Crimson Hunter

by N. D. Jones

  “Steelburgh is new and shiny, an old city brought back to life the same way you want to revive Bronze Ward. But this city was your first project, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I told you—”

  “You told me you watched over the city because it was within the larger Steelcross Realm, not that this was your brainchild the same way a collar-free Janus Nether was your idea.”

  He smiled at his mate, proud of the work she’d done on behalf of werewolves, even muracos who, without this city, would still be languishing in either Moonblight Penitentiary or Dogscar Correctional Facility.

  “Yes, they were all my ideas, but I didn’t anticipate the backlash. Mother trusted me to be matriarch and Crimson Hunter, but I let her down.”

  “How? What do you mean by backlash?”

  Red streaked hair fell over Oriana’s face, her head dipping as if in prayer. Sighing, she breathed deeply, and pushed hair out of eyes gone wet.

  “Why are you crying?”

  Oriana slipped one arm out of her coat. The red of her body armor was nearly the same shade as her red streaked hair. “Do you want to know how over thirteen hundred muracos escaped Steelburgh?”

  After seeing the walled-off city, he had no idea how they had.

  The other arm followed the first, the garment dropping to the seat behind her. “The same way we entered.”

  Magic filled the car. A familiar whip encircled his waist. Marrok’s stomach clenched, but the sensation didn’t have him puking up his breakfast.

  He braced for a hard impact, one hand on the door handle, the other clutching Oriana to him. But the teeth-rattling, spine-tingling jolt never came. Opening eyes he hadn’t known he’d closed, Marrok looked at Oriana and then to the window behind her.

  When they’d stopped in front of a smooth, unified wall, no door, gate, or obvious entry point, Marrok had cast a questioning look at Oriana. She had given him a couple of minutes to prepare for the jump. This time, she’d given him none.

  “Where are we?”

  “Elio Desert.”

  Okay, yeah, he could see the barren landscape. The pink hue of the sand was breathtaking. Elio Desert was in the human territory of Aphelion Umbra. Oriana’s extraction magic had taken them from the Northern Hemisphere to the Western, all in a single, only slightly nauseating, jump.

  “Why are we here?”

  “Because the only way the muracos could’ve escaped from Steelburgh and had their rage disrupters removed was with help from witches—not just any witches, but Crimson Guards.”

  No, that couldn’t be right. “Your guards are loyal. They wouldn’t betray you or the Matriarchy. Why would they?” As soon as the last sentence slipped past his lips, he regretted the naïve question.

  Backlash, she’d said. Janus Nether. Steelburgh. Bronze Ward. Cyrus of Steelcross.

  Snap, snap, snap, snap, all the pieces fit together. Combined, it was a canvas portrait painted with brush strokes of care and a palette of good intentions but hung in the homes of people who preferred reading to artwork. The unasked-for change jarring, like Oriana’s magic jumps could be.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t owe me an apology. Even if I hadn’t met and married you, I would’ve made the same decisions, been the same kind of matriarch, and challenged the status quo. My choices, Marrok.”

  She was telling him to allow her the dignity of her actions, no matter the unanticipated results. He would, not because she’d left him no option but to agree, but because she wouldn’t be the witch he loved and married without her fierce heart.

  Nahara’s dulcet voice interrupted them. “They’ve arrived, Matriarch. Do you wish for me to stay in the car with Cyrus Marrok?”

  “I’m not staying in the car,” he yelled to Nahara, not bothering to use the communication system. Oriana’s eyebrow went northward in a way that reminded him far too much of Kalinda. “We’re not arguing about this,” he said in a more reasonable tone. “The windows may be tinted but I sure as hell can see out. There are at least fifteen Crimson Guards out there.”

  “Nineteen guards, one healer, and two data technicians.” Oriana grabbed his hand. “Are you sure?”

  “That I want to stand by your side? Hell, yes, I’m sure.”

  “Not that. It’s just. Well, I’m Crimson Hunter.”

  “I know.”

  Oriana rolled her eyes and shook her head. Not at all like Kalinda but very much like a mate burdened with a clueless, stubborn consort. “You really don’t, but fine. Let’s go.”

  Marrok reached across Oriana, opening the door for her like the gentleman she rarely gave him a chance to be. The woman had to do everything herself, including confronting twenty-two witches.

  He followed her out of the limo. Nahara had also exited. The sun shone brightly overhead. The air was thick, the temperature uncomfortably high. The region, heat, and sun’s rays sapped the strength of werewolves but bolstered the magic of witches.

  Witches stood in a semicircle—some in Crimson Guard uniforms, others in civilian clothing. Remnants of extraction magic leeched away from them, a multi-looped lariat retreating to its source. Solange, captain of the Hunter Division, strolled away from the semicircle of witches to stand between Oriana and Nahara.

  Marrok positioned himself to Oriana’s left, his focus on the group of witches thirty feet in front of him. They neither seemed shocked nor angry at having Solange rip them away from wherever they were or whatever they’d been doing and dropping them in the middle of Elio Desert.

  Removing his coat, socks, and shoes, Marrok tossed them onto the backseat of the car. He proceeded to undress, every witches’ eyes on him except for the three to his right. If Oriana didn’t know what Marrok meant when he’d said he would stand by her side, his shift from human to werewolf made his intention clear.

  “What is this?” a tall, slim witch asked, her blonde hair cut short except for long bangs that covered a hazel eye. “Are you planning on permitting your consort to attack us?”

  Oriana stepped forward.

  Marrok was tempted to do the same. He didn’t know what it took to push past the magic constraints of his silver snare and rage disrupter, but he’d find the strength to make it happen if those witches attacked Oriana.

  A gentle hand settled on his warm arm, far enough away from his sharp claws to avoid an accidental cut.

  Marrok glanced downward, taking in Solange whose gaze never left Oriana, even when she leaned in close and whispered, “As Crimson Hunter, she’s duty-bound to clean her own house. As matriarch, she cannot allow a flagrant challenge to her rules to go unpunished. No one is above the law, Marrok, not even the witches sworn to uphold them.”

  He couldn’t verbally acknowledge her words, so Marrok inclined his head. Just as there were practices and protocols unique to the werewolf culture, the same was true for witches. If Solange and Nahara could stay on the sidelines without interfering, so could Marrok.

  Maybe.

  Oriana didn’t respond to the blonde’s ridiculous question. Besides being insulting to Marrok, as if he were a trained dog Oriana commanded, the question implied the Matriarch of Steelcross was incapable of handling the situation herself.

  “You should’ve come to me, Abelone.”

  Oriana dug the tip of her right booted foot into the unmarred sand. While he couldn’t see his mate’s face, no doubt she bit her lower lip—a telltale sign of her anxiety. Was this the price Oriana had to pay for thinking life for witches and werewolves could be different, for envisioning a future where werewolves were more valued than feared, witches more egalitarian than controlling, and families more cohesive than splintered? If so, would she view the cost a worthy payment for a dream she would still fight to achieve? Or would she succumb to self-doubt, her sun eclipsed by others’ uninspired moon?

  “Any of you could’ve come to me. Instead, you lied, violating my trust and faith.”

  “You wouldn’t have listened.”

  “You say that, but you kn
ow it’s not true.” The foot digging into the sand stopped. Oriana’s body went still. “Unless you all think me a tyrant, what Abelone said is bullshit. You didn’t speak with me about your discontent, not because I’m closed-minded but because it’s easier to fear and rail against change than it is to roll up your sleeves and do the hard work of rebuilding. Yes, that means making mistakes. But look at us.” She swung her hand in Marrok’s direction. “We make our males wear collars, and they submit because we’re all convinced there’s no better way to live and be safe. We’ve stopped trying to find a solution. Hell, maybe witches never tried because why fix a broken system that entitles us to so much, even if it condemns them to so little?”

  “They don’t deserve your sympathy, Matriarch.”

  Perhaps the blonde, Abelone, was the leader of the group because no one else spoke.

  Abelone pointed to Marrok, face red more from disdain for werewolves than from the sun beating down on them.

  “They are in silver snares for a reason. We can’t trust them because they can’t trust themselves not to hurt us. The muracos will remind everyone who and what werewolves truly are.”

  The way she threw her arms up at him, he thought the witch would turn her arms into deadly metal weapons. Apparently, so did Solange and Nahara because they stepped in front of him.

  The physical threat never manifested. Abelone still attacked him, but with words rather than magic.

  “One of these days, he’ll turn on you. It’s in his nature. He won’t be able to help himself. He’ll kill you if given a chance, no matter how much he’s professed his love. No matter that you’re the mother of his child. No matter that—”

  “Enough!” Oriana took another step forward, shoulders squared, voice like iron. “Abelone of Copper Vale, you have been found guilty of aiding and abetting in the escape of one thousand three hundred forty-five muracos—an act of treason punishable by death. As Matriarch of Steelcross, I hereby sentence you to death by my hand.”

  Not as Crimson Hunter, the enforcing hand of Matriarch Kalinda, but as Matriarch of Steelcross. In what world did Kalinda think she could ever exert full control over Oriana? Certainly not this one. Yet, there was something both liberating and frightening about the depth of his mate’s convictions.

  Much of Earth Rift’s early history was destroyed, but what remained included not only the war between witches and werewolves but the short-lived, brutal battles between witch families. When the magic smoke had cleared, the Blood of the Sun family reigned supreme, and they had ruled Earth Rift ever since.

  As dissimilar as they were, Oriana and Kalinda were products of their powerful lineage. That startling truth about his mate was all too evident in her proclamation, an executioner committed to delivering the death blow because that awful responsibility fell to her alone.

  Oriana’s arms began to glow yellow and red. Electromagic discharges shot from her fingertips. Within seconds, the lower half of her arms were gone, replaced by Ravagers of the Lost cannons, the barrels, for the moment, pointing toward the scorching sand beneath their feet.

  Abelone flicked her gaze to Marrok, her arms still raised. Hatred radiated from her toward him, more potent than the stifling heat.

  He growled. Marrok could be at Abelone’s throat before she had a chance to shoot Oriana or get to him. The thought of ripping her throat out in self-defense should’ve disturbed him. It didn’t. What did unsettle him was the mouthwatering anticipation he felt at the prospect of having witch blood and magic in his mouth, coating his tongue, and sliding down his dry throat.

  Disgusted at himself, he stumbled backward, at the same time Abelone lowered her arms.

  “Laney of Silverwater, you have been found guilty of aiding and abetting the escape of one thousand three hundred forty-five muraco—an act of treason punishable by death. As Matriarch of Steelcross, I hereby sentence you to death by my hand.”

  One by one, Oriana named each of the witches, stating their crime and their sentence. No one moved or interrupted. With each recitation, Oriana’s magic grew, shifting from yellow and red to bright crimson.

  “You’ve sacrificed your honor. Will you die to restore it? Will you fight for the right to reclaim your integrity?”

  Oriana’s hair blew in a magic-induced wind. Pink granules levitated off the ground, joining the vortex of magic that began at Oriana’s feet, spread upward, and moved outward, encircling the group of witches.

  “I am Blood of the Sun, and you are my sisters. You have been judged, but you’re also loved by your matriarch.”

  Solange and Nahara retreated behind the limo. Marrok wanted to stay close to Oriana, but her wind magic worsened, slapping against his body and pushing him backward. Claws found no traction on the sand. Oriana’s tornado-like magic drove him to his knees, rattling his bones, watering his eyes, and singeing his fur.

  “You will die today, but tomorrow you’ll be reborn, part of the sun’s chromosphere—glorious and bright red when glimpsed during a solar eclipse. That’s when you’ll be most remembered. Daughters of the Sun. Let’s begin.”

  A magic whip curled around his waist, yanking him away from the ever-growing vortex. Marrok could no longer see Oriana. She’d vanished inside her magic tornado, and so had the twenty-two witches.

  He could see nothing but a vicious swirl of thick crimson fog combined with hydrophobic sand. Attack spells rained down, pelting his ears with each garbled, desperate breath.

  “Incineration slash.”

  “Frenzy blow.”

  “Blazing shot.”

  “Destruction whip.”

  The tornado expanded, lifting the limo and tossing it aside like an insignificant leaf in a windstorm.

  “Oh hell,” Nahara yelled. “Solange, we need to get out of here.”

  The whip on his waist tightened, and he thought Solange would jump them away from the battle.

  Snarling, he yanked at the glowing whip of magic, but Solange’s hold had no give.

  “Calm down, Marrok. We’re not leaving our matriarch.”

  Over the howling wind and clash of magic and metal, they jumped. Marrok roared. Solange had said they weren’t leaving! Why had she lied? He had to get back to Oriana. Marrok fought against the whip tugging him further away from his mate.

  Then he was falling, muzzle-first onto hot sand. They were still in Elio Desert.

  Solange shoved his big, hairy leg off her two smaller ones. “I told you we weren’t leaving Oriana.” Once they were standing, both covered in sand, she shoved him again.

  “Are you sure we’re far enough away?” Nahara asked.

  They hadn’t gone far. Marrok could still hear the battle and see Oriana’s magic fog. But Solange had put enough distance between them that his ears no longer rang, and his head no longer felt as if it would explode from the stench of heated metal.

  But his mouth watered from the blood he could smell in the air.

  Dropping to his knees, Marrok shifted.

  “I’m glad you shifted. You’re a little more reasonable when in your human form. Oriana can stop worrying about you being so close to the battle and seeing the extent of her Blood of the Sun power.”

  Marrok stood from his crouched position. “How in the hell can you say that so calmly? Oriana is fighting nineteen trained Crimson Guards.”

  Solange’s scoff could’ve cut through Steel Rise. “If we thought those guards had any chance of beating Oriana, Nahara and I would be with her in that entanglement trap. Don’t get me wrong, Oriana is going to be bloody and bruised when she gets out of there. She’s atoning for her sins while also giving our sisters the respect they didn’t grant her.”

  “What sins? Oriana didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Rubbing her eyes free of sand, Nahara answered his question, although she coughed her way through most of it. “Sins of silence, partaking, obstinacy. Normal, everyday sins—but not when you’re a matriarch, not when your reach is vast, the impact of your actions creating a ripple effect.”<
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  Unconvinced but uninterested in a topic that kept him from Oriana, Marrok ignored the witches. He listened to the battle Oriana waged, her firing cannons drowning out cries and curses. She was fighting for her beliefs, for him, for werewolves, even for witches who were victims of the same oppressive system they were afraid of altering.

  Blood joined the vortex of magic and sand.

  Witches raged.

  Sun magic blazed.

  And Oriana bellowed, “Hemorrhage Shove.”

  The vortex exploded, flinging blood, bones, and flesh outward, a grisly defacement of Elio Desert.

  Marrok bolted toward his mate, shifting as he ran. Oriana fell.

  He caught her. Blood seeped from her mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. Oriana trembled in his arms, her groans soft, breaths labored.

  He nuzzled her neck and licked her face, needing her half-closed eyes to stay open and focused on him. Growling at the approaching witches for taking so long but never more relieved than when Solange’s magic snaked around him, Marrok held Oriana to his chest, howling when she went limp in his arms.

  Chapter 11: Mother Dear

  April 15, 2243

  Steelcross Realm

  Steel Rise

  “How could this have happened? Not one of those disloyal witches should’ve been strong enough to hurt my daughter, not even the Crimson Guards.” Kalinda whirled on Marrok and Solange. “Well, don’t just stand there. One of you answer me.”

  Marrok looked past Kalinda to Oriana, unconscious in their bed, as she had been since passing out in his arms. “Your temper tantrum isn’t helping. It didn’t help when the healer came—you hovering over her shoulder and barking orders—and it’s not helping now. I don’t like seeing Oriana hurt any more than you do.”

  “Then why in the hell is she hurt, hmm? I have yet to hear an adequate response from her consort or her captain. Solange, tell me what happened.”

  “Umm, well, Matriarch, we—”

  Marrok interrupted. “I know you have ultimate control over the Crimson Guard, which I respect. I also know Solange, and Nahara, who’s waiting in the sitting area for your directive, will have to give you a report of what happened in Elio Desert. But not in here. You’re loud, upset, and angry. I understand the last two. Trust me, I feel the same. But Oriana doesn’t need this, not in her room while she’s recuperating.”