by N. D. Jones
“We don’t need her.” Zev fought hard to keep his anger in check. He needed his brother to understand. “We’re begging for scraps from their table, happy with any morsel the witches toss our way. That’s no way to live.”
“That’s not what Oriana is doing.”
“Isn’t it? Little scraps here and there. She gives us enough to keep us from starving, hopeful, but also dependent on her for our next meal.”
“What in the hell do you expect her to do? Even as a matriarch, she’s still one witch. She fought her own damn Crimson Guards because they broke one of two decrees intended to give us a modicum of liberty.”
“Born of her guilt from all of her privilege. What other brainwashed bullshit did Solange feed you after you shined her boots and kissed her ass?”
“Fuck you, you closed-minded asshole.” Alarick’s foot connected with Zev’s sofa. The sofa skidded back, denting the wall behind it and adding to the growing damage to his living room. “Look, I don’t want to fight. I came here to pass along Oriana’s message. Janus Nether is under martial law. We’re being evacuated. Mom has offered to let us stay with her until the Crimson Guards have secured the escaped muracos.”
“Secured? Is that your word or Oriana’s? They’re going to kill them.”
“Good. After what they did to Marrok, all of those motherfuckers deserve to die.”
“Since when did you become a werewolf traitor?”
Alarick stepped into his space, so close Zev could smell the two beers he’d grabbed from the fridge and downed before telling him about Marrok.
“Nothing in this world is as black and white as you like to believe. Friends can become enemies and enemies, allies. I make zero excuses for witches, including Mom and Oriana, and I make none for werewolves. Your whole life you’ve been spoiling for a fight with witches.”
Alarick walked past Zev, gathered the empty beer cans and crushed them before tossing them back on the table. When his brother turned back to him, smelling of sadness but looking resigned, Zev knew he’d lost another brother.
“No one else in Janus Nether knows the real reason behind the evacuations, but Oriana thought we had a right to the truth. Mom has already jumped Dad to her home in Ironmere. Like I said, we have an open invitation to join them. I came here hoping to talk you into leaving with me, even if we don’t go to Mom’s or Ironmere.”
Again, Alarick’s eyes fell to Zev’s neck. “But you have no intention of leaving. You want this fight. You want to spill witch blood, even the blood of your sister-in-law, not because of a vigilante’s sense of righteous revenge but because witches have the power you think belongs to werewolves. Matriarchy, patriarchy, both are systems of oppression that shouldn’t exist on Earth Rift, but both have. Yesterday werewolves ruled. Today witches do.” Alarick shrugged, but it wasn’t a movement of nonchalance, but of a fatigue much older than his years. “Who knows what it’ll be tomorrow.”
“Stay. Fight by my side,” Zev blurted, a desperate plea he couldn’t resist making, even though he knew the answer he’d get.
Most of the muracos had accepted him as their leader, an intoxicating power rush he hadn’t expected. But those werewolves couldn’t replace the love and trust of his blood brothers. Marrok was gone, and he would have to learn to live with that hole in his life. But if there were anything he could say or do to keep the hole from gaping wider, he would do it.
“Come on. You and me. Even with your silver snare, when the white moon rises tomorrow, the effect of the silver snare will lessen. Hell, you don’t have to fight, if you don’t want to. Just … just don’t leave. Don’t turn your back on family.”
Alarick swore, grabbing Zev in a hard, tight hug. “You’re the biggest asshole ever. A selfish bastard on your best day.”
A goodbye, not an acceptance.
Zev squeezed back, already missing him, the hole in his heart a deep wound not even witch blood could fill. That wouldn’t prevent Zev from trying, however.
He released his brother, inhaling his familial scent before stepping back from him.
Alarick pressed a brass-plated Magerun token into his hand. “This is from Oriana. Show it to an attendant and you’ll be fast-tracked onto any transporter. With this, you can go anywhere in the world, Zev. You don’t have to stay here. War is coming to Janus Nether, but you don’t have to be a part of it.”
“I won’t die, and I won’t need Oriana’s guilt gift.”
“If she finds you here, allied with the muraco, you’ll leave her no choice but to use lethal force.”
“I’m not Marrok. I won’t become her prey.” Zev opened his hand, permitting the token to slip through his fingers. “She’ll be mine.”
The stench of sadness wafting from Alarick intensified, but he accepted Zev’s words as final, just as Zev accepted Alarick’s decision not to stay and fight by his side.
“Take care of Dad. Let him know I did it for all of us. For werewolf freedom.”
Alarick’s eyes called him a lying asshole, but he refrained from saying it. But he did leave Zev with parting words that wounded even as they bolstered.
“You’re a black werewolf with the delusions and bloodlust of a muraco. I didn’t think that terrible combination was possible, yet here you stand.” Alarick embraced Zev again. “I love you, bro. So do Dad and Mom. And so did Marrok. Remember that.”
When that fateful day came—werewolves versus witches—
Zev remembered. He remembered the muracos arrival, as if birthed from the white moon. He’d joined his white brothers in claws and fangs against the Crimson Guards. He remembered when he spotted Oriana across the battlefield—tired and weak from a long day of fighting but as stubborn a warrior as he was himself.
When he went for Oriana’s throat, rage overtaking him, the love he felt for Marrok was all the fuel he needed to harness the power of the white moon. Yes, Zev remembered. He slashed out, missing her throat but catching her blocking arm. Oriana blasted him with her cannon, her counterattack quick but nonlethal.
Yes, Zev remembered it all.
His love.
His hate.
April 30, 2243
Irongarde Realm
Iron Spire
Oriana sat on the couch in Kalinda’ office, holding Marrok’s tablet. Strange, with the amount of damage her suite had sustained from the fight, her consort’s tablet had survived. Considering Marrok primarily used the device to read Helen’s journal entries on muracos, its survival was more ironic than strange. Oriana had no idea why Nahara had thought it important to save the device and return it to her. Perhaps because she knew how much Marrok had loved the tablet. Or maybe Nahara could think of no other way to help ease Oriana’s pain. Nahara’s reasoning didn’t matter, though, only her empathy, which she appreciated.
Oriana touched the tablet’s screen. It lit up, and she read what was most likely the last journal entry her consort had read. The thought filled her heart with pain and her eyes with tears. Oriana blinked the tears away and forced herself to read her grandmother’s journal.
It’s decided. I can’t say I’m happy with my decision, but I see no other way. I haven’t informed Tuncay or Kalinda, and I won’t. If I did, they would try to talk me out of it. In a weak moment, I would probably allow the persuasion. But that’s how I’ve come to this crossroads, listening to Tuncay and my heart instead of following my mind and common sense.
He thinks I don’t know, but very little can be kept hidden, especially from me. Metal is harmful to werewolves. We all know that, which is why witches have injected themselves with liquid steel and iron for generations.
Our metal-magic weapons can kill werewolves, and that’s been our advantage since the time of Alba. After years of feeding Tuncay small doses of my magic, tainted from iron in my body, the unanticipated effect of the experiment has revealed itself as a crippling defeat.
Tuncay is fading right before my eyes. He’s lost weight—his features gaunt in that way of the sick and dying. Iron poison
ing, Tuncay’s healer informed me when confronted. Death will eventually take him from Kalinda and me unless I discover a way to reverse the damage my magic kisses have done to his body. He thinks I don’t know the real reason behind his illness. Kalinda certainly doesn’t. We’ve become a family of liars, proficient at keeping secrets from each other and of self-delusion.
I’ve enlisted Farkas’ assistance in what could be my final experiment. She’s the best Crimson Hunter a matriarch could ever hope to have. I wish I had more time to better prepare, but I don’t. Tuncay doesn’t have more time either. I’ll have to trust the spell Farkas and I have devised. The cuts to my arms and legs will serve as a valve through which we should be able to control the flow of blood we’ll pull from me. The critical piece, the part of the plan I’m most nervous about, is the extraction of the metal from my blood.
The trial runs, with small amounts of blood, have proven successful. But are the results valid? Can I trust the reliability of the process when applied on a grander scale? I wish I knew. I wish, not for the first, or even the hundredth time since becoming matriarch, that I had the right answers.
The last time she stood on her mother’s office balcony it had been too dark for her to see Wild Moor’s starmount tower without the aid of her magic. But during the bright light of day, and with no fog to impair her sight, Oriana could see all the way to Wild Moor. From this very spot, Kalinda had focused her magic on the starmount towers of all of Janus Nether, turning them on and triggering the stormbringer spell.
Matriarch Alba had been the first witch to realize metal could not only be used to help witches control their magic but could also be used against werewolves. The stormbringer spell had evolved out of necessity and only been used to protect the lives of witches. Without it, the Blood of the Sun family would’ve perished like so many other witch families during the War of Eternal Hunger. The erection and strategic placement of starmount towers was Matriarch Alba’s contingency plan. In the event of another war with werewolves, the starmount towers could be used by the matriarch to channel her stormbringer spell.
Oriana now knew the true meaning behind the title of the war between werewolves and witches. She hadn’t needed the rest of her grandmother’s journals to figure out the truth, not that Kalinda was willing to part with them. What she’d wanted was confirmation. Oriana wouldn’t get it, at least not from Helen’s journals.
Solange’s magic preceded her arrival beside Oriana.
“You could’ve entered the office like a normal person. Mother’s with Keira at the stables.”
“Only Matriarch Kalinda would have a stable of horses in a big city instead of in a rural area where they belong. I’ve thought it strange ever since we were children.”
“Mother hates the smell of trees, grass, dirt, and manure.”
“Basically, she dislikes nature and everything about horses except for the prestige of owning the best thoroughbreds this side of our solar system.”
Oriana peeled her gaze away from the starmount tower. During Alba’s time, the stormbringer spell may have been necessary. The spell had probably even been an appropriate response to the subjugation of witches as they fought for their freedom against the physically more imposing werewolves. But that hadn’t been the case when Kalinda had decided to use the spell. There were other options. Countless more. Her mother hadn’t wanted to explore any of them.
“We need to be quick and decisive,” Kalinda had told Oriana.
Quick and decisive had meant hand-to-hand combat when Oriana’s Extraction Division could’ve simply transported the muracos back to Steelburgh. Once they were in range of the guards’ magic, the Extraction Unit could’ve saved many lives. It wouldn’t have been easy to corral the muracos. Witches and werewolves would’ve still died, but the attempt should’ve been made. Kalinda, however, had overruled that as a viable strategy.
“Let’s sit, and you can tell me what you’ve found.”
Oriana ignored her mother’s chaise lounge, choosing to sit beside Solange on the black leather chairs at the glass topped table. “Did you retrieve what was left of her?”
“That’s a good way of putting it.” Solange, who loved gory horror movies, appeared as if she would vomit. “Half an arm, and the top half of her head. That’s all that was left of Dr. Bhavari.”
“Did you interview the Crimson Guard who found her?”
“I interviewed all of them. Considering what happened to the last batch who worked there, they were quick to answer my questions. Your reputation as Crimson Hunter has strengthened.”
Oriana shifted in her seat. Being a killer wasn’t the kind of reputation she wanted. Trust and faith inspired, while fear created unseen enemies.
“The guards have no idea how she got there or when she arrived. The guard who filed the report was the one who found Dr. Bhavari’s remains. Two shifted muracos were fighting over what was left of the healer. The guard broke up the fight, and that’s when she discovered the source of the werewolves’ fight. To be eaten alive … that’s rough.”
“You’re assuming the muracos killed her. I’m not.” Oriana shifted again, uncomfortable with her train of thought. Yet, it had been the same one she’d had for days. Dr. Bhavari’s death, at Steelburgh of all places, solidified the terrible ideas filling her head.
“You think she was murdered then given to the muracos as evidence disposal? Smart.” Solange’s shrug could’ve meant anything. Most likely, though, it meant she couldn’t care less how the healer died, or even who killed her, as long as Dr. Bhavari reaped her overdue punishment.
Oriana, however, very much cared who had killed the witch.
Her attention shifted to the starmount tower again. The edifice, much like a witch, was a lightning rod of immeasurable power and destruction. “Did I ever tell you my grandmother cut off her arms and legs?”
“She what?” Solange sat forward in her chair, elbows going to the table, face turned toward Oriana. “Why would she do that? Wait, I thought your grandparents died in a fire.”
“They did. Wild sun-magic fire.”
Like Marrok, so many of Solange’s thoughts showed across her face. Oriana observed her friend work through what she thought she knew about Helen’s and Tuncay’s death and what Oriana had just told her. She saw the moment when her calculations bottomed out at zero.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m fairly certain Grandmother was trying to rid herself of the liquid steel in her body. I don’t think she intended to sever her limbs. Most likely, she and her Crimson Hunter used an experimental spell. They focused the spell on Grandmother’s legs and arms because that’s where the metal was isolated.”
“Not amputation but a weird blood cleansing spell. No offense, but your grandmother couldn’t have been that naïve or st …”
“Stupid? It’s fine if you say it. I’ve certainly thought it. Maybe I’m as crazy or as desperate as she grew to be, but I think my theory has merit. Something went wrong. That’s indisputable. Her magic must’ve blazed out of control, damaging her arms and legs.”
“You’re saying Matriarch Helen blew herself up.” Solange gaped at Oriana in that way of hers when she toggled between the appropriate comment to say to a friend who also happened to be her matriarch. The hand she ran over her face and the fish-like opening and closing of her mouth were enough to have Oriana taking pity on her friend.
“I’m not asking you to help me the way Grandmother’s Crimson Hunter served her.”
“Good, because I won’t. Your grandmother killed herself, Oriana, and I have no idea what she hoped to achieve.”
“I’ll tell you, if it works.”
“You mean if you don’t die.”
That’s not what Oriana meant. If she died, the second half of her plan wouldn’t matter. Although life for Keira wouldn’t be the same without Oriana and Marrok in it, Oriana had made arrangements for her daughter in the event of her death. Keira would be happy with Io and Lita. The
re was also Solange, Alarick, and Bader, all of whom would help raise Keira the way Marrok and Oriana would’ve. If Kalinda knew of her updated will, she would be furious. But her mother’s opinion no longer mattered. Kalinda had ruined enough lives. Keira’s life wouldn’t be added to the long list.
Oriana pulled up her sleeve. Zev’s claw marks had closed but they’d left a faint scar that hadn’t yet disappeared. Would she repay him in kind, if she found her brother-in-law alive?
An image of Zev going for her throat, not a second of hesitation in his attack, flashed through her mind.
She would repay him. For Zev, death would be preferable to what Oriana had in mind if she found the black werewolf alive and well.
Oriana stood. It was time to hunt werewolves.
Chapter 16: Confrontation
April 30, 2243
Irongarde Realm
City of Wild Moor
Redwatch Suburb
Zev was being hunted. He could feel eyes on him, sense a presence other than the fifty white werewolves loping behind him. They’d traveled about twenty-five miles from downtown Wild Moor to Redwatch, a suburb of the city. The residential area, popular among single, young fathers, like Io had once been, boasted quiet neighborhoods, low crime, and good schools.
The neighborhood was still quiet, and the only crime in Redwatch was the one perpetrated by Kalinda, Oriana, and their damn starmount towers.
The suburb had been razed, magic blasts that leveled homes, memories, and each of those good schools werewolf children could never return to. Everywhere Zev’s paw feet landed, he stepped in dust and ash caused by the fallout. It fell like black soot from the sky, clinging to everything it touched, including the werewolves.
Zev stopped, his keen werewolf nose sniffing. He couldn’t smell anything beyond the residue left by the blasts. The dust and ash didn’t affect his hearing, though, so Zev listened, ears erect. Turning in a slow circle, Zev strained to hear something other than the werewolves around him.
