“No survivors,” Kalinda had said. “We need to send a message to any witch or werewolf who think they can defy the Matriarchy.”
Bloodied and exhausted, Oriana led the charge, her cannons an endless boom welcoming the new day. When the sun crested the horizon, clouds bowing in its presence, the werewolves didn’t falter. The strength of the white moon magic still blazed in their veins, not dimmed by the slashes of red-and-gold in the morning sky.
The battle wasn’t yet over or won, but Oriana had failed, the rising sun her mother’s arbitrary deadline.
“Quellers of Eternal Struggles, retrieve. Harbingers of Terror, crumble. Whisperers of Echoes, entangle and retreat.”
Her sisters obeyed her command. Quellers of Eternal Struggles sent their magic outward. Photonic blasts of magic shriveled the bodies of their dead sisters, setting their ravaged souls free. Harbingers of Terror slammed their war hammers and maces onto the ground, shockwaves sending the white werewolves flying backward.
By the time the werewolves shook off the assault and charged the witches again, Whisperers of Echoes had the witches tethered by a multi-pronged lariat, a glowing yellow rope connected to one of their metal-magic weapons.
Snarling, muzzle covered in blood and flesh, claws the same, a black werewolf who shouldn’t be there slashed at Oriana. Shocked, she held up an arm, blocking the attack. But it wasn’t enough. Claws cut skin and iron, meeting magic and severing her left Ravager of the Lost cannon. She shot at him with her right hand, a blazing bullet of unfiltered sun magic to his left side.
Not a kill shot, the way it should’ve been. After what happened with . . . No, no, no, she wouldn’t think of him now. What in the hell was that black werewolf doing there? Not just there, not just trying to kill her, but without his Silver Snare collar.
She stumbled backward, eyes on the face of an enemy who shouldn’t have been an enemy at all. “Get us out of here, Whisperers.”
In a blink, they disappeared, entanglement magic transporting them from Wild Moor to Irongarde City. They crashed to the ground. Oriana stayed where she was, on her back, eyes opened but seeing nothing but her failure. Not the cityscape with glistening skyscrapers, the groaning witches around her, or even the sun too new in the sky to heal her wounds without magical help.
“Are you okay?” Solange, Captain of Crimson Guard and Oriana’s best friend, leaned over her, dark eyes scanning her face. “Except for that arm you let that werewolf damn near take off, you look fine. Unless my tired eyes were deceiving me, that black werewolf was—”
“Your eyes are fine, and I didn’t let him do anything. How bad is it?”
“It’s bleeding, nasty-looking, and probably hurts like hell, but it won’t kill you.
A fair assessment, especially the hurting like hell part.
Solange helped Oriana to her feet. “The battle isn’t over. Go see Matriarch Kalinda. We’ve lost too many sisters to the Muracos. I don’t want to lose any more.”
“Neither do I, but you know what she’ll do.”
Solange nodded, blood and sweat matting braids to her scalp. “Our hand was forced. We had no choice but to respond.”
Oriana had told herself the same, when he’d come after her, snapping, threatening, and breaking her heart. He’d forced her hand. Left her with no choice but to respond with violence. Those two sentences reverberated in her mind but never quite made it to her heart.
She shook her head, adrenaline seeping from a body that wouldn’t keep her upright much longer. “Why are our lives worth more than werewolves?”
“Because they’re our lives to protect and we choose not to be ravaged by werewolves who sometimes wear the faces of our beloveds.” Solange squeezed her uninjured hand, looked over her shoulder to their sisters, who were in various states of pain and disarray, and then back to her. “We’ll get each other up and to a healer. Don’t worry about us. Go see the Matriarch, so we can begin to put this day, and the ugly ones that preceded it, behind us. Are you planning on telling her about him?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“I always knew he was a bastard. But this . . .” She nodded to Oriana’s the deep claw marks that marred her arm, leaking magic and blood. “He’s not feral. But he fought with the Muracos. His Silver Snare didn’t even activate. Is it possible he found someone to remove it?”
“We both know of one witch who has done it before, and she’s still missing. I don’t know how their paths could’ve crossed, though, not that it matters.”
“I understand why you didn’t, but you’re going to regret not killing him when you had the chance.”
“Like me, he’s in mourning. He probably blames me for what happened. I didn’t get a chance to speak to him about the night of the attack. I wanted to do it in person, to explain what happened.”
“That’s no excuse for siding with the Muracos.”
“I know.” Standing in the middle of the street surrounded by buildings so tall the morning fog covered the first ten floors, the last thing Oriana wanted to do was talk about another problem that would likely end in more violence and bloodshed.
Solange nodded to Oriana’s arm. “Take care of that before you see Keira, or she’ll have nightmares. Hell, we’ll all have nightmares after today.”
Oriana hugged her friend. “You were great today. Thank you for a safe jump back here.”
“It’s what we Whisperers do.”
They’d lost too many witches during a single twenty-four-hour period. Kalinda would hold a mass funeral, but that would come later. Solange was right, she needed to see Kalinda, not because her mother would deign to leave her iron fortress to come looking for Oriana, but because she’d failed her mission. Her failure had given Kalinda the excuse, meager as it was, to destroy Janus Nether and, with it, a reminder to werewolves of who would always rule Earth Rift.
Witches.
An hour later, Kalinda had extinguished the only shining light in Irongarde Realm. A symbol. A beacon of hope. Oriana’s dream for a better Earth Rift.
“You need to have that arm examined and fixed. I’ll call my healer.”
Oriana sat across from Kalinda in her mother’s dining room, the living quarter comprising the entire top floor of Iron Spire, the Matriarch of Irongarde’s fortress home. An empty pitcher of water had been placed in front of her, a half-filled glass to her right, and platters of food in the center of the table. She’d downed every drop of water, but couldn’t stomach the thought of eating, especially not meat after seeing what the werewolves had done to her sisters.
“What do they heal?” Oriana pointed to the glass and metal walls around them. “They’ve built everything in this iron city, including our arms. Tell me, Mother, what is left of us that is still human? Certainly not our hearts.”
“We’re witches.”
Eyes that had never reminded Oriana of her own, despite what everyone said, looked at her with such annoyance she knew her mother only understood love through the prism of power never from self-sacrifice and vulnerability.
“What I did today saved us all. You were too soft-hearted to make the hard decision, so I made it for both of us.”
Fork in hand, Oriana pushed around the cut fruit on her plate. Feeding her body would help expedite the healing process. She placed the fork down. “You think me weak because I refused to be the kind of matriarch who would unleash her ultimate power on cities of innocents.”
In the short time available to them, they hadn’t been able to evacuate everyone from Janus Nether’s three cities. How many stayed, either because they missed the last scheduled transporter run or didn’t leave because they hadn’t known they were in danger?
She also hadn’t fought the black werewolf as hard as she should’ve, blocking instead of attacking.
“You’re my child, I know you aren’t weak.” Kalinda’s eyes softened, so too did her lips, reminding Oriana how beautiful her mother was . . . on the outside. Her oval face, a lustrous dark-brown, a shade darker than hai
r pulled taut in a bun, radiated a youthfulness that belied her sixty years. “You’re sentimental, kind-hearted, and a dreamer. If we lived someplace else, perhaps on a planet where our magical blood, our very essence, didn’t drive our males to madness then your idealism would rival my practicality and ruthlessness.” Kalinda stood, walked around the table, and sat beside Oriana. “He would’ve killed you.”
“I don’t want to talk about that night.”
“It’s only been a couple of days, so that’s understandable. But I’ll tell you a thousand times, whether you want to hear it or not. He would’ve killed you.”
The hand on the table rose to her cheek. The same hand that stroked her face so tenderly had cast down Armageddon on not only the City of Wild Moor but on all of Janus Nether.
“It does you no good to dwell on the past, punishing yourself for acting on the most primal of instincts—survival. If you hadn’t, you and Keira wouldn’t be here. You can’t possibly regret trading your daughter’s life for his.”
Her mother had a way of condensing emotions into binary categories—desire or disgust, hope or dread, joy or grief, love or hate.
“After this is done, I’m returning to Steelcross with Keira.”
Kalinda’s hand dropped to her lap, her face hardening into an emotionless mask Oriana knew well.
Standing, Oriana gripped the edge of the table to keep herself from falling face first to the floor. When steady, she caught her mother’s gaze. Except for the crease between her brows, her countenance remained unchanged.
“I’ll take care of the surviving Muracos before Keira and I return home.”
“I thought we’d gotten past our argument from the other day. “Don’t punish me by staying away and keeping my only grandchild from me.”
At that, Kalinda’s expression altered, as did her voice, breaking at the end. The hard Matriarch was gone, leaving behind a mother and grandmother afraid of being alone and lonely in her iron tower of obedience and magic.
Oriana didn’t know how she felt about her mother. Weariness and grief prevented her from discerning truths from lies. Perhaps they were all lies and only one truth—Kalinda’s love for her family and Earth Rift. Or maybe Oriana only thought them lies because, sometimes, truths were harder on the digestive system than deceptions.
“I’ve been up all night. I’m going to bed.”
Oriana exited the dining room, taking the lift to her suite one level below. Rarely at a loss for words, Kalinda had said nothing, for which Oriana didn’t know whether she should be relieved or concerned. Probably concerned she’d concluded, after showering and dressing. Making sure to wear long sleeves so as not to frighten Keira, she slipped into her queen-sized bed with her daughter.
When she did, Keira scooted closer, snuggling against Oriana’s chest, her warm breaths humbling wisps of innocence she cherished more than the magic and steel that had saved their lives.
“Mommy.” Her two-year-old’s low, groggy voice twisted Oriana’s heart. Keira’s eyes were closed, and she wasn’t fully awake. Oriana had almost lost her daughter. Keira’s physical injuries were gone, thanks to Kalinda’s personal healer, but magic couldn’t mend all wounds.
“I’m here. You’re safe.” The same words she’d spoken two nights ago, blood decorating her suite in Steelrise, an unmoving werewolf at Oriana’s feet.
Oriana kissed Keira’s forehead, feeling more like a mother and less like the Crimson Hunter and Matriarch of Steelcross. Yet, she was all three, her roles in society decreed into law.
She was Blood of the Sun.
Blood of the Sun Decree #174
August 1, 2237
By Matriarchal decree, the wearing of Silver Snares
is no longer mandated within the
Clan of the Black Moon’s territory of Janus Nether.
Kalinda, Matriarch of Irongarde
Oriana, Matriarch of Steelcross
Armageddon
May 25, 2240
Irongarde Realm
City of Wild Moor
Zev grabbed the pitcher of gold, frothy liquid the waitress delivered to their booth, drinking it down in hungry, greedy gulps.
“Come on, asshole, that’s supposed to be for all of us.”
One hand holding the pitcher to his mouth, he finished off the draft while using his other hand to flip-off his youngest brother. Once done, he slammed the empty pitcher onto the table with a force that left a crack running from the bottom up to the side. “I’m not the asshole. You are.” Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Zev glanced around the bar, searching for the waitress. He saw a lot of people, mainly werewolves but there was a fair share of witches in there too—slumming with the dogs.
He growled, turning back to his brothers who gaped at him like the animal they all were. “I’m not the asshole,” he said to Marrok again, pointing his finger at him from across the table.
“Oh, I’m the asshole? You’re the one who's been in a foul mood since we got here, and I told you guys the good news. You don’t see Alarick freaking out. He’s happy for me, aren’t you?”
Zev and Marrok looked at Alarick, who hadn’t said a word since Marrok dropped his bomb on the brothers.
Good news my hairy ass.
“Just because I’m the middle brother that doesn’t mean I always like being in the middle of the bullshit that flows between the two of you. Leave me out of it. Zev, if Marrok wants to bond himself to a witch, it’s none of our business. Marrok, you know how Zev feels about the kind of witch-werewolf union you just dropped on us, so stop acting like you’re surprised. All I want is a damn beer and a quiet night. It seems I can’t get either because of you two assholes.”
Zev punched Alarick in his shoulder, harder than he should’ve but not as hard as the sense he wanted to knock into Marrok. “You always say shit like that. Stop trying to have it both ways. Either be a mediator or not.” He jabbed his finger at Marrok again. “Tell you what, give Alarick your balls since you won’t be needing them. Or,” he said, wondering what in the hell a werewolf had to do to get another pitcher of beer, “are you planning on gifting them to Oriana the night she screws you into submission and puts a dog collar on you?”
“Too far.” Alarick slipped off the booth seat, crawled under the table, coming out on the other side. He walked away, tall and broad-shouldered like Zev.
“I’m going to kick your ass.” Marrok stood, the tips of his fingernails lengthening, a speck of white fang peeking through his mouth.
Zev propped his arm against the back of the booth. Now that Alarick had made his usual escape, he had more leg and arm room. Now, if only that cute full-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 screw her in a stall of the ladies’ room. With a full-human, at least, he didn’t have to wear a goddamn collar, not that he would ever wear one again.
“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 collar, whenever you want to touch her?”
“Oriana is the reason why we don’t have to wear the collars inside of Janus Nether.”
A cheer went up in the bar, and Zev didn’t care enough to want to know what had everyone so excited. Maybe a game but more likely a brawl. He could get off on a fight right about now. Yeah, they had Janus Nether, a three-city region between Irongarde to the south, Steelcross to the north, and two human realms to the east and west.
Zev preferred rustic and rural to iron and steel. But no werewolf dared to live so far from the metropolitan areas, so far from the sweet smell and taste of witches. Even if he screwed a hundred full-humans, none of them would satisfy the cravings of a werewolf the way his biological counterpart could. In that vein, and only in that vein, did Zev 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.
As long as they had those damn disrupters in their heads, triggered to magically release the collars whenever werewolves ventured into collar-mandated territories or became violent, he would continue to view the decree as an invisible leash, not a progressive policy witches and too many werewolves touted it as being. Werewolves like his naïve brother.
“It’s inevitable, you know? You can’t fight the urges. It’s who we are.”
“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 both hands. 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 for a pitcher, pouring himself a mug of beer instead of draining it like it was a tap. He wasn’t trying to piss Marrok off this time, so he acted the role of a civilized werewolf, even sliding over so Alarick could sit on the end of the booth. 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 . . .” Both brothers shot him 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 sat, his lean frame knocking into the table and spilling some of the beer from the overflowing pitcher. If his brothers didn’t plan on drinking it, he’d take it off their hands. “We love each other. That’s all we need to make it work.”
Promise Forever: Fairy Tales with a Modern Twist Page 34