inconceivable into the possible.

  They held each other, Oriana trusting Marrok not to lose control, and he not moving out of her embrace, trusting himself not to hurt her and trusting her to jump them safely to Silentrift Lake.

  They disappeared into the magical ether of space and time. Oriana made sure to keep Marrok in the bubble of her magic, her whip around them both. She envisioned where she wanted them to land, her magic her eyes, her steel her faithful guide.

  Taking it slow, as not to make Marrok nauseous, his complaint valid, despite Oriana pretending otherwise. She slowed her breathing, held her magic whip with one hand, and lifted Marrok’s face with the other. His eyes were closed, his lips were near, and she wanted to taste him again.

  So she did, planting soft pecks to his lips, chin, and neck. Letting her lips rest against the top of his collar, she kissed along the rim. He sucked in a breath, so she did it over and again. Playing with fire, her mother would chastise, and Kalinda wouldn’t be wrong.

  They fell. Splash.

  Oriana spurted up water. Wet and cold, she glanced to her right and caught Marrok’s equally wet face staring at her. They were waist deep in Silentrift Lake, the right bank several feet behind them, heavily bloomed Red Mahogany trees across the river in front of them.

  She bit her bottom lip then offered what she hoped was an apologetic smile.

  “You’re terrible at this.”

  “I got distracted.”

  “Whose fault is that?” Jeans soaked and weighing him down, Marrok pushed to his feet, his T-shirt clinging to every scrumptious ripped muscle.

  With a steady hand, he helped her to her feet. Oriana’s own jeans hadn’t fared any better. They held the water, adding what felt like pounds to her
lower body.

  Marrok’s gaze slipped from her face to her chest, no doubt taking full visual advantage of a white blouse and bra that had to be damn near transparent.

  As if she hadn’t lost control of her magic, dumping them in a lake instead of on the coast, Oriana settled her hands on her hips, held her head high, and asked, “Do you feel nauseous?”

  Marrok narrowed his eyes. “That’s what you’re going with?”

  She shrugged. “That was your only complaint.”

  He threw his hands up. “Oh, I didn’t know I’d have to ask you not to drown me. I thought not killing your future consort was a given.”

  “You’re so dramatic. You’re a werewolf, which makes you more like a floatie for your Matriarch.”

  That earned her a snarl. “I got your floatie right here . . .”

  Marrok lunged, and Oriana took off, running away from him as fast as her wet jeans and soggy shoes would allow. Giggling, she bolted around the tall thousands of years old trees, making sure to keep a tree between her and the swifter Marrok.

  Her strategy didn’t help, especially when she tripped over her own feet, falling to the ground in a heap of wet, giggling witch.

  Marrok pounced, sliding into her and wrapping her in his arms, rolling them over until he lay atop her. “Got you.”

  “I let you catch me.”

  “Yeah, right. Did you say hello to the forest floor, when you’re face met it?” Wiping leaves and dirt from her hair, Marrok smiled down at Oriana.

  Her heart clenched for how much she loved this werewolf. Leaning up, she kissed the grin from his face. Kissed him until he kissed her back. Kissed him until she couldn’t breathe then she kissed him some more.

  Straddling her hips, Marrok yanked off their shirts and, umm, dark chocolate and muscles had never blended together so perfectly.

  Reaching up, she couldn’t help but run her hands across his defined abs, over his hard nipples, and down his sinewy arms.

  “You’re magnificent.”

  “So are you. Shit, Oriana, I want to rip that bra off you and kiss you everywhere.”