“You probably dropped it, or had it snatched. The clinic you went to wasn’t in the best neighborhood. You know, a lot of unsavory people.”
“Yeah, unsavory, like you. Anyway, I’m going home.”
“You can’t.”
“Yeah, I can. My brother, Alarick, knows I came here and why. He didn’t want to know, but I told him anyway. I’ve already been gone too long and, without my comm, they haven’t been able to contact me.”
She’d considered jumping him to and from Wild Moor, ensuring his return to the warehouse. In the end, she’d permitted him to go alone, taking Magerun back to Wild Moor as he’d planned to do before she’d taken him hostage.
“I’m in,” he’d said, wearing a deceptively innocent werewolf-next-door grin. “I’ll be back. When I do, I’ll have a list of the best areas in Janus Nether’s three cities to attack. Places with a lot of strong but young werewolves—mainly high school and college kids. They won’t put up as much resistance as older, more experienced werewolves.”
Oddly enough, when she’d watched Zev slip through the steel gate enclosing the complex, a middle finger his classy goodbye, Bhavari sensed she could trust him to return when he said he would. If for no other reason than the fact that Zev of Wild Moor was the biggest asshole she’d ever met with delusions of grandeur. He thought the world owed him and werewolves something they shouldn’t have to work to earn.
Like trust, faith, and power.
Bhavari slid down the wall, knees pulled to her chest, and arms wrapped around her legs. Dropping her forehead to her knees, she fought the tremors threatening but couldn’t prevent her tears from falling. They were gone. She had no proof. The warehouse was a big, storage space, solar powered but without the conveniences of a home or business. Bedrolls, ready-to-eat meals, and bottled water, those were in great supply. The witch Bhavari and Abelone should’ve known better than to trust had convinced them to use the military surplus warehouse to hide the Muracos.
“Our goal is the same,” she’d told them.
Bhavari had no idea how she’d learned of their plan to free the Muracos, but she had, jumping into their home one morning as if invited.
“You’re thinking too small, though. Five hundred won’t make the statement you want. You need to think bigger. Much bigger.”
“How big?” Abelone had asked in the same mollifying tone she used with agitated Muracos, careful not to escalate the situation and set the werewolf off even more. “Let’s sit and talk about your plan.”
What had begun as their plan had shifted into her plan long before she’d appeared in their living room.
“You know the penalty for this kind of crime is death. I assume your group is willing to pay the price for their beliefs. Are they true witches, committed to the Matriarchy and maintaining our way of life? Are you, Abelone?”
Whatever apprehension Abelone had initially felt at having their plan discovered bled away with the questioning of her witch loyalty to the Matriarchy.
“I’m committed,” Abelone had assured, placing the palm of her right hand over her heart. “We’re committed. That’s why we’re doing this. Opening of Steelburgh, approving a collar-free Janus Nether, bestowing a sun title on a werewolf, each action is a rollback, a slippery slope that could once again have witches under the claws and fangs of werewolves. Those were dark times for witches.”
“They were indeed.”
The witch had toyed with the teacup Bhavari had given her. She’d used the offer as an excuse to escape into the kitchen to compose herself. What she’d added to her and Abelone’s teacups included something much stronger than white tea.
“I applaud your loyalty. Matriarch Oriana will come to see your actions and sacrifice as patriotism at its finest.”
Bhavari, Abelone, and the others may have resigned themselves to their fate . . . their death but having a witch outside of their sacred group give voice to their heartbreaking decision, with the bored casualness of ordering dessert, left Bhavari cold but Abelone inspired.
“What about Crimson Hunter?” Bhavari had asked, as if she were speaking of a witch other than Matriarch Oriana.
“The Crimson Hunter will do what she must. That cannot be stopped. You’ll break planetary law, commit treason. Both warrants action by the Crimson Hunter. She’ll be duty-bound to reestablish control of the Muracos, whether that means returning them to Steelburgh or killing them.”
What had gone unsaid was that there was no option other than death for the witches. The Crimson Hunter wouldn’t cart them off to jail, after using a healer like Bhavari to inject them with a metal hardening serum, effectively preventing them from channeling magic. Bhavari had performed the procedure before on witches sentenced to that punishment. She’d never questioned the rightness of the procedure. After all, adjudicators only cast down that penalty on the most reprehensible of witch criminals.
For witches, that was a fate worse than death. As Bhavari cried herself dry, head aching but not as painfully as her heart, she’d trade a magicless existence for one with Abelone by her side.
“You go first,” Abelone had told her. “We can’t all disappear at the same time. Captain of the Guard needs to be distracted. She won’t be if we all go with you to the warehouse.”
“But . . .” Bhavari had sputtered, gut churning at the prospect of leaving Abelone and dealing with the Muracos on her own. “Come with me.”
The smile she so loved transformed Abelone from a world-weary soldier to an idealistic revolutionary. Bhavari should’ve known she’d never see Abelone and the others again. But she so wanted to believe Abelone’s lie, was desperate to ignore every reason their plan, even before the other witch’s involvement, could succeed and they not die along with the Muraco.
No matter how many times Abelone had tried to prepare Bhavari for the fate that awaited them at the end of Matriarch Oriana’s Ravagers of the Lost cannons, she still never quite accepted it as inevitable. She hadn’t been a naïve girl in decades, but she’d acted the part the past few months and days, holding onto a self-imposed delusion.
Falling to her side, Bhavari had no more tears to shed. Now that she’d stopped weeping, her mind no longer on what she’d lost or even what she had to do but on how she could make the Matriarchy pay for taking away Abelone, a warmth suffused her body.
With Abelone gone, she had no reason to continue with the Muraco plan. Zev could do whatever in the hell he wanted with the white werewolves. Whether they listened to or had him for dinner, Bhavari didn’t care. The Muraco wouldn’t stay confined to the warehouse much longer. Eventually, they’d leave the protective magic enclosure to go hunting. Once they did, the full-humans and witches would demand action from the Matriarchy. By the time all the Muraco were rounded-up or killed, the damage to Matriarch Oriana’s push to elevate werewolves’ standing in society would be as dead as her wife and friends.
Shuffling to her feet, long, dark hair falling into her face, she pushed it back, wishing her hands were Abelone’s. A sob tore through her, unexpected and raw. Muracos sounded behind the closed door--raucous as usual. She despised every single one of them. But not as much as she did Matriarch Kalinda.
Bhavari couldn’t even blame Matriarch Oriana for her wife’s death. Well, she did because it would’ve been the Crimson Hunter who’d executed the death orders, but she would’ve only done so on the directive of Matriarch Kalinda.
Wiping her face clean with the sleeve of her shirt, Bhavari twisted her hair in a knot, turned toward the door, and didn’t venture out until she’d composed herself. She probably still looked like what she was, when she flung open the door, a grieving widow, but time was at a premium. She had a small window of opportunity to act. Zev was slated to return in a few days. She could work around Zev but the risk of him finding out was too high.
No, she’d get it done while she had the Muracos to herself. If she succeeded, Abelone wouldn’t have died in vain. Bhavari lost the love of her life. It was only fair Matriarch Kalind
a also lose the person she most loved.
Scanning the open room, Muracos lounging everywhere, she searched for her accomplices. She’d have the element of surprise, but there wouldn’t be another chance if she failed.
A crowd formed around three fighting Muraco. Her hellacious day wouldn’t be complete without a damn werewolf fight.
They ripped into each other—strong and vicious. Barbarians.
She found her accomplices.
April 24, 2243
Steelcross Realm
Steelcross Skyrise
“Did Zev say where he’d been and why he didn’t return anyone’s call?”
Oriana kept her voice low, speaking over their toddler who slept on the bed between them. Back pressed to Oriana’s chest, she held Keira around her waist. The sight of mother and daughter always tugged at Marrok’s heart and brought a smile to his face.
When Keira was an infant, he could see so much of Oriana in her but little of himself. As she grew, passing her one-year milestone, she still didn’t favor him, but he’d begun to see traces of his mother Lita in his daughter. To his surprise, that revelation didn’t bother him the way it would’ve before Lita’s declaration of love. Since he’d married, Lita had begun to reach out to him. But not only him, to his brothers and father, as well. Alarick and Io had been receptive, especially Io who smiled more these days. Zev, on the other hand, had ignored Lita’s overtures, claiming, “I’m a grown damn werewolf. I don’t need a mother.” Thankfully, he’d only said that to Marrok and Alarick.
None of it mattered as much as Marrok wished it could. The problems that prompted Lita to go away and stay away hadn’t changed. Nothing would work for witch-werewolf families until they figured out how to get a handle on werewolves’ magic lust. He and Oriana had been circling their theory, neither knowing quite what to do with their suppositions. But, after what happened at Steelburgh and Elio Desert, they needed to take action sooner rather than later. Yet, there were the thirteen hundred plus Muracos still unaccounted-for. Capturing them took precedence.
“He didn’t tell me where he’d run off to, but I think Alarick knows. Zev claims he lost his comm phone.”
“You sound like you don’t believe him.”
“I’m not saying he lied but . . . Okay, yeah, I think he lied. If not an outright lie, he’s definitely keeping something from me.”
“Maybe your brother has a girlfriend he doesn’t want anyone knowing about.”
“No, that’s Alarick’s thing. I have no idea why he and Solange are acting like they aren’t doing more than screwing around.” Crossing the small divide between them, Marrok kissed his daughter’s forehead then his wife’s lips. “Hmm, you taste good.”
“So do you.” Oriana pulled back, leaving him wanting more.
They hadn’t made love since her battle with the witches. She claimed she was “feeling better,” while Marrok argued they should “take it slow.” While Oriana did seem mostly back to normal, her ordeal hadn’t only been physical.
“Stop looking at me like that. I told you I’m fine.”
“I know what you said. I also know what I see.”
Oriana rolled off the bed, her black, strapless tie front dress a temptation as well as a reminder of where she had to go when she should be sleeping next to him.
Careful so she wouldn’t wake Keira, Oriana picked up their daughter, exiting through the door that adjoined their room to Keira’s. When she returned, Oriana sat beside him on the bed instead of rejoining him in it.
Marrok sat up, naked except for a pair of navy sweatpants. “It’s not good for you to keep it bottled inside. Talk to me.” Sliding his hand over top of hers, he gentled his voice even more. “Please, talk to me.”
As she’d done in the limo, before jumping them to Elio Desert, Oriana lowered her head. He hoped she would open up to him, that she would accept his comfort. For Marrok, loving and supporting his family was what it meant to be Cyrus of Steelcross. He had no desire to rule, to have millions of people’s lives impacted by his actions. He’d tried, especially when Oriana had spent days in bed, to be the kind of co-ruler he thought she wanted him to be.
But he’d forgotten what she’d told him on their wedding night. “Cyrus of Steelcross is a title with no ascribed meaning, Marrok. I won’t dictate what kind of consort you’ll be. I won’t be commanded by you, and I don’t expect for you to be commanded by me because I’m Matriarch of Steelcross. That’s why I’ll never physically mark you. Human couples wear wedding rings as symbols of their union. I don’t wish to imitate them. We require no symbols but if you need one, you have the new title. Define it as you will.”
Before and after their marriage, Marrok had watched Oriana struggle with balancing the expectations of her witch sisters, with the moral weight of what it would mean for her to turn a blind eye to the systematic oppression of werewolves. To fully embrace equity and equality, she risked upending a thousand plus old system that made Earth Rift a force to be reckoned with in their solar system. That level of responsibility, of grief and guilt, like what his silent wife felt, wasn’t an experience anyone who hadn’t lived it could understand.
“I do what I must.’’ She lifted her head, eyes shiny but tears held at bay. “They died for their beliefs while I killed to uphold a law that supports the very government they opposed. What makes it all so much worse is that, when it comes to our daughter, I’m willing to break the law I’m sworn to obey and enforce.”
Yeah, this wouldn’t do. Marrok grabbed Oriana’s shoulders, shaking her a little to make sure he had her attention. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s bullshit. You wanting to spare Keira pain by allowing a so-called healer to shove a needle full of liquid steel into her arm won’t hurt anyone. Those Crimson Guards and the others released over a thousand Muracos knowing innocents would die. It’s one thing to fight for your belief, to oppose the government’s rules, but it’s something entirely different to deliberately hurt people in your pursuit to make a damn political statement.”
“But—”
“No, Oriana. I won’t sit here and listen to you beat yourself up about taking steps to give werewolves a modicum of dignity and respect. You aren’t the Matriarch of only witches.”
“But you were the one who told me to go slow to go fast.”
Relaxing his hold on his wife, Marrok kept his hands where they were, thumbs stroking the points of her shoulders. “Yeah, and I still believe that to be the best strategy. But that doesn’t mean you have to move at a sloth’s pace. Change is hard. For some people, no matter the speed of change, it will always be too fast, too soon because they disagree with the new way of doing things.”
Oriana blinked, her gaze fixed on his. He could see her processing his words, her face less expressive than his but she made no attempt to conceal her feelings.
“I know killing in the name of judicial punishment is part of being Crimson Hunter you do because it’s a necessary evil. I don’t expect you to feel good about taking a life-werewolf, full-human, or witch.” A hand lowered to her chest and over her heart, a soft thudding he could hear, if he concentrated. “I hate to see you upset, but it’s also a good sign that what’s in here is working as it should. You have the right moral compass. A conscience. You value life. Sometimes, to protect the many, you have to punish the few. Other times, to protect the few, you have to challenge the many.”
With his other hand, Marrok pulled Oriana to him. She didn’t cry, but she did burrow her forehead into his neck. Yeah, he’d be this kind of Cyrus of Steelcross. Oriana didn’t require a co-ruler of Steelcross. What she needed was a life partner. The same as Marrok. Their marriage was still young. They’d learn how to ask for what they wanted and needed, trusting the other person not to take advantage of their open vulnerability.
A warm wisp of breath slid across his neck. “Thank you. You always know what I need to hear.” The wisps came again, followed by even warmer lips. “I love you. Need you. Want you.”
&nbs
p; “Want me?” Leaning back, Marrok quirked an eyebrow. “Want me? Like now? Yeah, I can go for that.”
As he’d hoped, Oriana laughed. “I tell you I love you, and all you hear is the word want.”
“Ah, yeah, pretty much that. Love is great, but sex is forever.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the other way around.”
Up went his other eyebrow. “Sex is great, but love is forever? Nah, you got it all wrong.” Marrok kissed Oriana, keeping it light and shallow. No need getting himself all worked up for nothing. Even if she were up for messing around, her mother was expecting her. The sooner Oriana left for Irongarde, the sooner she’d return. When she did, he’d kiss and lick every delectable inch of her before letting her treat him like the stallion she enjoyed riding.
“Wait up for me?” Oriana eased off the bed, found her sandals on the other side, and then slipped them on. “I promise not to be too long.”
She’d be longer than she intended. Kalinda would draw out the meeting, for no other reason than to spend more time alone with Oriana. He’d never met a more loving and devoted yet subtly controlling mother than Kalinda.
“I’ll do my best to stay awake. But if I fall asleep, wake me when you get back.”
“For sex?”
He did like the way she said that, a shy question undergirded by eyes that swept his bare upper body before settling on his lap.
Oriana crawled on the bed, a sensual witch predator on hands and knees. Across his lap she went, dress pulled up to her thighs, lips on his. “I want to have sex with you in your Bleddyn form.”
Marrok sputtered, but Oriana didn’t retreat, neither physically nor from her suggestion.
“Is it so shocking?”
“Ah, n-no. It’s, well, we haven’t talked about it.”
“But you want to?”
His sudden erection, which she had to feel, if her knowing smile was a clue, answered her question, so he didn’t bother playing her game.
Promise Forever: Fairy Tales with a Modern Twist Page 48