by Nikki Sex
It’s too much! Too much power. Too much magic. How am I going to control my demon?
If I can’t, things are going to go very, very wrong.
Chapter 48. Fight
Long Claw’s mouth pulls back in a snarl. His lips move, but I can’t hear anything he says. The man bends, gathers himself, then charges.
Stafford staggers backwards as the big man slams into him. Together, they crash into an invisible wall. Their first few blows land in a flurry of movement. They battle away in silence—close, ugly, merciless fighting.
In less than a heartbeat, too fast for the eyes to see, they are back in the center of the ring.
It’s like watching the clash of the Titans.
Excited shouts, anxious comments, and hysterical yelling come from the audience. From the combatants, there’s not a sound to be heard. I feel as though I’m watching an action movie with the TV on mute.
Sound, smell, power, magic—the shaman’s circle blocks out everything except sight.
Without first getting into a balanced, fighting stance, Long Claw turns and throws a clenched fist toward Stafford.
The Beast Lord ducks, dodging the blow by a narrow margin. As Long Claw moves forward with the momentum of his fist, Stafford lands three quick punches to his ribs.
Thrilled, the spectators cry out.
Clearly enraged, Long Claw lunges at him—this time, throwing a heavy right punch. Again, Stafford evades the blow, but he isn’t prepared for the next one. A sweeping left hook lands ruthlessly, a fist crunches into the side of Stafford’s temple.
“Ohhh!” comes a roar from the audience.
Long Claw spins toward his opponent, clearly expecting to watch the Beast Lord crash to the ground. He sees Stafford’s fist a scant second before it smashes into his face, knocking Long Claw onto his ass.
Good. Serves him right.
Long Claw leaps to his feet. Blood flows from his nose. His mouth opens and silently moves in what are most likely, a series of vicious, condemning curses.
Firm-lipped, Stafford says nothing.
Fury burning through him, Long Claw advances, but this time more warily. He feints with a left jab, then a right, before a strong punch to the body finds its mark below Stafford’s ribs.
Chests heaving, again and again, they throw punches, bashing and pummeling one another in a flurry of strikes. They pound the ever-loving shit out of each other with endless stamina, and no weapons—unless one of them decides to take off his loincloth and use it to strangle his adversary.
Stafford smiles—but it’s not a nice smile. It’s a (dare I say?) wolfish grin. His teeth flash with the promise of blood and death. He had no wish to start this fight, but now committed, he’s ecstatic.
In the violent heat of mortal combat, the Spukani Alpha is having fun.
The man I’m falling in love with is exhilarated. It’s as though the entire purpose of his life is to smash, kill, and destroy this one enemy. Is it the wolf inside or the man who enjoys this battle?
Blind with fury, Long Claw doesn’t notice that very few of his strikes are doing damage. Turning one way, then another, Stafford deflects or evades most of his attacks.
The Beast Lord is the better fighter, but more than that, he has a force of will. His inner strength makes him unstoppable. Long Claw, unshakably arrogant, the biggest fan in his own fan club, hasn’t got a clue he’s doomed.
Swiftly, Stafford sidesteps.
Long Claw’s fist hits nothing but air.
Stafford’s elbow crashes into the side of Long Claw’s face, tearing a gash below his eye. A vicious uppercut immediately follows, but Long Claw manages to take the impact on his forearm rather than his chin.
A roundhouse kick from the Beast Lord knocks Long Claw to his hands and knees.
The crowd goes wild! Energy levels in the room, already off the charts, reach a new high.
Long Claw’s eye swells and bleeds, along with his broken nose. Before Stafford can jump on top of him, the injured man leaps to his feet.
Attempting to keep his guard up, Long Claw steps back to regroup by putting some space between himself and his opponent.
Sweating and exhausted, both men have weakened under this ongoing brutal battle. Breathing raggedly, they circle one another while recovering.
Stafford is still smiling.
Long Claw looks grim.
The audience has been shouting and calling out, but abruptly, almost as one, they become silent. Eyes turned toward the open windows and front door, the wolves within them stir restlessly.
The enchanted mistress is coming.
They await the moon.
For an instant, the Beast Lord turns his head to look—but pays for his moment of inattention.
A straight left slams into Stafford’s nose, snapping his head back. Before he can recover, Long Claw lands a series of punches to Stafford’s muscular abdomen, crushing the air right out of him.
As the Spukani Alpha struggles to protect himself, Long Claw hits Stafford in the face with a lightning fast series of hooks and uppercuts.
Protecting his head with his shoulder, Stafford suddenly crouches down, shoots forward, grabs both of Long Claws legs, and lifts him high into the air. He spins Long Claw in midair.
Stafford drops him down heavily on his back. Long Claw slams to the ground, his mouth gaping wide. Severely winded, he gasps for air.
Ouch. That hurt.
Thrilled, the audience screams with savage excitement.
While Long Claw is reeling, Stafford leaps on to him, his feet thumping with crippling pressure on to the man’s oxygen-starved chest. Now this ferocious combat looks like something I’d see on cable—not that I watch fights on TV. I avoid violence so I don’t encourage my demon.
Still, I’ve seen fleeting views of this kind of thing. It’s like worldwide wrestling entertainment. Maybe a smack-down challenge.
Long Claw throws punches at his assailant, but with Stafford on top of him, his shaky hits lack strength.
In unison, the entire room takes in a deep breath. Everyone turns toward the window. With a white glow, the full moon shows her face. Beams of light softly shine, illuminating the room.
Instantly, nearly five-hundred lycanthropes absorb the moon’s sensual, dreamlike magic.
Elemental power. Wounds. Blood. Flesh.
I sway, weak and intoxicated with sensation. I ride my demon’s response: arousal, curiosity, hunger, bloodlust. So much energy! Hoping to prevent an incident, I allow him to feed on this sudden excess of power. What harm can it do?
Famous last words.
Moonlight gleams through the windows, giving the arena a shimmering, otherworldly quality—as if this whole place isn’t otherworldly enough. The moon bathes the magic lands in silver, making everything in sight glisten.
Goth Girl, Hope, and Owen gasp and cry out as they change. Fascinated, I watch their bodies swell, contort, and contract. Teeth enlarge, bones break, skin shrinks, and stretches—they transition from human to wolf.
It looks agonizing. Oh, yeah, that hurts.
My demon is fascinated.
Every wolf-born wolf transforms in less than a minute. The made werewolves take their time changing—except for Stafford. The Beast Lord converts to wolf in a heartbeat, as fast as his enemy.
All humanity is gone. One dark gray, one lighter, there are two wolves now fighting to the death.
The contest becomes extraordinarily vicious. Lips pulled back in ferocious snarls, mouths open wide, long teeth drip with blood and saliva, the wolves attack each other mercilessly.
Wolves are born killers.
Acting with instinct, a wolf has speed and a predatory nature designed to hunt, attack, and quickly dispatch their prey. Graceful and deadly, I find a captivating, perverse beauty in watching them fight.
On the other hand, my demon is fascinated, which could be influencing my view.
I’d found it difficult to see what was happening when the two men fought. Now with
speed-enhanced, otherworldly creatures, it’s virtually impossible.
There’s magic at work here, earthy, primal magic.
Huge and unstoppable, these two men in wolf form are monsters. There’s no doubt about it—the Beast Lord is the biggest, baddest monster of all. His strength is devastating—his power as subtle as a sledgehammer.
My blood runs hot, so damned hot!
I can’t help it.
Thanks to my demon, this yummy tasting violence excites me. My breath comes raggedly, I’m weak with lust.
Both wolves have been badly injured, blood is everywhere. I’m stunned when Stafford—a creature with far less mass, easily holds Long Claw down. Muscles bunched, the Beast Lord has his jaws around Long Claw’s throat.
Sensing the nearness of death, my demon pulses with anticipation. The knowledge of impending doom creeps into Long Claw’s eyes: fear, disbelief, overpowering panic. Long Claw struggles violently—
—then Stafford rips out his throat.
Jesus H. Christ.
A number of things happen simultaneously. Hot, arterial blood sprays everywhere. The Shaman’s protective circle immediately disappears, and Long Claw—now lifeless, changes instantly from wolf back to man.
Death has arrived…and it tastes delicious.
Long Claw’s spirit rises up from his body, and views the two ghosts who have been haunting him. When the man and woman glare at Long Claw, raw terror twists his features.
Long Claw’s ghost flies through a wall—disappearing, but not crossing over.
The two ghosts laugh as a brilliant white portal opens. Both powerful poltergeists cry out their joy as they cross over, causing golden magic to spill outward. My demon and I are showered with pure, perfect energy as they depart.
Shortly after, the mystical door closes.
Breathless with excitement, I stare at the powerful male wolf in front of me. I can’t take my eyes away from the savage beauty of the Beast Lord. Jesus, he has a huge erection.
Killing his enemy has aroused him.
It arouses me, too.
The Spukani pack Alpha sits back on his haunches. Blood drips from his teeth, he raises his nose toward the ceiling. Ahwooooo! His howl is an eerie, yet triumphant song of victory.
It’s only then, I realize I’m in serious trouble.
Chapter 49. Uh-oh
Fuck! Fuck! Fuckity, fuck, fuck!
Violence. Death, sweet death. The smell of blood, the sight of torn flesh. Magic rolls over my tongue, flows over my body until I burn, burn, burn. I’m consumed by it.
The psychic kickback is like dropping a spark in a dry forest. Then a strong, hot wind blows the flames—right into a petroleum storage tank. Bang. All this heat ignites my demon into a conflagration, a firestorm of spiraling magic and energy.
I can’t think.
I can’t speak.
The massive volume of power in the room rips my control away completely. I’m gone. The battle is over. I’m at the mercy of my inner monster.
Quickly, I close my eyes before anyone notices, fully aware that they must be bright demon-red.
I can’t open them.
They would glow eerily red in the moonlight.
I’m caught in the grip of delicious demonic power—it exhilarates me. I’ve felt this before. So many years without an incident, without violence and mayhem. Without causing death.
I thought I’d do better than this, I thought I could control it.
My demon has taken me over.
There’s nothing I can do except keep my eyes closed and pray.
I slip into a strange in-but-out-of-body experience. I’m definitively standing here with my eyes shut, yet still I can see everything.
The largest source of power in the room is the Beast Lord. He’s a live wire, channeling megawatts of magical energy from the moon, and from every wolf in this room.
I’m intoxicated by his otherworldly power.
Psychically and magically linked, I’m bound to Stafford. Our bond flares, a thin amber thread of connection. I’m joined to him, and he’s joined to everyone. I feel what he feels. Does he feel what I feel?
I’m caught in a repeating loop of pleasure.
The Beast Lord is no longer human. Filled with triumph in the wake of destroying his opponent, his energy levels are off the charts. My hunger soars. I have a blazing appetite for the wondrous creature he is.
Eyes shut, I can’t help but take a step toward him.
Then another.
And another.
I moan with indescribable pleasure as my demon and I swallow down mountains of energy. This meal is more sensual than a mind-blowing orgasm. It tastes better than any fine wine. My body trembles.
Drunk with magic, we feed, and feed, and feed.
We could kill and absorb everyone here.
“No!” I order my demon with the desperate authority of command.
Jesus, was that my idea, or his?
The concept is compelling, but this must be my monster’s thought. There are many things I’m willing to die for. Maybe I lack imagination, but in this moment, I can’t think of anything I’d be willing to kill for.
“We are not murderers,” I remind my inner friend, under my breath.
I stand in front of the Beast Lord. My demon’s gaze is captured by the lifeless human flesh lying before him. Fresh kill. The monster in me wants to drink Long Claw’s blood, to rip out his heart, and eat him.
Just one little bite. What could it hurt?
Resisting the impulse, instead, I weakly fall to my knees. Drowning in sensation, desperate for salvation, I grip Stafford’s soft, thick fur with both hands.
The moment we touch, the instant power spike makes us both gasp.
Excitement blinds me—blood, flesh, death! Through it all, I absorb the delicious energy of Stafford’s pain. He’s injured, badly injured. We smell it, we feel it. The taste of his agonizing wounds glides over my tongue in a shock of delightful sensation.
My demon loves pain.
I never allow my inner monster to torture, even though it’s one of his favorite things. His way of enjoying torment is through another’s pain.
I moan and writhe with pleasure. How can I contain this powerful animal energy? There is too much here. I can’t consume it all.
The sound of Hope crying distracts me.
My demon knows what to do. My view alters from macro to micro. I see her on a molecular level, which is ridiculously easy since I’ve viewed her like this before. I push energy down, down, down into Hope, then into Owen, and into Goth Girl.
Our magic hums the melody of making. My demon and I sing with the joy of creation.
The new wolves change fluidly, immediately—as fast as born shifters, maybe even faster. Owen is a dark gray wolf. Hope is a pure and startling white.
But it’s not enough.
I turn to Stafford, tasting his lacerations. He has a number of deep bites, a long gash on his hindquarters, and an ear that is nearly torn off. Why hasn’t he used his power to heal himself? Lycanthropes repair their injuries easily, except when silver is involved.
Wounds sustained during a pack challenge must heal human slow.
Makes sense. If lycanthropes could repair themselves during pack challenges, the battles would go on for days.
Again, I push power where it’s needed. Healing Stafford’s injuries is a simple matter as his wolf knows its own form. With far too much magic to consume, I shove it—slightly altered—into every wolf in the room. Made shifters in the middle of their transformations, change instantly to wolves.
Every single wolf there sits down, puts their nose into the air. Simultaneously, they howl, echoing songs of joy to the moonlight. Ahwooooo!
I’m left with a glowing sense of pleasure.
Sated, content, my demon recedes.
I open my eyes.
An unnatural hush has fallen into the blissful, elated space.
I channeled immense energy into everyone in this r
oom. I have no idea what I did as I did it, but every wolf would have felt the power and magic of me doing it.
They also know their Alpha has been healed.
I rise to my feet as the Beast Lord stands and issues a growling sort of non-bark.
To my astonishment, the room empties as hundreds of wolves promptly and silently, lope out of the open front doors, into the moonlight. It’s an exodus of vast proportion. Without even a backward glance, even Hope, and Owen are gone.
Stafford, the last wolf to leave, stops on the landing, stares back at me.
Wolf and human, our eyes lock.
The sorrow, regret, and raw longing in Stafford’s amber animal gaze almost takes me back to my knees.
I haven’t shifted.
If he takes me as his mate, his beast will never know the joy of a wolf companion. No matter what the Beast Lord does, no matter how much power he has, I’ll never run by his side, or hunt with him in the moonlight.
I can’t be his real mate. I’ll never be a wolf.
“I’m sorry, Stafford. I’m so sorry,” I say, speaking the absolute truth.
He looks at me for a long, long moment. Then, drawn by need and instinct, he turns in a rapid spin, and bounds off into the moonlit woods at a full run.
Sighing heavily, I trudge up the stairs, gather up Toby, my few meager possessions, and make my way to my car. Toby is overjoyed to see me. I hug him, ruffle his fur, and secure him to his car harness. I fasten my own seatbelt, start my Tesla, and take one last look at Spukani Lodge.
It’s time to go home.
“You did well tonight, my friend,” I say to my inner demon. “You’re becoming quite the miracle worker. I appreciate that you didn’t lose control. I think we would’ve both been disappointed if you’d done something we’d regret.”
The smug impression I get from him makes me smile. My friend is a demon healer—no doubt the very first—hell, the only one of his kind.
A good energy feed always makes me feel more than well, while a power hit from a supernatural is the difference between gasoline and rocket fuel. Physically, I’m super fit, healthy, and high as a kite.
I’m drunk with an excess of raw, primal magic, and energy.
I start my car, back out, turn toward the human world, and drive away. Accepted as one if its own, I move through the enchanted barrier without incident. Yet despite my inner buzz, I leave the magic lands with a heavy heart.
