Jules

by Kaelia Stevens

  I personally never believed the story of how that alpha died. You can't kill an alpha that easily, especially when it's the leader of the strongest sect of the marwolaeths.

  Sting confirmed my statement with a nod. "Something's pulled her from hiding. Or someone, supposedly."

  "Don't play, darling," I said, toying with my glass. "Our little cousin couldn't have gotten herself into that much trouble."

  "Oh, of course not," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "It's not like she's been told how dangerous it is for her to be involved with the marwolaeth clans and that if she's going to carry her father's sword into battle, she'd better be prepared to use it. It's not like her guardian has taken steps to give her the information she'll need to make wise choices." He tipped his head back to take another long drink, staring blankly at the bottom of his empty mug when nothing came out.

  "Didn't anyone ever tell you that sarcasm is a dead art?" I sighed.

  He shrugged, still staring at his glass. "You seem to thrive on it just fine. At any rate, all this is irrelevant if you choose not to believe the rumors. They are, after all, only rumors." He glanced up at me, his black eyes glinting.

  I looked down at my clear, empty wineglass, tipped it a little towards me and let it fall back again, the glass swirling around as it settled. "Should I believe them?"

  "You're asking me what you should believe? That's a new one." When I shot him a glare, he shrugged it off and said, "I'm just telling you what I know."

  "Interesting," I said. "But it's not what I paid for."

  "Of course not," he responded. "That was just interest. Equivalent exchange and all. What you're looking for lies between a thief's past and our family's future."

  I frowned. "I didn't pay for a riddle."

  "No—" he sighed "—but you did pay for a clue." He shrugged. "That's your clue."

  Riddles.

  I hate riddles unless I'm the one that's giving them.

  I sat at the bar and mulled over my information. I toyed with another glass of pixie wine and glanced around at the local living mythos as I thought.

  A pair of shape-shifters went past. A vampire down the bar chugged a tall glass of blood. What I thought was a giant wooden pillar moved back a little as it guffawed out a raspy, wooden laugh.

  What I'm looking for lies between a thief's past and our family's future. There were many thieves worth noting. There were very few that were good enough to make it into Sting's riddle.

  There is only one thief that Sting could be referencing, came Mother's voice. The only thief that has stolen from him and gotten away with it.

  Oh.

  Rod.

  What Rod 'stole' the most from him were clients. The thief was pretty much Sting's only competition in the information business, and Sting didn't exactly like competition.

  So, it has something to do with Rod's past.

  "That was the riddle, wasn't it?" I muttered softly.

  If you'd paid more attention, you wouldn't have to think as hard, came the thoughts of my father, Cronoth.

  I took a drink. "If you weren't so annoying, I would have paid more attention."

  Mother let out a sigh. Come now, children.

  "Besides," I said into my pink, sparkly drink, "I can know everything about his past and still be lost unless I figure out the other half of Sting's clue."

  Three-way conversations happened often when your father was a telepathic ghost and your mother took up residence inside your head.

  The only point where Rod's past intersects with our family's future is at Jake's house of weapons, Cronoth responded, unfazed.

  "And that would be...?"

  My twin's only grandchild, he responded. We left him in Jake's care after Afanasiy killed his mother.

  "Oh," I murmured, toying with my empty glass, "I had forgotten about him."

  So has everyone else, father responded. That was the point.

  "If you're gonna talk to yourself, do it somewhere you can't scare my customers." I looked up to find Sting behind the bar, directly in front of me. He refilled my glass, glancing behind me with a very pointed look. I turned enough to see nearby patrons staring at me. At a narrowing of my eyes, they returned to their own business.

  I turned back to Sting. "Some of your customers are ghosts," I said with a disinterested sigh. "They shouldn't be scared by a single woman talking to herself."

  "They are when they know she's a witch and can send them back to the ethereal plane."

  I shrugged, letting the matter go. "The blacksmith's house, huh?" I asked, keeping my voice in the disinterested tone. "That's where she's headed?"

  He shrugged and capped the bottle of wine, the liquid shimmering brightly in the bottle as he set it down on the counter. "Only if you believe the rumors."

  He turned and walked down the bar.

  I finished my drink slowly. Jake's Smithy was down around Texas, quite a bit of travel from the Rockies. A magical teleportation was called for.

  With Sting's promise that the drinks were on the house, I set out to get clear of the town. I preferred humans not to see me when I teleported. A tall, sexy woman walking out into the middle of town, only to disappear in a column of blinding white light and wind? People would think I really was a witch.

  Once far enough away, I spread my arms, ignited the magic inside me and watched it swirl around in a white vortex of energy. Seconds later, the energy dissipated and I was standing right next to Jake's Smithy.

  Chapter Two

  The Smithy

  A white fence stood around the edge of the house, the brick structure of the Smithy steadfast and square, the building standing tall against the night sky. Magic ebbed and flowed around the surrounding glade, turning the silver beams of moonlight into a pale green, bathing the area in the eerie color.

  Magical spells were surrounding this place, scratched into the ground and mud at my feet. It was a magic so old and so embedded in the earth that my magic couldn't even touch it, yet the barrier spells hadn't activated upon my arrival.

  Interesting.

  If memory served, Jake used to provide protection to all runaways and orphans that came to his door. He provided for them by using the ground floor, and housed them in the multiple rooms upstairs. The actual forge was underground. Jake supported himself and the runaways by creating weapons for the magically inclined.

  Jake had closed his doors since then. I don't know what happened to the younglings he housed.

  I was more interested in this young cousin I seemed to have forgotten about.

  I walked to the front door, trailing a hand along the white picket fence with the vines intertwining along the wood. I walked up to the strong, pinewood door and rapped once with a knuckle. Silence. I rapped again and called out. The door cracked open enough to reveal a blue eye, staring up at me.

  I heard a voice from inside bellow, "Caine! Get away from the door!"

  The eye disappeared in a blur. The door jerked open. The comically-large barrel of a gun was pointed directly at my face; fierce, brown eyes stared me down underneath a floating tangle of dusty, brown hair. Nestled among the mess rested a set of old goggles, the edges still glaring with an old copper finish.

  He was maybe a head taller than me. He wasn't a thick man, but he wasn't scrawny, either. He fashioned his own weapons, so I'm sure that took a good amount of strength.

  His skin was leathery and tight, age and worry tightening up the lines around his jaw and face. His eyes seethed with unspoken problems, his life scratched into his skin by the pale scars crisscrossing over his nose, mouth, cheeks and eyes.

  The collar of his dirty, blue jacket was upturned in a very unapproachable way, dust and soot covering it from collar to hem. Magical runes were everywhere; sown onto his jacket, burned onto his gloves, and tattooed across his skin. His entire body was a story of mistrust and paranoia, a human that had spent too long on our side of the tracks and grown sick of it.

>   "Such hospitality, Jake," I commented. "A gentleman offers a lady a drink before trying to kill her."

  "Why are you here?" he demanded, ignoring me. "How did you get past the barriers?"

  I raised my hands in mock-surrender and answered, "I'm a member of the family, darling. I have special clearance."

  He glowered at me.

  Something shimmered between us. The vague image of my father began to materialize, shaping himself enough to see spiked hair, a black overcoat, and cigarette smoke.

  I sent her here, Jake, he tonelessly interjected. My daughter is here to warn you.

  "Warn me of what?"

  "Trouble," I responded. "Heading your way."

  A boy who looked about twelve pushed past Jake. Of course, it didn't mean he was twelve. It meant he was young. Elves. We appear younger then we are.

  This one had fine, silver hair, big blue eyes and a finely-boned face. He had a vague similarity to his grandfather, Gidel. But his eyes were the exact same shade of blue as his mother's, and when he smiled it was her smile. The memory of his mother came back to me instantly. I suddenly remembered that her death was the reason I found Afanasiy in the first place. I was going to burn him for killing her and instead, I got indoctrinated.

  I could only assume this elf in front of me was Caine and Caine was the cousin I didn't know I had.

  His smile fell as he looked up at Cronoth.

  "They're coming, aren't they?" Caine asked softly. "The marwolaeth are coming for me." He looked up at Jake. "What will we do?"

  "They're not coming for you, child," I said, cutting Jake off. Caine swung around to stare at me.

  It's Layla, Cronoth said. She is on her way here, accompanied by Olyvia and Rod.

  Jake's mouth turned into a thin, stretched line. Sheathing his gun, he looked down at Caine and said, "We need to go."

  "But..." Caine protested as Jake began to shove him back into the smithy. "Can't I see Olyvia again?"

  My father's apparition disappeared. The door to the smithy was left wide open and unobstructed, allowing me a better look inside.

  The floors were old, rotting, wood planks that met the brick of the inside wall. Directly in front of the door was an old cement staircase, cold emanating off the steps as if the stairway itself was haunted. To the right of the stairs an old, beaten counter followed the wall, the wood chipped, splintered, and completely broken in some places. There was a gaping hole where a small swinging door used to be, the hinges exposed and rusting like rotted teeth. A doorway behind the counter was covered with a curtain, and beyond the counter sat an open doorway. My view of the small room beyond the door was blocked, the room out of sight.

  "Nope," Jake answered, going behind the counter. He shoved the curtain aside and slipped past, his voice drifting out among the sound of clanging metal and shuffling canvas. "I doubt she'd remember you anyway. Not after last time." He returned quickly with two old gym bags, the straps fraying along the edges and one seam nearly broken open. He managed to fit a finger through the hole and swore under his breath.

  Caine's eyes fell for a moment. "I guess not. But"—he looked back up to Jake, who was busily hand-stitching the seams together—"what about this Layla person? Who is that?"

  "Your cousin," Jake answered. He motioned to me with his head. "Like her. Only younger. Less bloodthirsty. And she has a soul."

  "You're funny, nanny," I said, crossing my arms. "Do you do cook and clean as well?"

  "Cook. Clean. Stitch up bloody wounds. Tend to the mentally unstable and the emotionally disturbed." He glanced up at me and gave his thread a final pull after knotting it back on itself. "Take your pick."

  When I said nothing immediately, he looked down at Caine, held out one of the newly-stitched gym bags and told him to go pack his things. Caine protested and Jake gave him the devil-parent glare.

  Caine disappeared up the staircase in a blur. A door up above slammed open.

  "Damn kids," Jake muttered, grabbing a few items hidden under the counter. "Not thinking about the whole picture." He unwrapped the packages, slowly checking them over. Canned food, preserved edibles, and water bottles were examined as I stood there.

  "Out of curiosity," I said, leaning back against the dusty brick wall, "why don't you want to let him talk to Olyvia?"

  "Would your parents let you relive an—" He stopped short of his answer, glancing up at me. "Never mind. Your kind never understands."

  "My kind?"

  "Don't play dumb," he said, wrapping the cans back up and dumping them into the bag. "You know what I mean."

  "I really don't," I answered. "Witches? Marwolaeth? Which 'kind' do you see me as?"

  "Warriors," he answered shortly. He nodded to himself and wrapped up the water bottles. "Your whole family is created of warriors."

  "And?"

  Jake stopped packing. He looked up at me. Leaned forward on the counter.

  "When your father brought Caine to me, all those years ago, do you know what had happened?"

  I shook my head.

  "Caine had been beaten. Severely. Cronoth showed up on my doorstep with a broken shell of a boy who had been beaten to a pulp by his own grandfather. He knew I took in special cases. We talked long and hard about that boy, even though I knew as soon as I saw him I was going to help.

  "He lost his mother to a marwolaeth and, worse, he witnessed her final moments. He watched her die. He was taken in by his grandfather, only to be nearly beaten to death." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "Your own father laid down a spell on this place so that the rest of your family, save one or two members, would forget that Caine ever made it past the murder of his mother because he didn't want anyone to come looking for him. Your family is comprised of warriors that force themselves to get up and live through the pain. You thrive on chaos and turmoil. But that kid is fragile. He can't handle your family."

  He turned back to packing his bag, throwing the preserved food into its wrapper and forcing it into the bag, saying, "I'll be damned if I let him get sucked back into the mayhem you call family."

  I felt anger rising in my chest at his assessment of our family. Caine, like the rest of us, had a heritage to follow. What he was saying was true to an extent; each bloodline was founded in the ability to fight. We were survivors. It was what our family was founded on.

  But he was only a human.

  He was never going to understand what it meant to be one of us.

  "So what about Olyvia?" I asked. "She's not a member of our family. Why shield him from her?"

  Jake paused to look up at me. He unwrapped another package, this one filled with lighters, lighter fluid, handfuls of wrapped charcoal, and a switchblade. "You mean aside from the fact that she's a Wolf?" He flicked the blade out and tested the edge on a piece of the counter. It cut.

  Snapping it shut, he talked as he repeated his process of checking and packing.

  "After Caine had been here for a little bit, Rod brought me his own 'special case' that just suffered from a Bonded death of her lover. When I looked at Olyvia I wasn't looking at a person anymore. She was so lost in grief that she could barely walk around by herself. I let them stay here until Olyvia was able to function, but I wasn't willing to let him stay any longer then that. Rod and I have ... personal issues."

  He pulled out an old-fashioned lantern and fished around for some candles.

  "Regardless, I wasn't going to turn her out into the street. I had room. She needed a place to rest. I didn't see the harm."

  "And Caine?"

  "Caine was still recovering as well. He was finally healing physically, but he still flinched away from me. Distrustful. Resentful. Mostly, he was just grieving and in pain. Somehow, he got into Olyvia's room. I don't know what happened between them when he did, but soon after they met, they both began to recover. Caine latched on to Olyvia and vice-versa. It seemed harmless enough at the time, and Caine still wasn't listening to me. I was relieved that
he was trusting someone again, I didn't even think about it."

  He had found his candles while talking and took a moment to make sure each of them still lit. He seemed satisfied as each wick caught and each candle flickered to life. Blowing them out, he continued.

  "The trouble came once it was time for them to leave. Rod and I had been exchanging words while they were here. I stuck to my end of the deal. Olyvia was recovered enough to physically function on her own, even if she still wasn't mentally present. You could see it in her eyes. Rod and I agreed that it was time for the two of them to move on. So they did.

  "After they left, Caine wasn't the same child. He became withdrawn. I could see him trying to trust me. Struggling to do something for himself. But for a while he just ... stopped. Eventually he came around. He and I worked long and hard on our relationship. I don't want to see his progress shattered just because she shows up again after this long."

  "So, basically, you just don't want your control over him threatened."

  He froze. Slowly looked up at me. His eyes burned.

  "Wh... Did you even hear me?"

  I nodded. "I heard you. You isolated yourself and the kid after he made some decent progress, and now you don't want him to come into contact with anyone who will challenge your rule over his life."

  He laughed, disbelief all over his features. "You can't... I can't... This has nothing to do with control!"

  "Of course it does," I said. "Humans are all about control. You try to control everything you touch. If it doesn't comply, you end up destroying it and making something that will."

  He gave a short, sharp laugh. "I don't believe this. I just..." He shoved the rest of the items in his bag and flung it over his shoulder. Coming around the counter, he said, "I'm not going to debate human nature with you." He called up the stairs for Caine, telling him they had to leave immediately.

  I stared at him, not moving from my spot by the door.

  "You're wrong about him," I warned. "He is one of us. Even if you can't see it."