by N. D. Jones
Zev punched Alarick in the shoulder, harder than he should’ve but not as hard as he wanted to knock some sense into Marrok. “You always say shit like that. Stop trying to have it both ways. Either be a mediator, or don’t.”
He jabbed his finger at Marrok again. “Tell you what, give Alarick your balls since you won’t be needing them. Or are you planning on gifting them to Oriana the night she fucks you into submission and puts a dog collar on you?”
“Too far.” Alarick slipped off the booth seat, crawling under the table and coming out on the other side. He walked away, tall and broad-shouldered like all the men in his family.
“I’m going to kick your ass.” Marrok stood, the tips of his fingernails lengthening, a speck of white fang peeking from under his top lip.
Zev propped his arm against the back of the booth. Since Alarick had made his usual escape, he had more leg and arm room. Now, if only that cute human would bring her ass back there and take his drink order, he could drown his worries and anger. Maybe he could convince her to come home with him or, shit, take a break and let him fuck her in a stall of the ladies’ room.
“Watch what you say about Oriana.”
“Why, because you looove her? Give me a break. She’s just like her damn mother.”
“She’s nothing like Matriarch Kalinda.”
“Is she going to make you wear a silver snare, whenever you want to touch her?”
“Oriana is the reason why our silver snares don’t activate while we’re inside Janus Nether. Unless you do something violent to cause the rage disrupter in your brain to go off, prompting the spell to form the silver snare around your neck to calm you down, you’re free of the silver snare. That’s Oriana’s doing. Hell, she’s the reason why this region belongs to black werewolves.”
Yeah, they had Janus Nether, a three-city region between Irongarde to the south, Steelcross to the north, and two human regions to the east and west. Zev preferred rustic and rural to iron and steel. But no werewolf could stand to live so far from the sweet smell and taste of witches, which meant they had to live in the metropolitan areas.
A cheer went up in the bar. Zev didn’t care enough to wonder what had everyone so excited. Maybe a game.
As long as they had those damn rage disrupters in their heads, triggered to magically release the silver snare whenever werewolves ventured into collar-mandated territories or became violent, he would continue to view the decree as an invisible leash, not the progressive policy it was touted as being by witches and even many werewolves … werewolves like his naïve brother.
It wasn’t as if Oriana’s token decree mandated humans and witches leave Janus Nether. They still resided and worked there. Although, knowledge of the new silver snare protocol in Janus Nether had resulted in many witches fleeing the territory. Good riddance to witch rubbish.
“It’s inevitable, you know? You can’t fight the urges. It’s who we are.”
Even if he screwed a hundred humans, none of them would satisfy the cravings of a werewolf the way his biological counterpart could. From that perspective, Zev could understand his brother’s needs. But they were creatures of desire and lust. At some point, they’d all have to accept the true nature of werewolves.
“The cravings may be part of who we are, but we’re more than that. And I’m damn sure not a monster. I’ll never become that to Oriana.”
Alarick returned to the table, a pitcher in each hand. Handing one to Zev, he placed the other on the table between where he’d been seated and where Marrok still stood.
“Thanks, man.” Zev grabbed the pitcher, pouring himself a mug of beer instead of draining it like before. He wasn’t trying to piss Marrok off this time, so he acted the role of a civilized werewolf and moved out of the booth so Alarick could slide in instead of crawling under the table again. He did take his pitcher with him, however. Zev didn’t like to share, not even with his brothers. The werewolf wasn’t that damn civilized.
“What did I miss?” Alarick shook his head at Marrok, who’d withdrawn his claws and eye teeth but still looked mad enough to take a swing at Zev. “Sit down and tell us about you and Oriana.”
“I don’t want to know about him and that …” Both brothers shot Zev a dirty look. “Fine, I won’t call her an accurate but nasty name. But, mark my words, Marrok, it won’t end well between the two of you.”
“You don’t know that.” Marrok plopped back in his seat, his lean frame knocking into the table and spilling some of the beer from the overfull pitcher. “We love each other. That’s all we need in order to make it work.”
“So said every werewolf before his craving overtook him and his witch lover had to kill his naïve, stupid ass. We always love them. Our love for witches has never been an issue.”
Alarick punched Zev in the arm as hard as Zev had hit him earlier. “You’ve never loved a woman, witch or human.”
He shrugged, black T-shirt tight across his broad shoulders. “I never said I had. But witches are like the air we breathe, essential and all-consuming. We want them … need them … too damn much. Our lust is for more than sex, which makes us a danger not only to them but to the very fabric of our society. How can we be so perfectly matched but bring each other so much pain?”
Zev rolled his eyes when Alarick poured himself a drink and sipped it in that dainty way he’d adopted to impress females.
Alarick sat back, his expression thoughtful. “Our craving for their magic, their blood, is similar to the relationship between the sun and the moon. One cannot exist without the other, yet they can never be in the same place at the same time. Forever together, forever apart, an endless cycle.”
Zev thought both of his brothers needed a serious wake-the-fuck-up call. “Well, aren’t you the fucking poet of the year. Ever heard of an eclipse?”
“Say what you want, Zev. My point is sound. I don’t like wearing a collar any more than you or any other werewolf.” Alarick gripped his mug tighter but didn’t drink. “I hated wearing that thing. But I remember when puberty hit. The bloodlust, the hunger pangs, the need to sate my lust on the first willing witch.” He stared into his mug, voice lowered to a rough admission. “Even, the unwilling ones. I stalked them to their homes, to school, to the park, wherever. I couldn’t stop myself. I just knew I had to be close to a witch, to taste her, to have her. So, I found one alone in the park one night.” Alarick downed his beer in one long gulp. “I had her pinned to the ground, the werewolf having broken free and given chase when she ran. I overpowered her, slammed her to the ground … hard. I was out of control. She cried, and only a part of me cared. She cried, and all I wanted to do was sate my hunger.”
Marrok poured Alarick another drink, no one speaking into the silence. Zev knew the blood-and-magic lust well. At some point, every werewolf did. They were animals, their human form a disguise for the beast within.
“She was a little younger than me. Eleven, twelve at the most. She hadn’t gone through the change, so she had no metal to help channel her wild magic. I snarled at her, hating what the sweet smell of her sun magic had turned me into.” Alarick drank his second mug of beer, nothing dainty about how he grabbed the mug, lifted it to his trembling lips, and opened his mouth, letting the golden liquid slide down his throat. “She should’ve fought me, but she was too scared. I imagined myself ripping into her, slashing her throat with my teeth and drinking her blood before shredding her chest in search of her heart and magic. I could see myself doing it, killing her and becoming the worst version of myself.”
Marrok’s arm lifted, settled across Alarick’s shoulders, and pulled him in for a one-arm hug. “None of us will ever become muracos.” Marrok set his own bare forearm next to Alarick’s on the table. “Our skin is brown. Our fur is black. We aren’t white or even gray. Our black fur will never fade because, animals we may be, but we aren’t rapists and murderers. We don’t hurt our witches, no matter the strength of our lust. As awful as your story is, you’re still a black moon werewolf, so I kno
w you didn’t hurt that girl. Scared the shit out of her, yeah, but nothing more than that.”
“Scared myself into having Dad take me to the clinic to have the rage disrupter implanted the next day, a week before my fifteenth birthday.”
Zev had seen the change in his younger brother. Alarick’s lust had kicked in a month early. In hindsight, he should’ve told their father. But he’d wanted to give the young werewolf his last taste of freedom. Werewolves weren’t meant to be chained and controlled, which was what the silver snare did—a collar and leash in one ball-stealing spell. But it was the rage disrupter implant, a sophisticated witch spell, that triggered the magic that formed the silver snare. Two parts but one intricate design with a single purpose—werewolf subjugation.
Alarick’s hand drifted over his face, wiping across a furrowed brow and sliding down a cheek to settle at a chin he stroked with an unspoken moroseness. “I hate the collars, but witches have a reason to fear us. They are the warm sun to our cold moon, but we can’t share the same sky.”
Marrok scooted away from Alarick, face drawn, jaw twitching. “You agree with Zev?”
“Most of the time, no, but about this, yes. I like Oriana. She’s never been anything but kind to us. She’s not her mother, but she’s also only twenty-six.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning witches and werewolves live a long time, Marrok.”
“That’s not what you meant.”
“No, Alarick meant there’s plenty of time for sweet-smelling Oriana to turn into a heartless bitch like her mother.”
Alarick balled his fists, and Zev thought he would call him an asshole and punch his arm again. He didn’t, but he did refill his mug and resume that damn dainty sipping. “My point is that you’re both a little young and a lot naïve. You’re a virgin, and I bet she is too. You have no idea how it feels to be inside a witch and to lust for more than her body, even when you’re wearing the silver snare. It’s not so bad, when you and a witch are scratching a mutual itch, but it’s hell when you love her. The blood-magic lust is even greater.”
Marrok’s frown didn’t surprise Zev. The young werewolf had a stubborn streak as wide as the planet, and a loving heart deeper than the biological rift between witches and werewolves. A biological rift that placed the even-tempered witches at the top of the food chain.
A goddamn matriarchy. What bullshit.
“Once I’m Oriana’s consort, we’re going to move to Steelcross.”
“Wait, she’s taking you out of Irongarde Realm? And you agreed to leave with her?” Zev ignored the pitcher of beer Alarick slid toward him. “Werewolves don’t live in Steelcross. Hell, after giving us Janus Nether, the matriarch kicked most of us out of Irongarde City.”
“That was Matriarch Kalinda’s decision, not Oriana’s,” Alarick added. “Besides, Matriarch Kalinda only booted out the werewolves who refused to wear silver snares while in Irongarde City.”
“Not helping,” he snarled at Alarick. “Do you hear this? Our baby brother is moving all the way to Steelcross. There’s nothing but humans and witches there.”
“That’s only true for the realm’s capital of Steelcross City.”
“Which is where in the hell you’ll be staying when you move into Oriana’s queenly Sky Rise tower.”
“There’s Silver Water, Cobalt Pass, and Gold Mount in Steelcross Realm too. All of those areas are populated by witches, werewolves, and humans, the same as Irongarde Realm’s Irongarde City, Ironmere, and Cooper Vale are comprised of all three groups.”
“I don’t need a fucking geography lesson.” Spittle flew, and Zev hackles rose.
“It’s not Oriana’s fault that when the city was founded only witches settled in Steelcross City and it remained that way. The same is true for Janus Nether. Werewolves informally staked claim to this region. That’s why Janus Nether has the largest population of werewolves in both realms and why Oriana started her campaign to end the wearing of silver snares with us. She has a lot of great ideas. Have dinner with us tomorrow night. I’m sure, once you’ve heard her plans, you’ll like them.”
Marrok grinned at Zev, voice soft whenever he spoke of Oriana. If I look hard enough, I bet I could see little red hearts in Marrok’s eyes.
“She’s been Matriarch of Steelcross since she turned twenty-one. When there is one matriarch of Earth Rift, she splits her time between the two realms. But, when there are two matriarchs, like with Oriana and Matriarch Kalinda, they each oversee a realm. Matriarch Kalinda gave Oriana Steelcross. I’m the reason she hasn’t permanently moved there. But she can’t keep staying in Iron Spire with her mother. When she moves to her realm, I’m going with her.”
“I don’t care about her matriarchal plans or where in the hell she decides to move. I’m not stepping one foot into Steel Rise, not if it means I’ll have that silver snare around my neck again. Just so I can have a meal with my brother? I won’t do it, not even for you.” Forgoing civility, Zev all but drowned himself in the beer, liquid running down his chin.
“I love her.”
Zev burped then sneered. “So, you’ve said, and that will be your doom. Witches can’t control their magic without a strong dampening source. If they wanted, they could level this entire city. But they won’t, not because they’re any more ethical than the rest of us, but because they have nothing driving them to do it, drawing out the vilest part of themselves. But werewolves …” Zev snorted. “we don’t get off that lucky. If you and Oriana can beat thousands of years of genetics, well,” he raised his pitcher of beer to Marrok, “cheers to unrealistic expectations. You won’t be seeing me at your funeral because, well, you know, you’ll be the dead fuck in the metal box.”
“Asshole.”
“And damn proud of it.” Pushing past Alarick, Zev went in search of the cute waitress. All the talk of sex and blood had made him horny. If she wasn’t available, there were other options. At least with a human female, his blood-magic lust wouldn’t be an issue. With them, he could have a good time without triggering the rage disrupter which in turn would activate the silver snare.
One day, I’ll be free of the silver snare and the rule of witches.
Chapter 4: Steel Dreams
May 30, 2240
Steelcross Realm
City of Bronze Ward
“What do you think?” Oriana glanced up at Marrok, twisting the edge of her blouse and biting her bottom lip. She hoped he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart.
An hour ago, they’d arrived at Oriana’s home—which would be their home after their moonless sky wedding ceremony. They’d journeyed from Wild Moor to Steel Rise, which was located in Steelcross City, the capital of Steelcross Realm.
Oriana had decided to treat Marrok, who’d never been beyond Irongarde, to the beautiful landscapes between realms. So, they’d traveled via the Magerun shuttle, a transporter tube fueled by the sun and magic. The sky transporter system connected every part of the planet, a delicate balance of metal and magic, like everything else in Earth Rift.
Oriana had then used extraction magic, the weakest of her magical abilities, to transport them to Bronze Ward, where they presently stood.
Holding her hand, Marrok continued to look around but resumed their stroll down the center of the desolate street, dilapidated brick buildings on each side. Twisted granger trees—in full bloom and with red-and-blue leaves—lined the street. They were planted equidistant in an unimaginative design typical of areas as old as this one. One tree seemed to bleed into the other, so tall and wild did they grow with nothing and no one around to stunt their expansion.
Bronze Ward was literally off the beaten path. Having gone unused for decades, it wasn’t connected to the Magerun transport system.
Once they’d completed the moonless sky wedding ceremony and they were settled in Steel Rise, she’d be able to share other details of the realm with Marrok. She would begin with her decision to create Steelburgh.
“It’s really rundown, Oriana. I me
an, I haven’t seen buildings made of brick in …” He stopped, shook his head, and smiled down at her. “I’ve actually never seen a brick building in person. Read about them, of course. Seen them in old vids.”
They continued to walk at a leisurely pace Oriana enjoyed. Once in residence at Steel Rise as matriarch and embarking upon her ambitious plans, she would have little time for such banal pursuits. But she would, of course, do her best not to allow governance to strip her of the simple joys in life, like spending a summer’s day with Marrok, dreaming of their future.
“This ward looks like it should be condemned.”
“You don’t like it?” She started to bite her lower lip again but stopped. “I hoped you would. This is the place I told you about.”
Marrok’s frown always revealed so much. Her werewolf possessed zero ability to keep every emotion he felt from finding its way onto his handsome face.
Pushing up on tiptoe, she kissed his warm, sexy lips. “Moonvale Forest abuts Bronze Ward. Moonvale is at the base of the Blackridge Mountains. Both are protected land … perfect for werewolves.”
The hand that had snaked around her waist when she’d kissed him, tugged her closer, his mouth going to her neck and nibbling. “I’ve never been this far north. When you mentioned giving werewolves a place of our own when you moved to Steelcross, I assumed you meant a city like Wild Moor.”
Tilting her head back, she enjoyed the surge of pleasure his mouth and hands created. They stood alone in the middle of the downtown area of a ward once home to both werewolves and witches. It, like the dream that had birthed it, was abandoned—boarded-up, overgrown, and left to rot. But … just over the horizon was Moonvale Forest, verdant green as far as the eye could see. It was divided by Silentdrift Lake, the name befitting the tranquility she hoped werewolves would find there.
