Werewolf Forbidden

by Christina E. Rundle

  “That fire was determined to burn. Nothing would extinguish it, and then suddenly the flames disappeared. I’ve never seen a fire at this magnitude before. The inside burned hotter than the outside. All the bodies are ash. It’s unnatural.” Axel led the way back to the kitchen. “I managed to sneak something from the restaurant that I thought you should see.”

  As he situated the box, Rider came to stand next to his identical twin. Their features and gestures were mirrored, but their styles varied greatly. Rider was a cowboy, Axel was a city boy. Rider wore flannel shirts and leather cowboy hats. Axel followed casual fashion.

  “What do you have?” Mercer asked.

  The lighting over the table was good, but the number of jumbled objects inside the box made it difficult to distinguish what he looked at. The light caught the edge of their metallic shells, making them gleam.

  Dax was the first to reach inside and remove the spider-like object. “How are a bunch of broken toys going to prove Mercer wasn’t involved with the fire?”

  Mercer reached into the box to grab one. He barely brushed the top of the device when electricity shot through his fingertips, setting his nerves on edge. “What the hell are these?”

  “I don’t know, but there were a lot of them under the ash. It’s strange. The bar and surrounding restaurants were completely packed; yet, no one got out; not even the cooks when there was a door leading from the kitchen into the alley,” Axel said.

  “Black magic, an impure art,” Fallah said. She stood in the kitchen doorway, still dressed in the clothes she arrived in. Her plain brown skirt and top hung on her thin, malnourished frame. She sniffed the air and frowned, her eyes going to the box. “May I look?”

  “Be my guest. I don’t like being blindsided,” Mercer said.

  She paused, her attention trailing from him to Rider, before staring at the box as she stepped towards them. Rider stepped to the side, giving her room; still she hesitated before sticking her hand in the box and picking up a disk that had been thoroughly crushed. It was larger in her delicate hands as she turned it onto its back and examined the belly. Green liquid oozed through the cracks, giving an obscure metallic odor that he hadn’t noticed over the smell of the fire and sweat emitting off Axel.

  “I’ve seen magic like this. My granddad was involved with treasure hunters. They had many maps, one of which had this same symbol,” she said.

  “Does your granddad still have the maps?” Rider asked.

  She shook her head. “The maps disappeared when he did. I came home one day and found proof of a struggle. A trail of these led into the woods, all broken and my granddad gone.”

  “So you recognize them, but you don’t know what they are?” Mercer asked.

  Fallah stretched her hand so they could see the black heart in the middle of its metallic body. “This is the symbol of the dark magi, Tri-Hearts. At one time, there were three. I heard one was still alive, but that was a decade ago. More could’ve joined. A new group could’ve formed and assumed the operation.”

  “If you’re right, what would dark magi want with Hota?” Dax asked.

  Mercer’s blood ran cold. He could list multiple reasons someone would take a Skin Walker, but the dark magi only needed one.

  “It’s the year of the Ghost Moon. That’s when a Skin Walker’s power is the strongest,” he said. It was a legend that held great meaning to Hota, but not to Mercer. He turned to Fallah. “Do you think the dark magi took Hota for a ritual?”

  Fallah set the object down and held the box with both hands. She stared intently at the objects, her eyes narrowing. “You know, the Ghost Moon is real.”

  Her comment caught him off guard. Mercer swallowed. He hated the legend of the Ghost Moon and it had nothing to do with him being a half-breed. Despite Hota’s firm footing on reality, he was surprisingly superstitious.

  “If it’s true the Ghost Moon passes every thirty years, this will be my first sighting and remembering its affect,” he said. He fought the urge to shake the chill that slid down his back. “Can you find the dark magi who took Hota?”

  “You’re talking about a wielder of magic that is as old as the fey. If anyone knows how to find her, it will be the faire folk, but you have to pick your fight, Mercer,” her dark eyes held his with surprising assuredness. Her assertiveness was fleeting. “From what I’ve heard, the fey might not be any better than the magi.”

  “The who?” Rider asked.

  “The faerie,” Mercer answered.

  The second time Hota had beat him within an inch of his life, was when he told the Mission Leader about the gestohlen, a werewolf stolen and raised by the fey, who came in and killed General Alger Ezekiel and his unit. The faerie were a species the werewolves held a great quandary. The Mission wanted to believe the faeries were dead. He knew differently.

  “Do people still believe in the faeries?” Rider asked.

  “Wyatt did for a long time,” Dax said.

  “There are two courts, the Court of Light and the Court of Dark. It is the Dark Court that has ties with the magi, Chancellor.” She reached for his hand on the table and hesitated with her palm over his. “Mercer, I know this is difficult, but if there is another way, I don’t suggest going to speak with the faerie.”

  It didn’t matter if he thought the Ghost Moon was superstition, others believed. He couldn’t wait for a better option with Hota’s life on the line and the Mission of Werewolves ready to execute him for a murder he didn’t commit. He had a very strong feeling that Hota was still alive. “So how does one go about finding faire folk when they’re not in the United Kingdom?”

  Fallah folded her arms in front of her stomach. “I know a way, but I’ve never been brave enough to try. We need to find an orange grove.”

  “Going somewhere?” Sadie asked.

  She stood in the doorway, still wearing her dress clothes and heels. Exhaustion weighed heavily on his bones, but it was a mere whisper next to the strength of his wolf, wound up and ready to brawl. Now was not the time to clash.

  She took advantage of his silence. “I’m going too.”

  “This isn’t up for discussion. Let me make this clear. This full moon, there won’t be a fight for the position as alpha female; I will not take anyone as a mate that I’m not compatible with. Despite the Long Horn name and legend, I am not like Hota. If you want pups, you’re wasting your time with me.”

  She shrugged. “We’ll see, Mercer.”

  FOUR

  The Yavapai Mountains, also known to the locals as Superstition Mountains, had a vast history, some partially true and some woven in speculation. The disappearance of hikers and treasure hunters were blamed on lost Native American tribes, drug lords and the mafia. No one touched on the forth possibility, a demon.

  The wind couldn’t move the heavy stench that slid through the crack in the rock. The reek filled the pocket of space between the alcove and bolder. Wolffey rubbed his sleeves over his eyes clearing his vision. There was nothing to clear the coating in the back of his throat or the burning in his nose. Death was his specialty, his life, everything he knew and understood. It didn’t mean he liked it.

  He pulled his long hair into a low ponytail to keep it out of his face. The faeries didn’t need to bind their hair, but it never seemed to get in their way either. There was nothing he could do about the aspects that were a constant reminder he didn’t belong with them.

  He tied the last knot in the rappel rope and gave it a sturdy jerk, ignoring the company that joined him. The hold was sturdy and there was plenty of rope, though he couldn’t estimate how deep the drop was inside.

  Rufus darted in front of Wolffey’s face, holding his nose. “Do ye know what lives here?” His brogue was heavy when he was upset.

  The tiny faerie taught him enough Gaelic to comprehend the private conversations between Aire’Si and Sayen-ael. He suspected Rufus was not the fey’s real name. He had the same spiked porcupine needles for hair like Sayen-ael and his clothes resembled a mix
between Robin Hood and a renaissance king.

  “You’re dead. How can you smell anything?” Wolffey asked.

  He squeezed the rope again, barely feeling a ghost of constriction from his fingerless gloves. When he began training with the fey, his body hadn’t been physically capable of keeping up. Aire’Si introduced him to a few fey medicines. The fey market introduced him to a few things Aire’Si had been against. The long term affect for instant relief from battle wounds, was a growing sense of numbness in his body. Still, being numb to pain wasn’t the worse outcome.

  Rufus’s eyes narrowed as he took in the rappel gear. “Slow down, lad, don’t tell me ye found a Beithir and ye likes to go for a visit.” Wolffey tugged on the rope again, ignoring the hand sized fey, which made Rufus glow brighter. “Gaia and the world, lad, you’ve done some daft things of late, but this is by far the worst and for what, Aire’Si’s attention?”

  Wolffey’s head jerked upward at the comment. Heat rushed the back of his neck and cheeks. His concentration returned to the ropes in his hand, but it was too late to fake indifference. Rufus caught scent of more imperative issues than just the Beithir.

  “Is this about Aire’Si? Ye will always be a topsider to the Unseelie and topsiders’ don’t belong in the Hill.”

  This was a conversation he already had with himself. It looped continuously in his head. He knew what he was to the Unseelie. As a child learning the arts of assassination, the other students peppered him with insults, but he was sure he could prove he was an Unseelie. He could prove to Aire’Si that he belonged there.

  “True. I wasn’t born fey, but my heart is in the Hill.” He gave Rufus a fleeting glance, but couldn’t stop the heat that rushed his face. Why had he mentioned heart? Rufus would read into it, and would he be wrong?

  “Aye, ye could steal away the greatest gift in the world, but it won’t make ye fey. What were ye planning to do tying Aire’Si up like that? It almost looked like it was a kiss ye’d be after.”

  His escape from the Hill meant keeping Aire’Si contained. Seeing his mentor restrained made him think of the first and only comic book he owned when living topside. On the colorful pages that still existed brightly in his mind, the protégé kissed his mentor and it lead to so much more.

  It was the first image he’d had of romance when he’d been a boy that he carried into adulthood. With Aire’Si kneeling before him, at the mercy of his touch, he knew at that moment it was a bad idea. He had no intention of killing Aire’Si and an enemy left alive, was an enemy that would eventually come for revenge.

  “Don’t be daft Rufus. I was merely trying to decide if I needed to leave him unconscious,” he answered. He didn’t risk a glance over at Rufus, afraid the spirit would know it was a lie.

  “That’s why ye drink purple algae tea religiously? Every fey trained in poison knows what purple algae is used for,” Rufus taunted.

  His cheeks burned with heat. He refused to have this conversation with the spirit, who knew nothing about his upbringing and why he’d risk sexual dysfunction by drinking purple algae tea. At his request, the healer had given him the algae to keep his body from physically reacting when he was on the training mat consumed by the smell of orange oil and leather that made up Aire’Si’s scent. It was to keep his body from wanting to lean in when Aire’Si stood behind him, positioning his hands on the bow or to show him how to properly swing the sword.

  Aire’Si had protected him from the start. “Never let your name slip from your lips. It is the greatest weapon any faerie can have over another. Speak only the name I give you. Wolffey, it is now your name when asked.”

  The only other person, who tried protecting him, had been killed when he was a preteen, but Aire’Si was different. He was sturdy and capable of battle. He was skilled in weapons and hand-to-hand combat. And his fey mentor was powerful; something he’d heard others whisper when they thought no one was listening. Somewhere deep in his subconscious a sixth sense of sorts still whispered to him and it whispered that Aire’Si was the perfect mate, but that was wrong. Aire’Si didn’t want werewolves in the Hill and Wolffey really didn’t want to be a werewolf any more.

  Rufus grew desperate at his silence. “A Beithir doesn’t outright kill its victims.”

  Wolffey placed himself at the narrow opening between the two solid pieces of rock. A cold air blew through the crevice, bringing a strong stench. His mind grew quiet; his body went still, ready for battle. Rufus grew flustered, unable to demand his attention. He had no smell and though his wings fluttered like a hummingbird, there was no wind.

  “You can’t mess with it. Nary a one fights a Beithir alone.”

  “I’m not anyone. I’m Sayen-aei’s best assassin.”

  “Proud are ye? Pride before fall, that’s what sunny-siders say.”

  Wolffey chuckled. “I haven’t been in a situation I can’t handle.”

  “This is daft! Ye’re likely to be killed.”

  “Faith, Rufus, I will come back.”

  Despite the dispassion in Wolffey’s tone, there was a tiny insecure part of him that vibrated. It was a part of him that surfaced when he least wanted. It was the tiny voice of uncertainty. He forced it down again, because there were some things a grown man had to let go, like doubt brought on by childhood.

  “This is nary a game, lad. Ye’re free from the fey. Go, be young. Why continue live the life of an assassin?”

  The question had too many answers. His stomach twisted. A fey, even a dead fey, wouldn’t understand the weight of such a statement. Where could he go? He was an outcast in both the fey world and that of the lycanthropes.

  His non-faerie heritage gave him broader shoulders; though lean compared to others of his nature, it forced him to slide into the crevice at an angle in order to fit. “It’s the only life I know.”

  Unable to physically touch him, Rufus had no way to stop him. “What are ye doing this for, lad? I must know.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.” A carousel of negative thoughts incessantly circled his mind. Lists with pros and cons were constantly being measured and weighted for every action he took. He was tired of the lifestyle, but it was now the only thing that calmed him. When he was in transition to fight, when his perception was sharp and body honed for battle, his inner world became quiet.

  “Nary a soul escaped the queen. Ye’ve managed that. I don’t want it to end like this for ye,” Rufus said.

  Wolffey snorted. “I might be a dog, Rufus, but I have the nine lives of a cat. I’ll survive this.”

  The fey made a sound that was hard to place. Disapproval or mourning, Rufus was the only fey he’d ever seen with an extensive amount of open emotion. Maybe death released something in the feys, or maybe their stony resolve didn’t cross over with them. It was hard to impersonate dispassion, though he’d done it long before the feys. Nature had taught him a great deal about camouflage to survive.

  Wolffey glanced up at the sky. He needed to be inside the cave before the Beithir returned. “Chi mi a-rithist thu.” It was an old Gaelic farewell; I’ll see you again.

  There was nothing else to say. Dark eyes, silently pleaded, but he wouldn’t back out. He took slow steps backward until the ground was no longer under his heel. He was freefalling into the black abyss. The fey spirit didn’t follow.

  oOo

  Though the van was parked three miles down the road, they were on private property and that made Mercer weary. His ears ached, straining to hear the sound of a territorial dog that smelled their presence, but the orange grove was eerily silent. Not even insects hummed in the humid air.

  Fallah walked ahead of them, glancing down under the heavy limbs of the trees that brushed the ground. He watched her; curious when she let the limbs fall back into place before heading to the next tree to do the same thing.

  “What is she looking for?” Dax whispered.

  Rider shushed him. Fallah stopped moving and looked up at the moon. The hairs on Mercer’s skin stood on end. There was a shift
in the orange groove, but only the heavy smell of citrus was in the air.

  Fallah’s back was to them, as she stared at the path between the orange trees. “The entrance to the Unseelie is down this path.”

  Moonlight glistened off the tree leaves. There was no movement, not even mice or cats prowled through here. Mercer came to her side, focused on seeing what she did. At first, he didn’t see a difference between these trees and the ones they’d walked between for the past hour. A mysterious wind blew through, making only the leaves on these two lines of trees shutter. The movement changed the leaves, turning their glossy green surfaces a dark, unreflective black.

  "If this works, you’re crossing into unknown territory. We don’t know how hostile the fey will be. I should go," Rider said.

  "No, you're next in line as alpha, I should go." Axel debated.

  Mercer stepped between the brothers as the tension grew. It was the near full moon, and the magic he could feel creeping through the soles of his shoes that made him receptive to the age old argument between them.

  “Axel is right,” he said. Both brothers stopped. “You’re next in line to take my spot, but Axel; you need to stay behind too. This is my situation,” he said. He expected to hear from Tristen with an update. Rider would be the best to relay what happened. If something went wrong, any challenge that came, Rider could handle alone.

  “Remember the rules,” Fallah said. She demanded his attention and he gave it.

  “Yes, I couldn’t forget.” They’d gone over the rules far too many times in the car.

  “Forget what the movies and books say about these creatures. The Court of Light is just as horrid as the Court of Dark. These creatures are more likely to eat your skin than grant you wishes. Never lose respect for them. Don’t drink or eat anything they offer, go over the details of any trade and never leave with a vague agreement,” she warned.

  He stared down the long row of darkened orange trees. The longer he stared, the leaves started to look brittle and dead. The slightest wind would tear them from the branches. Like being trapped in a nightmare, he knew the leaves would all travel the same path and funnel into the ground. His adrenaline surged for the second time that night, leaving him shaky.