Crimson Hunter

by N. D. Jones

  “Better question, why did you keep the bamboo and wood furniture after Father left?” Oriana snapped her fingers. “Oh, I have an even better question than that one. Has Father been back in this room since the two of you separ—”

  “Oriana!”

  Kalinda’s embarrassed snap shut her up.

  “You’re an awful brat when you’ve done something terrible you don’t want to confess. One would think you’d be a model child on those occasions, but you’re the queen of emotional distractions. Stop wasting time and tell me what’s happened.”

  When Kalinda crossed her arms over her chest, not a sliver of softness coming from her, Oriana stretched out on the bed, resigned to her fate. She shared every ugly detail. Oriana may have taken a playful detour when she’d arrived, but once she began speaking of the offline rage disrupters and missing muraco, she delivered the news with the gravity the situation deserved.

  When Oriana was a girl, skipping from one topic to the next, Kalinda never treated her youthful musings as unimportant. She listened with patience, if not feigned interest. Kalinda had a way of making Oriana feel as if her opinions mattered. She still treated her that way, maintaining eye contact and not interrupting until Oriana had exhausted herself.

  When she finished, an apology spilled from her.

  Kalinda said nothing, but magic sparked from hands curled into fists. She didn’t even look at Oriana. Her eyes were closed, head and shoulders pressed against the headboard, as if forcing herself not to lunge at Oriana, shaking her shoulders while yelling, “I told you we weren’t ready, but you wouldn’t listen. You had to have things your way. It will be your fault if anyone is injured or killed as a result of your idealism.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  “Stop saying that,” she barked, eyes now wide-open and glowering. Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Kalinda appeared outraged enough to break the metal wall around Steelburgh with her bare hands. “I don’t want to hear another apology. They’re meaningless. Being sorry solves nothing. You’ve already determined the culprits. The reason behind their traitorous actions is simple. It’s the same objection I had when you started your damn crusade.”

  Force of habit had Oriana opening her mouth to contest her mother’s reductionist way of viewing her efforts to bridge the divide between witches and werewolves, but a scalding look from Kalinda had her swallowing her pride and closing her mouth.

  “Be that as it may, we can’t excuse what they’ve done. You know the penalty for such an act, and so do they. They knew they would be caught. It was inevitable, and so is what you must do.”

  She’d overhead people refer to Kalinda as “heartless” and “cold.” Oriana couldn’t fault their assessment, not that she agreed. But Kalinda’s steely calm was legendary, even among her family and friends.

  Kalinda had indeed warned Oriana. Her mother’s wisdom hadn’t been lost on her. She had known Kalinda had a point, but she’d thought her perspective the more valid of the two. She still didn’t think herself wrong, at least not in the grander scheme of where she believed Earth Rift needed to go as the planet and its people moved forward.

  “No one is a villain here, Oriana. And when this is over, you won’t feel like a hero. There are no winners. In this, we’re all losers.”

  When Oriana was twelve, she’d been thrown from a horse. No broken bones, but she’d run into her mother’s office with plenty of cuts and scrapes, her face streaked with dirt and tears. Kalinda took one look at Oriana and asked, “Did you get back on your stallion?”

  She’d wept out, “No. He’s too big for me.”

  Kalinda had stood from her desk, walked to a bleeding, shivering Oriana, placed her hands on her shoulders, and turned her back toward the office door. “If you’re going to cry, at least do it atop your mount.”

  Ashamed and angry, Oriana had stormed from her mother’s office, crying for a different reason. Two days later, she was back in the stables, staring down the horse that had thrown her. The animal wasn’t her enemy. He was just doing what came naturally to him when she tried to make him submit to her will. Eventually, she did ride the stallion. Kalinda didn’t praise Oriana or even comment on her success. A week later, however, she found a new saddle on her saddle stand with a brass plate that read: Oriana-MoS.

  Of course, at twelve, she hadn’t been Matriarch of Steelcross, but Kalinda’s vision for Oriana was clear. Oriana’s vision for Earth Rift was equally as clear, but not everyone shared her outlook for the future.

  “Do your duty, Crimson Hunter.”

  Oriana felt twelve again, sensing her mother’s hands on her shoulders while she pushed her toward the door. As a child, she’d misinterpreted Kalinda’s response, and she had good reason to think the Matriarch of Irongarde heartless and cold. Yet, whenever Oriana fell or failed, Kalinda was there, stern and unyielding, telling her in a dozen different ways to cry all she wanted as long as she did it from atop a fear she’d conquered.

  Rolling off the bed, she found her shoes and put them back on. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “I know you will. Afterward, return here at a decent hour, and bring my granddaughter. We’ll speak then about how we’ll handle the muraco situation.” Sliding down the bed, Kalinda snapped her fingers, and the light Oriana had turned on when she’d arrived winked out. “Go home, daughter, and rid your realm of our betrayers. Treason deserves only one response.”

  Oriana stood there beside Kalinda’s bed. The stallion had truly been too big and wild for Oriana to handle with ease, but Kalinda had gifted it to her anyway. She had to have known Oriana would fail. What twelve-year-old wouldn’t have?

  Yes, she’d failed, but she’d also learned the power of perseverance at an age when falling had far fewer consequences. No, Kalinda wasn’t heartless or cold but she was one hard-as-steel mother and teacher.

  “Did you give me all of Grandmother’s journals?”

  “Why would you think I haven’t?”

  “There are time gaps, which makes me think I don’t have them all.”

  “At this point, don’t you think you have more important issues to contend with than my mother’s old journals?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “If you couldn’t find what you were looking for in Mother’s journals then perhaps there’s nothing more to them than the ramblings of a woman who allowed her obsession to spiral so far out of control it killed her and two other people.”

  “I know, but Grandmother—”

  “Goodbye, Crimson Hunter.” Sharp. Final. “Don’t return until you’ve dealt with the situation.”

  Oriana left, jumping through the ether of space, Kalinda’s command a cutting slash to the heart.

  Crimson Hunter, she’d called her, a reminder of Oriana’s duty. She would perform her duty, as she always did. As she always would.

  Sitting under a tree in the Steel Rise garden, Marrok’s attention was divided between reading an entry from Matriarch Helen’s journal and watching his toddler play. Keira loved the outdoors as much as Marrok. So, when time permitted and the weather inviting, they would spend their afternoons among the solar cedars, kindwalnuts, and the sweet-smelling red touch-me-not and purple winterberry flowers. He read …

  The residents of Bronze Ward are struggling, but it was to be expected. Few emotions, save love, are more powerful than hope. I’m hopeful. Tuncay is hopeful. The witches and werewolves of Bronze Ward are hopeful. Even with so much hope, thick enough to choke on, fear of failure keeps me awake at night.

  Tuncay wants to continue our experiments. He assures me he can handle the iron in my magic kisses. But I’ve seen the rashes, rubbed his back during violent vomiting spells, and called a healer when his fever wouldn’t abate.

  Normally I would move forward with a decision, if short-term deficits resulted in long-term gains. When it comes to my consort, however, the potential long-term benefits of our experiments do not outweigh the pain he suffers, short-term as they may be. We disagree on this point. T
here must be a better way.

  For now, I’ll concentrate on Bronze Ward—another perfectly imperfect experiment. Soon, though, I’ll have to turn my attention to ensuring the line of succession. I’ve pretended not to notice the rumblings of discontent over how long I’ve waited to give Earth Rift its next matriarch. The foolish girl inside the mature woman hoped—yes, there’s that word again—that I could solve the ills of the world before bringing my child into it. So very naïve of me, but I would like my daughter’s reign as matriarch to be unburdened from the weight of decrees that keep us shackled to the past, our laws devoid of a vision beyond maintenance of the same mission—safeguard witches from werewolves.

  “Daddy, look.”

  Marrok lifted his gaze from the tablet and toward the sound of his daughter’s voice. Dressed in pink leggings, a white and pink polka dot shirt, and a pair of white tennis shoes scuffed from hard play, Keira wore the biggest, cutest, and the most mischievous grin he’d ever seen from his daughter.

  “What do you have?” Placing his tablet on the grass, Marrok stood and walked toward Keira.

  “Look. Look.” She bounced on her toes. Her eyes were cheerful but not as bright as the red streaks of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. It was the only hairstyle Marrok could manage on his own. Thank the moon above, Oriana normally took care of Keira’s hair. “Look.”

  “I see.” Marrok grimaced at the ruined flowerbed behind his beaming daughter. The same white tennis shoes that looked so cute on her feet had trampled dozens of touch-me-nots. Those that remained where clutched in her chubby hands.

  “Mommy.”

  Of course Keira had picked the flowers for Oriana. It wasn’t the first time she’d done the same. Although, the last time Keira had made a similar mess he’d promised Oriana he would keep a better eye on her. Note to self. No more reading while on dad duty.

  He scooped his daughter into his arms. “Are you trying to get me into trouble?”

  “Trouble,” Keira repeated.

  “Yes, trouble.”

  Keira shook her head. “No trouble.”

  “Don’t give me that innocent face.”

  In response, Keira placed a wet sloppy kiss to his cheek.

  Marrok all but melted. He would do anything for his little girl.

  Fight for her.

  Die for her.

  Chapter 10: The Price of Leadership

  April 15, 2243

  Steelcross Realm

  City of Steelburgh

  Nine thousand eight hundred fifty werewolves were supposed to be residing in Steelburgh. One thousand three hundred forty-five were unaccounted for. One hundred forty-five more missing muraco than originally thought.

  “Are you all right?” Oriana’s hand slipped into Marrok’s, but he could barely feel her comfort over the disbelief of driving through a city surrounded by a seventy-foot-high, twenty-foot-deep steel wall.

  “I know it’s shocking. I tried to prepare you. From the way you can’t stop staring out the window and how cold your hand is, I didn’t do a very good job.”

  Steel buildings were everywhere he looked—homes, businesses, even the roads were made of steel. No trees. No flowers. Just endless miles of metal. He’d never seen a more modern-looking city. Only Irongarde compared, except no tower of glass and iron claimed the center of that city.

  Yeah, Oriana had told him about the city of metal and muracos. White werewolves were everywhere, going about their day until they caught a glimpse of Oriana’s black limo driving past. They would stop, snarl, and point when they spotted the car. The Matriarch of Steelcross’s flag, a steel gray spiral sun, was mounted on the center of the roof, leaving no doubt who the vehicle belonged to and who was inside. Despite the gawking and growls, no one dared attack a vehicle made of, what else, reinforced steel, and carrying the Crimson Hunter.

  “I-I had no idea.”

  “That’s because no one wants to know what the matriarchy does with muracos after they’re arrested. Black werewolves don’t want to support a policy that condones government-sanctioned killing of werewolves, but they also don’t want muracos returned to their communities. Out of sight, out of mind works for most people.”

  “Who knows they’re here?”

  “Their families and friends. But most muracos lose one or both when they turn into a white werewolf. Although they’ve served their full sentence, they’re too dangerous to be reintegrated into normal society. In good conscience, we can’t ever permit them to rejoin the general population.”

  “I know but …”

  The car stopped in front of a wedged-shaped building. It was thirty-five stories—the tallest in the city—and headquarters for the Steelburgh Crimson Guard.

  Oriana had never lied to him. There were simply parts of being Matriarch of Steelcross she couldn’t share with him until they were married. She was right. Marrok hadn’t wanted to know. So, he had avoided asking questions he didn’t want to know the answers to but which Oriana would’ve given if he had shown an interest. He relished his bubble of ignorance until over thirteen hundred muracos had disappeared.

  Closing his eyes, he leaned back, letting his head fall against the leather upholstery. Oriana still held his hand, even as she told the driver, through the communication system to, “Return us to security checkpoint one, Nahara. Thank you.”

  The Crimson Guard, a member of Oriana’s Barrage Division, and her personal driver, made a sharp U-turn. Oriana never minded the witch’s questionable driving skills, probably because she drove the same way—reckless and perpetually in a hurry.

  Bad witch driver aside, Marrok knew why Oriana had opted for a scenic drive around the city. It was the same reason she’d taken him to Bronze Ward before she’d begun renovations. To understand, not simply to know on an intellectual level, one had to see—not from a distance but as close as one could get and be safe while having the experience.

  “By the time this is over, I’m going to have so much werewolf blood on my hands, I won’t be able to wash it all off. But I needed you to see for yourself, to know I’ve done my best to keep them safe. And to keep everyone safe from them.”

  Oriana tugged her hand, but Marrok refused to let her go.

  He opened his eyes, unsurprised to find Oriana staring at the palm of her free hand, as if muraco blood already stained the deceptively delicate appendage.

  “By putting Steelburgh in this realm, Kalinda made you a warden.”

  “Someone has to rule Steelcross.”

  “Then it should’ve been her.”

  “It was all on her for years. Overseeing Steelburgh is part of what it means to be Matriarch of Steelcross. Irongarde is a larger realm and has all the muraco-only prisons, while Steelcross has the one muraco city. She has the more difficult job, Marrok, but I’m the one who screwed up.”

  Marrok wanted to hold Oriana, to comfort her the way she’d tried to soothe him earlier. He hadn’t been receptive then, and he doubted she would be receptive now. So, he stopped protesting and listened without judging, interrupting, or offering solutions to a problem he didn’t fully comprehend.

  Oriana pointed out the window to the steel wall. “How do you feel being in here?”

  Marrok didn’t have to contemplate her question. His answer leapt to his mind and out his mouth. “Like a werewolf in a gilded cage. The city is beautiful in a sterile, morbid kind of way. It’s depressing and, if I ever ended up here, I’d want to jump from the Crimson Guard building and kill myself.”

  Not hyperbole. He couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life locked away, no matter how luxurious the cage.

  “That has happened. But werewolves are strong, so the fall doesn’t kill them. Although, with the amount of damage their bodies suffered, they regretted the ill-planned suicide attempt. The silver snares are ineffective on muraco.”

  “That’s not strictly true, is it? Can’t you increase the dose of magic emitted from the silver snares?”

  “Sure, if we want to fry the
ir brains.” Oriana shifted sideways in the seat, her long black coat parting enough for him to see her red-and-black Crimson Hunter body armor underneath. “I don’t need historical documents to know Grandmother wasn’t the only matriarch to perform experiments. The spells we use for rage disrupters are specific to the DNA of werewolves. It had to have taken months, if not years, to perfect. Think about it, Marrok. Imagine what had to have happened back then. Do you think werewolves volunteered to be test subjects? Or that witches got it right the first time or even the fiftieth?”

  “I can’t see either happening. That is so messed up.”

  “You do have a tendency toward understatement. The bottom line is that the slightest alteration of the spells will kill werewolves, turn their brains to mush, or invalidate the spells. I told you that witches were the true beasts, but you didn’t believe me. You wondered why I didn’t step down from the post of Crimson Hunter when I became matriarch, and again when I was pregnant with Keira. Do you understand now?”

  Marrok thought he did. “Kalinda wanted you in both roles, didn’t she?”

  “She’s always wanted me to become Matriarch of Steelcross. It’s what I’ve trained to do my entire life. At the same time, Mother wants to keep me under her thumb for as long as she can. If I’m also Crimson Hunter, she can command me to do her will, and I must obey. When I’m acting in that role, we’re not equals.”

  Marrok considered several responses, but all of them included words like “bitch,” “mercenary,” and “manipulative.” He couldn’t say anything about Kalinda that wouldn’t end with Oriana defending her mother and get them into a pointless argument. But, dammit, his mother-in-law was a manipulative, mercenary bitch. Worse, she knew it and didn’t care.

  Avoiding the impulse to protect his mate against a mother she would never see through clear eyes, Marrok latched onto another thought. “You talk about me and understatements. What about you?”

  Oriana frowned. “What do you mean?”