“You think that because of Helen’s final experiment?”
“Yes.” Oriana lowered her hand to her lap. “Maybe you’re right about missing journals because I read nothing to explain why she thought it a good idea to cut off her arms and legs. We’ve read her archives, so we know she wasn’t insane, but she wound up killing herself and others in a dangerous experiment. I have no clue what she hoped to achieve.”
“I’ll reread her journals while you’re away. Maybe we missed something. Or I could go with you. Come on, don’t shake your head.”
“I won’t risk you getting bit by a Muraco. You know what’ll happen if you do.”
“Madness or death,” he droned, his voice lacking the seriousness the possibilities deserved.
“The saliva of a Muraco is more poisonous to black werewolves that metal. With my magic kiss, you’ll only get a rash and fever, but contact with the blood or saliva of a white werewolf will change you in ways I don’t want to think about.”
The prospect of her sweet Marrok turning feral, not because his bloodlust had been so great he’d pushed past the magic in his Silver Snare to attack a witch and drink her blood, but because a crazed Muraco took away his free will, brought out every protective instinct inside Oriana.
“I’ll be careful. I’m sure I can help you.”
“No.” Damn, she hadn’t meant the word to come out as a command but Marrok’s flared nostrils and slowed breaths confirmed he’d heard the unintended order. “I didn’t mean—”
He shoved his chair back, putting more than physical distance between them. “I get it.”
“You really don’t, and I don’t have time to argue.”
“We aren’t arguing. I said I get it.”
One of these days he’d learn how to coordinate his facial expressions to match his lies.
“I’m sorry for hurting you. I want our marriage to be one of equals. I’m trying my best, but it’s not easy because the kind of marriage I want us to have goes against everything I’ve seen and been raised to believe. You’re free to make your own decisions, Marrok, regardless of whether they conflict with my opinion and desires. At the same time, you need to know I’ll never shirk my duty.”
“As Matriarch and Crimson Hunter?”
“No, as your wife.”
Marrok knelt in front of her, naive in a way Oriana couldn’t remember ever being. Hands grasping hers, he brought them to his mouth and kissed. “You can’t stand between me and everything. That’s not how life works.”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Because Marrok was talking about more than him. “Keira is our daughter. I won’t hurt her. Ever. And I won’t have our son injected with a damn disrupter. I hate seeing you in that collar.”
Oriana refused to cry, but she couldn’t help the high pitch her voice had taken or the tremors running though her body. She wanted to sink into the strong arms Marrok wrapped around her, to give into the unacceptable because battling a tidal wave wasn’t a war any mortal could win.
Her life would be easier if she did. Except, it wouldn’t because she wouldn’t have Marrok and she wouldn’t have herself.
“You’re stubborn as shit.”
“I know.” A tear escaped. Two. Three. More. “I couldn’t bear it, if something happened to you. I’d kill every Muraco, if it meant keeping you safe.”
“That’s scarier than your stubbornness. I think I know how Tuncay felt, and why he ran into that burning room.”
“Because he loved Grandmother.”
Leaning back from Oriana, Marrok used the sleeve of his shirt to clean her face. “Yeah, that, but also because she’d spent years working her ass off to give Tuncay the same freedoms she’d had her entire life. I’m not blind, Oriana. I see the way your eyes fall to my collar, when you think I’m not paying attention. You’re guilty of nothing. You haven’t wronged me.”
She glanced down at his open shirt, rash redder after their magic kiss. “It’s not about personal wrongs but group oppression. We are both products of this society. But where it’s granted me power and privilege, it’s given you limitations and self-doubt. I may not have created this lopsided system, but I’ve benefitted from it more than most. If those in power aren’t willing to make personal sacrifices, to stop being so damn entitled and scared, then what hope is there for us?”
“Go slow to go fast.”
“You keep telling me that. But when is slow too slow?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do. It’s now. It’s the reason why we have fifteen hundred unaccounted-for werewolves without Rage Disrupters. I wish I could convince myself Mother won’t sanction their deaths, but I know she will. I also wish they only had their disrupters removed because they want to live in peace and not hurt anyone. But I know, we know, oppression breeds hatred, even in the most unlikely of places. We’re way past the point of going slow to go fast.”
“Where does that live us then?”
“With me tracking down as many Muraco as I can find, and with you researching anything that may help us. If Grandmother found something, maybe you can find it too.”
Oriana allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, when Marrok stood. She thought he’d say something about that being the same plan they’d had since the day they married, without her hunting Muraco, of course. Or that it had taken Helen decades to unearth whatever it was she’d figured out and that they had far less time than that.
But he didn’t. He only smiled down at her, his hands still holding hers. And there it was. Bold and bright and unapologetic.
His love.
His faith.
She cherished one but felt the underserved weight of the other.
“Be safe, Oriana. How can we make that son you keep talking about if you let those Muracos eat you?” Gathering her close, Marrok whispered into her ear. “I’m the only werewolf allowed to eat you. Remember that.”
Irongarde Realm
Iron Spire
“Just because it’s midday in Steelcross doesn’t mean it’s the same time here. You also don’t jump into your mother’s bedroom without warning.”
Oriana sat at the foot of Kalinda’s bed, smiling as her mother grumbled her way to full wakefulness. Considering what she had to tell Kalinda, Oriana should’ve been on her best behavior when approaching her mother at two in the morning. But the imp that still lived inside Oriana, reared her head and couldn’t help but do something that would irritate her mother. A short-sighted decision since she was there for a serious matter that wouldn’t leave either of them smiling.
Kalinda pushed up in bed, propping against her vintage, bamboo headboard. The nightstands matched the headboard. For all that Kalinda surrounded herself with steel and iron, not a single piece of furniture in her bedroom was crafted from either metal.
Until her marriage to Marrok, Oriana hadn’t understood her mother’s outward love of metals but personal preference for natural composite materials like bamboo and other true woods. Oriana surveyed the large bedroom, not that anything had changed since she’d last been in there. But the absence of metal reinforced a fact she’d come to learn about her mother.
“Why are you smiling at me?” Kalinda’s hand rose to her head, pushing back stray hairs that had come free of her loose ponytail. “I must look a fright.”
“No, you’re beautiful.”
Whatever self-consciousness that had momentarily gripped Kalinda seeped away with the narrowing of her eyes.
“Why are you here in the middle of the night? Since you’re still wearing a silly grin, I assume Keira is well.”
“She is. You should come for a visit.”
“Or you could’ve brought my granddaughter with you.” Kalinda’s eyes swept over her king-sized bed. “There’s plenty of room. Bring Keira to me tomorrow. She can stay until one of us tires of the other.”
Oriana grinned, but wanted to roll her eyes. “You’re warm-hearted beyond words, Mother.”
“Indeed, I am. Now, tell me what you�
��ve done or failed to do.”
Kicking off her shoes, Oriana pulled her legs onto the bed, sitting crossed legged and facing her mother’s outstretched legs. “When Marrok moved to Steelcross Skyrise, I had my suite redecorated.”
“I’m aware. I’ve been in your suite of rooms. Why are you telling me what I already know?”
A pointless stalling tactic, but one Oriana found amusing.
“Wood furniture. No metal.”
“Again, I know.”
Oriana pointed to the open bedroom door that led to the sitting area then to the bathroom to her left. “Your suite is also metal-free. You even have bamboo floors throughout.”
“Yes, I’m well acquainted with my living space. Are you planning on stepping down from the Matriarchy and taking up the glamorous position of interior decorator?”
Despite Kalinda’s haughty tone, Oriana heard the smile in her voice, although she wore a too-familiar scowl.
“I changed the furniture in my suite for Marrok’s comfort. Why did you change yours?”
Kalinda’s eyebrow quirked up, lips thinned, and hands pulled duvet tighter across her lap.
“Better question, why did you keep all of the bamboo and wood furniture after Father left? Oh, I have an even better question. Has Father been back in this room since the two of you—”
“Oriana!”
Kalinda’s embarrassed squeal got her attention and shut her up. Why had she decided to disturb her mother’s peace in the middle of the night instead of waiting for a more reasonable hour to have a conversation she hadn’t yet broached?
“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 both of our time and tell me what’s happened.”
When Kalinda crossed arms over her chest, not a sliver of softness coming from her, Oriana stretched out on the bed, resolved to her fate. She opened her mouth and shared every ugly detail. Oriana may have taken a playful detour when she’d arrived, but once she began speaking of the offline disrupters and missing Muraco, she delivered the news with the seriousness 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 and interest, even when the interest was feigned for Oriana’s benefit. Kalinda had a way of making Oriana feel valued, 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. Then another, and another still.
Kalinda said nothing, but magic sparked from hands curled into fists, threatening to set the duvet on fire. 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 while yelling, “I told you we weren’t ready, but you wouldn’t listen. You had to have things your way. Whoever dies or is hurt because of your idealism is your fault.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
“Stop saying that,” she snapped. Eyes opened, narrowed. Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Kalinda looked mad enough to break the 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 why 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 rift between witches and werewolves, but a scalding look from Kalinda had her swallowing her pride and closing her mouth.
“Be that as it may, that’s no excuse for what they’ve done. You know the penalty for such an act, and so do they. They did only enough to delay us finding out until the Muracos were settled and far away from here. They knew they’d 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 Oriana. She’d 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 wished to take Earth Rift.
“No one is a villain here, Oriana. 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 covered in dirt and tears. Kalinda had taken one look at Oriana and asked, “Did you get back on your stallion?” She’d wept out a shaky, “No. He’s too big for me.” Kalinda had stood from her desk, walked to a bleeding, shivering Oriana, and placed her hands on her shoulders, turning 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 hadn’t been her enemy. He’d only done what had come naturally to him when she’d tried to make him submit to her will. Eventually, she did ride the stallion. Kalinda hadn’t praised Oriana or even commented 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 had been 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.”
She 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. Like many others, she’d 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 with my granddaughter. We’ll speak then about how we’ll handle the Muracos.” 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. Make sure they learn it well.”
She stood there, beside her mother’s bed and in the dark. The stallion had truly been too big and wild for Oriana to handle, 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 a young 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 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 completed the directive I’ve
given.”
Oriana left, jumping through the ether of time and space, Kalinda’s command a cutting slash to the heart, a starburst of power she must accept, yield to, and follow-through with conviction.
Crimson Hunter, she’d called her, a reminder of Oriana’s duty. She would do her duty, as she always did. As she always would.
The residents of Bronze Ward are struggling, but it was to be expected. Few emotions, save love, is more powerful than hope. I’m hopeful. Tuncay is hopeful. The witches and werewolves of Bronze Ward are hopeful. 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’d move forward with a decision if short-term deficits resulted in long-term rewards. 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. There 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 her reign as Matriarch not to be burdened by 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.
The High Price of Leadership
April 15, 2243
Steelcross Realm
Promise Forever: Fairy Tales with a Modern Twist Page 44