Like all great movements. It begins with one mind, one heart, and a single brave step into the unknown. If not you, Kalinda, then who?
July 3, 2243
Steelcross Realm
Moonvale Forest
“Are you sure you want to do this by yourself?” Alarick placed a small cooler on the ground. “I mean, what if something goes wrong?”
To Alarick’s credit, he didn’t look at Oriana’s arms, covered by a lightweight red jacket she’d exchange for a warm sweater when the sun set and the cool from Silentdrift Lake rolled in.
“Don’t waste your breath.” Solange shifted closer to Alarick, their arms grazing. “I’ve already asked, and she turned me down. I don’t even know why you bothered packing her a cooler with water and sandwiches.” In a sugary-sweet gesture, unlike the Solange Oriana knew, her best friend stood on tiptoe and kissed Alarick’s cheek. “It was sweet of you, though. Thank you for thinking of her.”
“Ahh, umm, well, does it still count if I told you Mom’s the one who made the sandwiches and thought of the care package but I’m the one who held it while you jumped us here?”
Solange laughed, and so did Oriana. “Considering no one actually had to carry the cooler for me to include it in the jump, your meager physical effort counts for very little.”
Alarick lowered his voice, his response, probably one involving sex, was meant for Solange only, so she wandered away.
Oriana didn’t want to think about the last time she’d been in this very spot, crying, anxious, and afraid. She hadn’t known what to do, or where else to go but there. She’d promised she would return but had been unsure if she would be able to keep her oath.
Oriana would rather spend her time remembering her and Marrok’s Moonless Sky ceremony. He’d looked so handsome that night—his black werewolf majestic, red eyes enchanting, full of love and hope for a happy life together.
They had been happy. But they’d also been oblivious to satellites orbiting their sun, impacted by and responding to the solar system’s shifts.
“Don’t go too far,” Alarick warned her, sounding more amused than worried. “A little witch alone in a forest can be dangerous. What if that red, hooded jacket attracts a big, bad wolf?”
Smiling, Oriana walked away from the copse of trees and to Solange and Marrok in the clearing. “I’m hoping to attract a big, bad wolf. Preferably a black one but a white will do. At least for now.”
They nodded, still smiling at each other, although no true humor existed in their words. No more than Oriana’s reason for being in Moonvale was a laughing matter. But she’d cried enough, her ducts dry, her heart full.
Oriana missed Kalinda and Marrok. While the destruction of Janus Nether and the deaths caused by the escaped Muracos have led to an unexpected window of opportunity to address the future of Earth Rift, witches more amenable to talk of change than in times past, Oriana couldn’t move on until she fulfilled her promise.
He’d told her his thoughts about being a prisoner. His comment had been made in reference to Steelburgh, but his it had reflected the line he’d drawn between being alive and living. “The city is beautiful in a sterile, morbid kind of way. It’s depressing and, if I ever ended up here, I’d want to jump from the Crimson Guard building and kill myself.”
Alive.
Living.
Not at all the same, not when having a beating heart could mask death.
Alarick approached Oriana. They’d grown closer, the last couple of months, so it didn’t surprise her when he pulled her into a warm hug. Like Marrok, Alarick carried a woodsy scent, detectable even under the body oil he favored.
“Thank you for having Zev transferred to a prison in Ironmere. Having him so close makes it easier for us to visit. He won’t admit it, but he’s grateful. I still can’t believe he turned himself in.” With a kiss to her cheek, Alarick stepped back. “For what he did, he’s lucky he only got a twelve-year sentence.”
From behind Alarick, Solange shook her head, braids hidden under a white-and-gold head wrap that matched her sundress. “Only a person who’s never spent time in prison would refer to twelve years of incarceration as only.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Of course I do. So does Oriana. But he’ll have to move again, once you and Io settle in Bronze Ward. Everything is almost ready. Right, Oriana?”
She’d zoned out, her attention drawn to a spot of color across the lake.
“Hey, Oriana, what are you looking at?”
She ran away from Solange and Alarick, and to the shoreline, eyes chasing the spot of color as it moved. Fast. So damn fast.
“What?” Alarick caught up to her first. “What did you see?”
Oriana raised her hand to point where she’d last seen . . . something, but nothing was there, only rows of tall, green trees.
“What did you see?” Alarick’s sight was keener than hers, but his scan of the area had him grunting and shaking his head. “I don’t see anything. Whatever you saw is gone. If you or Solange jump me over there, I can take a look. I really don’t like the idea of leaving you out here by yourself.”
“Neither do I. I’m giving you three hours.” Solange displayed three fingers, as if Oriana needed the visual to accompany the auditory. “Three hours then we’re coming back to check on you.”
“That might not be enough time.”
“It probably won’t be, but that’s all the time we’re giving you.”
To Oriana’s disappointment, she’d spent three months jumping to and from Moonvale Forest, each trip more uneventful and depressing than the last.
“We know you’ve done your best,” Io had told her. “We don’t expect more from you.”
Oriana had believed Io, as well as Lita and Alarick, who’d echoed Io’s sentiment. Despite their words, they were no more ready to abandon hope than Oriana. If nothing else, she’d used the five months since the blood transfusions, Kalinda by her side for both procedures, to learn how to use her magic without aid of any metal.
Slow progress, for sure, and difficult to figure out how to rewire her thinking to manipulate her magic. Thanks to Kalinda, she’d read Helen’s missing journals. Her grandmother had been ahead of her time. Yet, like all of Earth Rift, also behind the times--the modern world in desperate need of catching up to the past.
Reclined on a blanket, Oriana stared up at the stars and smiled. A red moon, occurring once every twenty years, hung from the sky like a wind chime, the sky’s visual ornament without the aural accompaniment. The red moon didn’t sparkle or glow. It wasn’t bright or even a unique shade of red. For Oriana’s first time seeing a red moon, she expected more, something visually beautiful. It wasn’t. It was . . . well, an uninspired red moon.
A rustling of leaves sounded behind Oriana. Her smile grew. The red moon, darker than she’d imagined, had an appeal other than visual.
There was more movement behind her, but she kept her attention on the night sky.
“Did you know the red moon is considered a good omen. That, anyone born during a red moon, will be blessed by both the sun and the moon. I’m thinking born could also mean rebirth. What do you think?”
The sound stopped.
Sitting up, Oriana turned . . . and grinned at her good fortune. No, the red moon wasn’t beautiful but the sight before her was.
Neither a white werewolf, nor a black one, but a thin, dirty human male with long hair and a full beard. Gorgeous.
He opened his mouth, but only a raspy sound emerged. That was okay. She didn’t need the words. All she needed was him. And he’d finally come to her. Not as the black werewolf he’d been. Nor as the Muraco he’d become. But as a confused amalgam of both.
“Or-Ori-Ori-an-a.”
Marrok stumbled forward, falling onto his muddy knees and into Oriana’s waiting arms.
He smelled awful but felt so damn good. “I’ve got you, my love. I’ve got you.”
Like Kalinda and Zev, Oriana hadn’t been able to bri
ng herself to kill Marrok. She’d meant her shot to disable, which it had. The question had then become what to do with the Muraco Marrok had been turned into. For all intents and purposes, the real Marrok was dead. Even the man she held wasn’t her Marrok.
The Muraco hadn’t disappeared, while in Moonvale Forest. Marrok hadn’t suddenly become a black werewolf again because he’d been left to heal and run wild in the safest place Oriana could think to leave him.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to return.”
“D-don’t care. H-h-ere now. Don’t leave.”
“I won’t ever leave you again.”
Marrok had said he’d rather die than be imprisoned. Life as a Muraco was a prison without a steel gate. One way or another, Marrok, Cyrus of Steelcross, would be set free--either reborn as a black werewolf or released from his suffering to join mother sun and father moon.
Oriana pulled back, her neck wet from Marrok’s tears and her cheeks moist from her own. “I’d like to kiss you. May I?”
Dry, cracked lips parted, eyes lowered. “I’m disgusting. Stinky. Dirty. Unstable. You shouldn’t even be—"
Oriana kissed him. Yes, Marrok was all those things, but Oriana couldn’t care less. He’d lived like an animal for months—hunting game and drinking from the lake. But he’d come to her as a man, in the same clearing where they’d pledged themselves to each other.
Her tongue opened his mouth for her magic. Marrok gagged. Tried to pull away. But Oriana’s firm hand to his nape kept him right where she needed him to be.
She wasn’t iron free, the tests proved that. But the transfusions had significantly reduced the amount of metal flowing through her veins and mixing with her magic. Oriana disliked having to use witches on the cusp of puberty as blood donors, but they were her only source of untainted blood.
“Relax and swallow my magic, Marrok. I need you to let me feed your hunger.”
“But, but . . .”
Oriana kissed him again, anxious to give him what his body needed but reminded herself to feed him small, easily digestible portions. So, she settled them on the blanket, her hand over his heart and her mouth fused to his.
Wisps of red magic swirled between their lips. In time, and with more practice, she’d be able to generate magic from her hands, making the transfer a simple touching of skin. In Marrok’s fragile physical and mental state, too much magic could overload his system and kill him.
Helen had many hypotheses about Soul Magic, as she called the transfer. Her death, unfortunately, had left them unanswered.
“Oriana?” Marrok’s hand pushed strands of hair from his face and behind her ear. “What is happening? I feel . . . I feel funny. Different.”
Oriana rolled onto her back, grinning up at the red moon.
“Strange too. My stomach is cramping but it doesn’t hurt. It’s a really weird feeling.”
She laughed. “You’re the king of understatements, my love.” She laughed again because it felt so good. But then she sobered, afraid her celebration was premature. She learned over Marrok, scrutinizing every inch of him.
“I know I look bad. You don’t have to stare at me.”
“Bad? That’s how you think you look?” Oriana snorted. “Not bad, Marrok. You look downright dreadful.”
Yet, she wanted to kiss him again. And again. And again. For, well, research purposes, of course. She had to make sure the experiment worked. Helen had used the words reliable and valid, in reference to her experiments.
Oriana kissed Marrok again. Bad breath had never tasted like . . . okay, bad breath was bad breath. No amount of love and relief changed that nasty fact. But Oriana kissed her husband anyway, pushing a little more Soul Magic into him.
It would take a generation before Earth Rift would have enough metal-free mature witches to integrate Soul Magic into their society. That would give Oriana time to work on the hearts and minds of resistant witches. She’d already begun rebuilding Janus Nether. For now, most of those residents lived in Bronze Ward. Not exactly Helen’s vision of the city, but she hoped, from their place among the stars, Helen and Tuncay could rest in peace, knowing their life’s work and sacrifice hadn’t been in vain.
“I want to go home.” Marrok turned his face away for Oriana, weeping softly. “I remember what I did to you and Keira. I remember . . . I remember I wanted to . . . to . . .”
Oriana wrapped her arms around Marrok, holding his naked body the way she had Keira’s the first few nights after the attack.
“If you recall it all then you know you protected our daughter. She’s only here because you were the black werewolf she needed you to be. You shielded Keira the only way you knew how. By pushing past the Rage Disrupter.” Oriana turned Marrok over, so he could see her when she said. “Thank you for saving our daughter. I told you the same that night, and I’m repeating it now. Thank you, Marrok. I love you so much.”
“You must love me because I smell like shit.”
“Finally,” Oriana clapped, “not an understatement. Let’s go home, Marrok. You need a shower, a shave, and a real meal.”
“Sounds good. Even in werewolf form, chasing after deer, hares, and beavers is exhausting.”
Oriana stood, and Marrok followed her up, wrapping the blanket, like a toga, around his body.
“What did I miss while I was gone?”
“Nothing you want to know, but I’ll tell you everything.”
“Yeah, I assumed as much. What about sex?”
“What about it?”
“That wasn’t on your list.”
Oriana’s gaze raked over Marrok’s body. She’d have to fatten him up, but a shower and shave did wonders for a man. She winked at him. “We’ll see.”
“What do you mean we—”
Oriana cast her Whisperer of Echoes spell, yanking a shocked and cursing Marrok through the ether of time and space. Because, why the hell not? The red moon had returned her consort to her and, with more Soul Magic feedings, her Marrok will, once more, be his glorious black werewolf self.
They fell in a heap on their bed. Marrok glanced around the renovated suite. “Finally, you got it right.”
Not yet. But she would.
Go slow to go fast. Words to lead by.
THE END
About the Author
N. D. Jones, USA Today Bestselling author, lives in Maryland with her husband and two children. A desire to see more novels with positive, sexy, and three-dimensional African American characters as soul mates, friends, and lovers, inspired the author to take on the challenge of penning such romantic reads. She is the author of three paranormal romance series: Winged Warriors, Death and Destiny, and Dragon Shifter Romance. She’s also written The Styles of Love, a contemporary romance trilogy, as well as Forever Yours, a fantasy, futuristic romance.
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Obsidian Stone
LJC Fynn
A Merlin Retelling
Obsidian Stone © 2019 LJC Fynn
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Chapter 1
After all that time, the stone had popped back on the grid at full force. It had been a while sinc
e he cared about anything, so much so that he hadn’t bothered with modern humanity for some time. When the stone reemerged at full strength, he knew this was going to be his last shot to correct his mistake. It had taken him two exhausting years to track it down to this building. The pull of the stone was so strong that even if his mind contradicted the fact that he was almost home, his body automatically entered the building and walked into the room where he felt the stone the most.
The room was arranged like a lecture hall, and almost all of the seats were taken, except for a few in the back row. He chose the seat nearest to the exit and read the pamphlet provided on each of the seats.
We welcome guest lecturer, Dr. Anne Taggart, P.H.D. She will be here today to discuss the historical significance in literature of Arthurian tales and how they relate to tales of romantic literature today. There will be a discussion at the end of the lecture, so please hold your questions.
Ironic that he was drawn to a discussion of the one person that had been the bane of his last fifteen hundred years of existence. He flipped the simple white pamphlet over, expecting a picture of this Anne, but nothing else was marked on the paper. He listened to discussions around the hall, trying to get some clue of what to expect, but he only heard the grumblings of being required to attend as a credit for class.
The lights dimmed, and a white screen at the front of the flickered on with a picture of a large stone and a sword sticking out of it. He smiled and shook his head, because the picture has it all wrong. He hadn’t been intrigued like this in a while, and he made the decision that even if the stone did not show up here, he would stay for this train-wreck of a lecture.
An older bald man walked out, wearing a basic brown color scheme, and gave a five-minute speech about Anne. The speech the man gave about her matched the boring palate of color choice for his clothes. The man finally looked off to the door in the front of the room where she walked in.
Promise Forever: Fairy Tales with a Modern Twist Page 55
