by N. D. Jones
“We both know of one witch who has done it before, and she’s still missing. I don’t know how their paths could’ve crossed, though, not that it matters.”
“I understand why you didn’t, but you’re going to regret not killing him when you had the chance.”
Oriana shook her head sadly. “Like me, he’s in mourning. He probably blames me for what happened. I didn’t get a chance to speak to him about the night of the attack. I wanted to do it in person, to explain what happened.”
“That’s no excuse for siding with the muracos.”
“I know.” But Oriana didn’t want to talk about another problem that would likely end in more violence and bloodshed.
“Take care of that arm before you see Keira, or she’ll have nightmares. Hell, we’ll all have nightmares after today.”
Oriana hugged her friend. “You were great today. Thank you for a safe jump back here.”
“It’s what we extractors do. Our landing could’ve been better, though.”
“Considering the day we’ve had, the landing was perfect.”
They’d lost too many Crimson Guards during a single twenty-four-hour period. They would hold a mass funeral, but that would come later. Solange was right, she needed to see Kalinda—her mother would certainly never deign to leave her iron fortress to come looking for Oriana—because she’d failed her mission. Her failure would grant Kalinda the excuse to destroy Janus Nether. The region’s ruin would carry a socio-political message many conservative witches, like Kalinda, supported: Witches ruled Earth Rift, not werewolves.
“You need to have that arm examined and fixed. I’ll call my healer.”
Oriana sat across from Kalinda in her mother’s dining room, the living quarters comprising the entire top floor of Iron Spire, the Matriarch of Irongarde’s fortress home. A pitcher of water and a glass had been placed in front of her and platters of food in the center of the table. She’d consumed every drop of water, but couldn’t stomach the thought of eating, especially not meat, after seeing what the muracos had done to her sisters.
Within an hour of reporting the details of the battle at Wild Moor, her mother had extinguished the only shining light in Irongarde Realm. Janus Nether had been a beacon, a symbol of hope, and Oriana’s dream for a better Earth Rift.
Oriana pointed to the cold, hard, metal and glass walls around them. “Tell me, Mother, what is left of us that is still human? Certainly not our hearts.”
“We’re witches.”
Eyes that had never reminded Oriana of her own, despite what everyone said, looked at her with annoyance. Her mother understood love through a prism of power rather than self-sacrifice and vulnerability.
“What I did today saved us all. You were too soft-hearted to make the hard decision, so I made it for us both.”
In the short time available to them before the battles, they hadn’t been able to evacuate everyone from Janus Nether’s three cities. How many had missed the last scheduled transport or didn’t leave because they hadn’t known the deadly scope of the state of emergency?
Oriana pushed the cut fruit around on her plate. Feeding her body would help expedite the healing process, but she put her fork down.
“You think me weak because I refuse to be the kind of matriarch who would unleash her ultimate power on cities of innocents.”
Oriana also hadn’t fought the black werewolf as hard as she should’ve, blocking instead of attacking. She’d omitted that detail from her report.
“You’re my child, I know you aren’t weak.” Kalinda’s eyes and lips softened, reminding Oriana of how beautiful her mother was . . . on the outside. Her oval face was a lustrous dark-brown, radiating a youthfulness that belied her sixty years. It was a shade darker than her hair, pulled taut in a bun. “You’re sentimental, kind-hearted, and a dreamer. If we lived someplace else, perhaps on a planet where our magic and blood, our very essence, didn’t drive our males to madness, then your idealism would benefit all and my ruthlessness wouldn’t be necessary.” Kalinda came and sat beside Oriana. “He would’ve killed you.”
“I don’t want to talk about that night.”
“It’s only been a couple of days, so that’s understandable. Whether you want to hear it or not, he would have killed you.”
The Matriarch’s hand rose to cup her cheek. The same hand that stroked her face so tenderly had cast down Armageddon on not only the City of Wild Moor but on all of Janus Nether.
“It does you no good to dwell on the past, punishing yourself for acting from the most primal of instincts—survival. If you hadn’t, you and Keira wouldn’t be here. You can’t possibly regret trading your daughter’s life for his.”
Her mother had a way of condensing emotions into binary categories—desire or disgust, hope or dread, joy or grief, love or hate.
“After this is done, I’m returning to Steelcross with Keira.”
Kalinda’s hand dropped to her lap, her face hardening into the emotionless mask Oriana knew well.
Standing, Oriana gripped the edge of the table to keep herself from falling face first onto the floor. When she was steady, she caught her mother’s gaze. Except for the crease between Kalinda’s brows, her countenance remained unchanged.
“I’ll take care of the surviving muracos before Keira and I return home.”
“I thought we’d gotten past our argument from the other day. Don’t punish me by staying away and keeping my only grandchild from me.”
At that, Kalinda’s expression altered, as did her voice, breaking at the end. The hard matriarch was gone, leaving behind a mother and grandmother afraid of being alone and lonely in her iron tower of obedience and magic.
Oriana didn’t know how she felt about her mother. Weariness and grief prevented her from distinguishing truth from lie. Perhaps they were all lies and only one truth—Kalinda’s love for her family and Earth Rift. Or maybe Oriana only thought them lies because, sometimes, truths were harder on the digestive system than deceptions.
“I’ve been up all night. I’m going to bed.”
Oriana exited the dining room, taking the lift to her suite one level below. Rarely at a loss for words, Kalinda had said nothing. For this Oriana was unsure if she should be relieved or concerned. Probably concerned, she concluded after showering and dressing. Wearing long sleeves so the sight of her injury wouldn’t frighten Keira, she slipped into her queen-sized bed with her daughter.
Keira scooted closer, snuggling against Oriana’s chest. Her warm breaths were humbling wisps of innocence she cherished more than the magic and steel that had saved their lives.
“Mommy.” Her two-year-old’s low, groggy voice melted her heart. Keira’s eyes were closed, and she wasn’t fully awake. Oriana had almost lost her daughter. Keira’s physical injuries were gone, thanks to Kalinda’s personal healer, but magic couldn’t mend all wounds.
“I’m here. You’re safe.” The same words she’d spoken two nights ago in her suite in Steel Rise, an unmoving white werewolf at Oriana’s feet and blood decorating the walls.
Oriana kissed Keira’s forehead, feeling more like a mother and less like the Crimson Hunter and Matriarch of Steelcross. Yet, she was all three, her roles in society decreed by law.
While Oriana may find a few hours of well-earned rest, her duties as matriarch of the realm of Steelcross and co-ruler of the planet of Earth Rift, left little room for respite.
Oriana, Kalinda, and Kiera were three generations of Blood of the Sun witches, the matriarchy a family inheritance.
Chapter 2: Stormbringer
April 28, 2243
Irongarde Realm
City of Wild Moor
A furious growl rolled from between his teeth. Delicious witches’ scents lingered in the metallic air. Licking his claws, he tasted the residue of Oriana’s magic. He still felt the burn of her counterattack to his side and shoulder. The next time he saw her, he’d make her pay.
“You’re bleeding.”
He growled again, a
warning to Phelan to get the hell out of his face. The mood he was in, he’d rip the muraco’s throat out, saving the witches the effort of killing him.
Phelan raised his face to the sunny sky, blood coating his human mouth. “Witches are at their most powerful when the sun is high. Why do you think they retreated? They lasted the night, and we were evenly matched all the way until the end.” Phelan licked his teeth, clearing away blood and chewing the small piece of flesh he’d freed from between white teeth. “With the sun at their backs, they could’ve taken us, but they retreated.”
Wounded muracos dragged themselves through the carnage, sniffing for witch remains. They wouldn’t find any leftovers. Oriana had made sure of that, the murdering bitch that she was.
The witches had left Wild Moor just as the tide of battle could’ve turned in their own favor.
“I don’t like it.”
Phelan, in human form and several feet shorter than him, tapped him in the stomach to get his attention. The casual touch set off blazing heat from Oriana’s attack. He growled, grabbed Phelan by the neck, and lifted his scrawny body into the air. He’d only allowed two werewolves to touch him like that. One was dead, and the other might as well be. He blamed Oriana for that too. The witch had so much coming to her.
“C-can’t … breathe.”
He shook Phelan, unsympathetic at the sound of snapping bones. If Phelan had stayed in his werewolf form, he would’ve had a better chance of surviving his anger. Stupid Phelan for shifting then deciding to touch him before he’d cooled from the battle. Phelan wouldn’t die, however. Even in human form, werewolves were resilient creatures.
He dropped him to the cracked cement.
Phelan, holding his neck with one hand while pointing behind him with the other, coughed up blood onto his bare chest.
He twisted to see what had the werewolf’s eyes bulging from his head. He’d lived in Janus Nether his entire life, had traveled to every part of the region. In each city—Wild Moor, Chrome Haven, and Tin Falls there were multiple starmount towers. At least two hundred feet tall and shaped like trees with a sturdy square base, the steel edifices were insulated in unbreakable glass and protected by sun magic. They were considered historic landmarks, which meant they were protected by local Crimson Guards. More, there were no records or obvious signs of their purpose. The starmount towers always reminded him too much of the buildings in Irongarde City, so he’d ignored them.
He couldn’t ignore the one a block from him, though. The three crossed arms, which had always been gray like the rest of the tower, glowed a familiar shade of blood or like a red sun. The arms sparked, like Oriana’s magic that still stung his side and shoulder.
“W-what in the hell is going on?” Phelan croaked from behind him.
He had no idea. The muracos had all stopped in their tracks. As if in a trance, they watched the starmount blaze to life. From the gray base, magic leapt, shooting up the tower walls like blood through veins.
He felt the tower pulse with magic, heard the crackle as it reached the glowing crossed arms, and watched as a sunbeam burst from the top of the monument just as the protective glass came tumbling down. It shattered to the ground, startling the werewolves, effectively ending whatever hold seeing the starmount come to life had had on them.
He couldn’t see where the beam went, but he knew what was in the direction it had gone. Two more beams shot through the sky, and he ran. He could hazard a guess where those beams were headed—the other starmount towers in Wild Moor and Janus Nether.
The muracos scattered, running in every direction. He’d left Phelan behind. He’d left them all behind. He had to get underground. Had to—
An explosion threw him to the ground. He got back up, running faster. More explosions rocked him, sending him back to the ground. The beams were leveled at the city now instead of the sky. Howling werewolves were sliced and burned.
To his right and left, buildings burned. Unnatural flames beat against the buildings like hammerheads on fire, a magical demolition no one in the buildings would survive.
Using his claws to scramble to his feet, he ran again, dodging debris, jumping over vehicles, and staying clear of the sunburst beams.
He couldn’t outrun them. The devastating blasts were too fast, too many, and too unrelenting. He reconsidered hiding underground, not a good idea with the buildings crumbling to their foundations. He’d be buried alive.
Turning, he darted back toward the starmount tower. If only he could reach it. A speeding vehicle hit him, clipping his right leg as the human hauled ass out of there. His side and shoulder hurt even more the closer he drew to the tower, witch magic calling to witch magic.
He fell onto the base, hot to the touch, his feet cut and bleeding from the broken glass around the structure. He climbed on top of the base, pressing his body against the tower wall. He heard sizzling, and knew the magic was burning him everywhere he touched the wall.
Other muracos fought to join him—some making it to the base, most dying a brutal death. All he could do was watch his clan lose a war he’d thought they’d won, while he took refuge at the epicenter of their pain.
He howled again, and he didn’t stop until the starmount tower powered down. He staggered off the base, leaving three layers of fur and skin behind. Looking out at Wild Moor, he dropped to his knees. It was gone. Destroyed. It was a devastating strike that had only one origin.
Irongarde City.
April 30, 2243
Irongarde Realm
City of Wild Moor
Hiding in the sewers and eating rodents, he hadn’t been above ground in three days. Now, he trudged through the downtown streets of Wild Moor—or what used to be the downtown area. Everything was gone—blasted to rubble and turned to dust. Even his beloved moon had abandoned him. The grimy, black aftermath of the spell’s explosive magic was too dense for the glow of the moon to penetrate.
In the depths of the war zone, ground zero of the goddamn matriarchs’ assault, he’d survived. They thought they could kill him? Fuck those bitches. He would show them. He’d brought war to them once. I’ll do it again.
He’d rebuild his muraco army from the ash of destruction the witches had wrought.
“Where are we going now?” asked Phelan, the first muraco to accept him as the white werewolves’ leader. “Storm Irongarde City and Iron Spire?”
He coughed. The tainted air burned his lungs. The effect didn’t hurt nearly as much as a werewolf, but communication was more effective in his human form.
“Not yet. We need to hunt for other muraco survivors. First in Wild Moor then in Chrome Haven and Tin Falls.”
“What about the Crimson Hunter?” Adolfus, a fifty-year-old muraco with a scar that ran from chin to left eyebrow, had taken a wait-and-see approach with him when they’d been introduced. That worked for him. He hadn’t been looking for friends but like-minded allies. Muracos enjoyed killing witches, and he’d needed an army for his revolution. A win-win partnership. “She’ll come after us.”
“It’s been three days. Oriana and Kalinda think we’re dead. If they didn’t, Oriana would’ve returned by now.”
The arrogant assumption that they’d succeeded in killing them all would give him and his muracos the time they needed to prepare their counterattack.
He refused to call Oriana ‘Matriarch’ or ‘Crimson Hunter.’ Those days of subservience were over. The reign of witches was coming to an end. It was time for werewolves to make a stand and reclaim Earth Rift. It was their stolen birthright. The witches had left a ready-made army for him. He wouldn’t squander his good fortune.
“We first need to check Wild Moor’s muraco prison for survivors. Moonblight Penitentiary is where we’ll find new recruits to our cause. After that, we’ll travel to Chrome Haven’s Dogscar Correctional Facility. Then we’ll be strong enough to take the fight to the gates of Irongarde City. We’ll be unstoppable, and I’ll personally devour Kalinda’s heart before slitting Oriana’s throat and drinkin
g the bitch dry. Let’s move out.”
“How are we going to break them out?” Phelan asked.
He had no idea, but Moonblight was miles away, and the Magerun had been shut down. They’d have to hoof it, leaving him time to devise a plan.
“I’ll tell you when we get there. Let’s go.”
He and his Clan of the White Moon shifted in the middle of the street. They were fifty strong. A small group compared to their original numbers, but their ranks would be replenished as soon as he freed the imprisoned muracos.
He took off, his clan behind him, his future in front of him.
Chapter 3: Brothers
May 25, 2240
Irongarde Realm
City of Wild Moor
Zev grabbed the pitcher of frothy golden liquid the waitress delivered to their booth, drinking it down in greedy gulps.
“Come on, asshole! That’s supposed to be for all of us.”
He finished off the draft, one hand holding the pitcher to his mouth while using his other to flip-off his youngest brother, Marrok. He slammed the empty pitcher down. “I’m not the asshole. You are.” Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Zev glanced around the bar, searching for the waitress. He saw a lot of people, mainly werewolves, but there were a fair number of witches too. Slumming with the dogs.
Zev growled, turning back to his brothers who gaped at him. “I’m not the asshole,” he said again, pointing his finger at Marrok from across the table.
“Oh, I’m the asshole? You’re the one who's been in a foul mood since we got here and I told you guys the good news.”
Good news my black, hairy ass.
Marrok continued, “You don’t see Alarick freaking out. He’s happy for me. Aren’t you?”
Zev and Marrok looked at Alarick, who hadn’t said a word since Marrok dropped his bomb on the brothers.
“Just because I’m the middle brother doesn’t mean I like being in the middle of the bullshit that flows between the two of you. Leave me out of it. Zev, if Marrok wants to bond himself to a witch, it’s none of our business. Marrok, you know how Zev feels about the kind of witch-werewolf union you just dropped on us, so stop acting like you’re surprised. All I want is a damn beer and a quiet night. It seems I can’t get either because of you two assholes.”
