The Brothers Nightwolf Trilogy

by Taylor, Theodora

  If he had been as he presented himself to the world, a large but human man, he would have fell to his bloody death, his body breaking on the stone wall beneath his keep. But as it was, Damianos unshelled as soon as his feet left the balcony. His hands pulling back into claws, his body lengthening as his skin scaled over and large wings sprouted out of his back.

  He resisted the urge to cry out in relief at finally being able to assume his true form. Colby was generationally god-spoken, but the easiest way to reverse the effect, would be to shock the human to the point where he no longer mindlessly obeyed. And letting the old servant see him as he really was might provide such a shock. Thus, he flew quietly above the house’s line of sight, glorying in his true body. Still not free of the itch that had felt like it might consume him but at least distracted from it.

  If not for the vast amount of human weaponry the walking apes had created over the last few thousand years, some of it actually capable of shooting him down, he might have flown further than his own island. Perhaps visited one of his drakkon subjects, like he used to before the invention of the nuclear bomb. However, flouting the rules wouldn’t do in his case. As the Drakkon King, he’d been the one who’d put a moratorium on flying in the first place, commanding that all the drakkon under his rule keep themselves hidden. And because of this command drakkon had faded into legend during this civilization’s modern age. So then how would it look if he was the one responsible for the first drakkon sighting in centuries.

  As his very first Colby would have said in his slightly post Middle Age form of English, nay.

  So instead of flying further, Damianos nose-dived into the sea, plunging himself into its deepest depths and swimming as far as he could until his muscles ached, and his mind could no longer ruminate on the itch that never stopped.

  Then, and only then, did Damianos sink to the ocean floor, his golden eyes closing, as he fell into a deep and dark sleep.

  Part III

  Was it enough?

  13

  Wilma

  The late 1980s

  “C’mon in, Wilma, sit down.”

  Normally, Wilma quickly obeyed her father’s commands. As more than one past Dark Wolf MC member could attest, hesitating on her father was a good way to get put six feet under real fast.

  But the scene laid out in front of her froze her inside the doorway that led into the dining room from the main part of the house.

  And as for that story she’d made up about the Wolfsmiths keeping her longer than expected? It lodged in her throat, muted by her surprise at seeing the dining room so transformed.

  This formal area had always seemed like a surreal addition to the house. One of those spaces they technically had but never utilized. Unless you count using the long formal table as a makeshift triage area when there were more wounded Dark Wolf MCs than spots available at their local clinic. Which Wilma didn’t.

  However, within a few hours, the room had been completely transformed. There were no emergency medical supplies anywhere to be seen. All the old blood streaks had been scrubbed from the room’s walls. And the permanent stains on the table had been covered with a fancy white tablecloth. It looked like…well, a formal dining room. The same as what anybody would expect to find in a house this big anywhere else in Michigan.

  Just as she was setting up to ask her father how the hell he'd pulled this off, their housekeeper came bustling in from the door that led to the kitchen, with a rolling tray filled with saucers of brownie ala modes.

  “Oh, you made it, chica,” she said, her face lighting up when she saw Wilma standing in the doorway on the opposite side of the large room. “You hungry, mama? I kept your plate warm in the stove.”

  “N-no….” Wilma stuttered, her eyes goggling around the fancified dining table and the people currently sitting around it.

  Both her brothers Wilford and Wilton were in attendance and dressed in shiny suits that looked like they’d been straight jacked from the Miami Vice wardrobe department. Her father also had on a suit, but his was black. More Blues brothers than Don Johnson, but still just as crazy. Hand to God, she hadn’t even known her father owned a formal suit. Had he just bought it today…for their guest?

  Wilma then turned her eyes to the biggest shock of all, the one she’d save to end, because she just didn’t know how to process it. Sitting at the other end of the table was a real live dinner guest! Dad would throw a kegger any day that ended with a "y", but they’d never had anybody over for a formal sit-down dinner before. Leroy hadn’t even hosted Janelle’s father, when they were negotiating her and Wilton’s engagement.

  So how was this even happening? She eyed the young man sitting opposite from her Dad, in what came off like a seat of power. He looked nothing like a criminal, and appeared to be around her brother’s age, which meant he wasn’t nearly old enough to carry the kind of juice that would get him a formal meeting with the Detroit Alpha.

  Also, age was where all similarities ended as far as this guy and her brothers were concerned. He wore an old-fashioned three-piece drape suit, like maybe nobody had gotten around to telling him it was the 80s now. And while her brothers were tall and built like both their middle names were “Don’t Even Think About Messin’ With Me, Muthafucka.” Their guest was short and rotund, with a pleasant face and slanted eyes that disappeared when he smiled and said, “Gee whiz, you must be Miss Wilma Greenwolf! I’m Tikaani Ataneq, King of the Alaska pack. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  He stood when he said this. Formal, like she was Doris Day, or some shit and he was Cary Grant in one of those black and white movies. Then he pulled out a chair—like actually pulled out a chair and said, “Please, Miss Greenwolf sit down and join us for some dessert.”

  Seriously, who was this fool? Surely not a king like he said, because he couldn’t have been more than 20 or so. Also, why did he look ethnic, but sound straight out of Leave it Beaver?

  She tried to catch either of her brothers’ eyes as she gingerly took the seat he was offering. But they kept their heads lowered, and she had to wonder if it wasn’t on purpose. Seriously, what the hell was going on here?

  “So, I hear you’ve just finished up a stint helping out the Wolfsmiths,” Tikaani said as he pushed in her chair. “You know, Deidre’s mother and my mother are great friends. My mom was her mom’s Miss Teen Wolf mentor back in the sixties. What a small world!”

  “Yeah, small…” she said, feeling more confused by the second as Tikaani went back to his seat.

  He carried himself with a certain dignity, she had to admit. He might look like Santa Claus’s Eskimo son, but he sat up straight and regal, like everything he put his butt on should be considered a throne. So maybe he really was the King of Alaska. But that only brought up more questions. Like, what the hell was someone like him doing in her mange state’s dining room? Everybody knew Alaska had one of the largest kingdom treasures in North America. It made no sense that he’d even lower himself to come all the way out to Detroit.

  As if reading her mind, her father said, “You’re late, but you’re right on time, Wilma. We was just about to make a big toast. Here, hand me that bottle before you go, Cortez. Let me pour my daughter a glass of Zinfandel.”

  Tikaani frowned as Mrs. Cortez left the room after handing the bottle off to Dad. “I’m sorry, are you old enough to drink, Miss Greenwolf? It’s just you look so young.”

  “She's twenty. Perfectly legal for most things ‘cept drinking,” her father answered before Wilma could. “But we amongst friends, so we’ll let her get away with it, just this once.”

  Wilma stared at her father. He said this to Tikaani, completely straight-faced. As if any of his kids had ever been age-restricted out of alcohol. If she’d thought to ask for it when she was a toddler, Leroy probably would have told Mrs. Cortez to go ‘head and throw some Boones Farm in her juice glass.

  “What are we toasting?” she asked after her father handed her the glass of wine.

  “Well, I’m
very happy to say, your brother, Wilford, has officially accepted the Alaska kingdom’s offer to serve as my beta,” Tikaani answered with another one of those smiles that made his eyes disappear.

  Wilma’s mouth fell open and she looked at Wilford, who still wasn’t meeting her eyes. “Hold up, you’re going all the way to Alaska with some wolf you just met?”

  “He’s the King of Alaska, Wilma,” her father pointed out, his face stone hard. “They met over an hour ago. And if your ass had shown up on time, you would’ve gotten to know him, too. But let me tell you, he’s a real bright young wolf, who inherited his father’s throne unexpectedly. And now he’s made the very intelligent decision of choosing the biggest, baddest muthafucka available to make sure nobody don’t try to jack his throne.”

  Her father’s tone brooked no argument.

  And Wilma knew there’d probably be hell to pay later for back talking him in front of their first formal guest. But… “This is crazy, Ford. Alaska is like the boondocks, but with Eskimos. You’re seriously okay with this?” she had to ask Wilford. “I mean, I know you’ve been a little more quiet than usual since Wilton announced his engagement, but I didn’t expect you to just ship off to Alaska.”

  “It’s a good offer. The Alaska treasury is rich in oil and other natural resources. He’ll never have to struggle or worry about having to adapt to our way of life,” her father answered, like Wilma had asked him the question and not her brother.

  So that was what this was really about, Wilma realized with a sinking thud.

  She knew Wilford had long been a disappointment to their father, because Leroy didn’t think he had what it took to become a good beta to their older brother. Wilford preferred his Atari to drug deals. And though, he’d easily be able to kill any wolf who came for his brother with his bare hands, everybody knew he didn’t get any joy out of putting muthafuckas down. Not like Wilton and their father did.

  Wilma glared at her father, sick to her stomach. “So, because he can’t be of any use to you, you’re gonna like, what…? Sell him to the highest bidder?”

  Tikaani shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Even though I’m an only child myself, I do appreciate your concern for your brother. And I want you to know that I plan to make Ford’s life very comfortable. There’s no need for you to worry, Miss—”

  “Yet here I am worried as fuck,” Wilma answered, cutting him off as she snatched up the glass of wine and took a huge gulp, too pissed for her brother to keep it polite.

  Guilt rose inside her stomach as the wine went down though. Because here she was plotting her escape while poor sensitive Ford was getting shipped off to God knows where in Alaska.

  “Wilma…” her father warned.

  “No, Dad, I’m not going to let you shut me up. Not this time. I mean, do you know how many people are going to come after this boy’s throne?” she asked, jerking her head toward their “guest.”

  “He’s up in here like Eskimo Wally Cleaver, knowing full well the only reason he’d lower himself to even set foot in our mangey house is because he needs a big black wolf to be his punching bag.”

  That pointed out, she took several more angry swigs of wine, feeling hotter with the whole situation by the second.

  “Miss Greenwolf…” Tikaani started to say, his face reddening.

  But he was cut off by the slam of her father’s hand on the table. “You think I’m going to let you come up in here and tell me how to run my gotdamn kingdom?” he demanded, his original Tennessee accent coming out as his voice rose in volume. “Listen here, heifer, after all the lies you been telling me all summer, you should be counting yourself lucky I even let you back into my house. Cuz believe me, I really had to wrestle with myself about whether or not to change the locks on your ass.”

  Wilma jerked, fear and shock riddling her body like bullets shot. He knew where she’d been all summer.

  But, that didn’t make any sense. The Leroy Greenwolf she knew would have never let her get away with lying to him, much less invited her to dinner after he found out. Leroy always got his way. Always.

  Just a few months ago, Wilton had gotten too drunk at a Dark Wolf rager and dared to tell his father that he didn’t want to marry Janelle, because he liked her hotter-but-infertile sister, Evelyn, better. A few hours later, Wilton had woken up inside one of the basement wolf cages. And seventy-two foodless hours after that, her oldest brother had magically agreed to marry Janelle, the nerdy fertile sister he had nothing in common with.

  Wilma’s stomach sank, that memory bringing another realization crashing down as she recalled exactly why Wilton had woken up in a cage. Soon after his announcement, he’d been drugged. Later he’d told Wilma and Wilton that Leroy had probably put something in his beer….

  And now…

  Now Wilma’s heart caught in her throat as she stared at the nearly empty glass of wine.

  Then, as if dinging a “you finally figured it out, dummy” bell, an unmistakable smell suddenly filled the room. One so evocative, it immediately consumed every sense. Like a tornado siren, or a baby’s piercing wail…or one of Bodhan’s kisses.

  And that smell…it was coming from her.

  That was when she realized…this hotness that had overtaken her body. It wasn’t anger. No…. this was a different kind of hot. Wilma panted, her breasts so swollen, it felt like she was in pain. A sweet aching pain that made her want to squeeze her legs together and throw them open, lustful and wide. At the damn same time.

  Oh, Jesus…Fingers clawing into her thighs, she raised her eye to the only non-family wolf in the room.

  “Oh shit, Wilma,” Ford muttered in the distance. “Are you in fucking heat…?”

  She didn’t answer that question. Couldn’t answer that question.

  She stared at King Tikaani, her body tingling with the need to be fucked…to be bred. By any wolf who wasn’t related to her…even one she’d only met a few minutes ago.

  And as for Tikaani, he didn’t look so Eskimo Wally Cleaver now.

  His wolf glowed inside his formerly kind eyes, his teeth baring.

  Then he leapt at her across the table.

  14

  Myrna

  For the last three months, Myrna had done everything possible to become the perfect first lady. She’d studied with a culture teacher and trained with a media coach. A tutor came to her daily to teach her letters, new vocabulary, and all the English language basics Myrna could not have possibly learned with only one native speaker as her mother.

  Myrna did her best, even though her mother’s hodgepodge language had several confusing grammar structures and silent letters. There was also something called homophones, which meant thrown and throne sounded exactly the same, but meant two different things and were spelled two different ways, because “thrown” derived from old English while “throne” had been born in old Greek.

  In truth, it was a lot for her Old Norse brain to figure. And sometimes did she wish to throw the tablet she’d been given to make her homework upon across the room. But instead of destroying the demon thing, she continued to work hard on learning new words, and memorizing how they along with the ones she already knew were spelled. Her English teacher sympathized but told her she was lucky to have grown up the way she did, because her brain had not been rewired like most wolves her age.

  According to her English teacher, the majority of people in this era, human and wolf alike had become incapable of rote learning or deep memorization work after a certain age, including the English teacher herself. “I can’t actually learn much vocabulary anymore,” the English teacher admitted. “I can only look things up and download new skills and languages to my bioware.”

  Indeed, at times, Myrna thought acquiring one of these bioware systems might serve her better. However, Rafesson had informed her during one of their hologram breakfasts, that installing bioware in adult time travelers was still “under heavy investigation.” Therefore, his team had decided against submitting Myrna to such a contro
versial procedure while “the jury was still out.”

  Myrna had wondered why Rafesson and his team had made such a decision without so much as asking for her input. However, for once she did not say exactly the question that came to her mind, because in addition to all of her, media, culture, and English work, she was also being taught emotional intelligence. How to read something called “the room,” which indirectly translated to body language and common social cues. And Rafesson’s body language, even in hologram form told her that Rafesson remained unsure about whether he’d made the right decision in keeping Myrna, after she’d so embarrassed him with that fight on the Wolf House lawn.

  No, better to stay biddable, she decided and kept her eyes on her fruit, striking a demure pose. Opposite of the wild Viking princess The Joshua Tree had depicted her as the first day of Project Fair Lady.

  So, keeping that viral video in mind, she continued with all her lessons, both mental and physical. In between her many classes, she was required to learn quite a few ballroom dances which had little in common with the joyous reels she’d grown up with. Also, did she perform something called “working out” every day with a personal trainer named Em.

  Em was not a man who liked other men like The Joshua Tree. But Em claimed not to be a male or a female wolf, although at first appearance, Em looked even taller and more muscular than Myrna’s brother, Olafr and often sported the shadow of a beard at their early morning appointments.