His daughter was safe, an odd thought to have, but it had come to him the moment he’d seen her peacefully sleeping form. Of course, she was safe. Why wouldn’t she be?
Marrok backed away from the adjoining door, pulling it forward but not closing it, something he and Oriana never did when they weren’t having sex, both hypervigilant about not being caught by their walking, talking toddler.
Hand on the knob, his werewolf instinct growled at him to close and lock the door, to keep his young safe, to defend her to the death.
Marrok spun around, heart racing, hackles rising. What in the hell was wrong with him? He was alone in the suite. Oriana wouldn’t return for another thirty or more minutes, depending on how long Kalinda chose to drag out their meeting.
So, yeah, Marrok was alone. But he’d sworn he’d sensed something. Magic? Living in a skyrise of witches, he’d become adept at catching wisps of their magic. It hung in the air like scented perfume—invisible but there. Yet this felt different. The way the hairs on his arms and nape rose, triggering the elongation of his fingernails into claws and eyeteeth into fangs, Marrok readied himself.
For what, he did not know.
Io had raised three werewolves, Marrok the youngest. Werewolves may not have the best track record with their witch daughters, but they were great fathers to their werewolf sons. Trusting his instincts was one of many lessons Marrok had learned from Io.
Planting himself in front of his daughter’s door, Marrok waited. Eyes keen, ears sharp, Marrok positioned himself in a fighting stance—feet staggered and placed wider than his hips, abdominal muscles tight, right arm in front of his body, the first line of defense or offense, depending on the enemy. Keeping his chin down, as if an opponent stood before him, primed to strike and take him down, Marrok gritted his teeth.
If Oriana found him like this, more animal than man, body shivering and blood congealing, she might reconsider the prudence of having sex with his Bleddyn. More likely, though, she’d take one look at Marrok, shake her head at his dramatics, and wrap herself around him until the touch and scent of her calmed him.
But Oriana wasn’t there, and Marrok damn sure wasn’t calm.
The scent of magic tickled his nose, the smell stronger than his sense of foreboding had been. Marrok shifted, not giving himself time to question or doubt what his werewolf instincts knew to be true.
Bones snapped.
Clothes ripped.
Muscles lengthened, skin expanded, hair grew and thickened, covering his body in smooth, black fur. Senses enhanced and on full alert, Marrok heard and smelled what neared. Not from the suite door from the hallway or from Keira’s room behind him. But from a supernatural highway created by witches for their personal use, a magic-fueled Magerun transporter system that didn’t adhere to the physics of time and space.
He knew the signs well now, and only Oriana had ever magically jumped directly into their suite. The magic signature he detected in the air didn’t belong to his wife.
A pink cloud of mist and magic formed in his bedroom, near the door leading to the sitting area. One, two, three Muracos emerged from the magic mist. Flanked by the white werewolves, a slender woman with long, dark hair stared at Marrok, dark eyes wide, mouth slightly parted.
Her gaze cut to the empty rumpled bed, and her mouth fell open even more.
Her scent betrayed the balls it had taken to jump, even with three Muracos at her back, into the Crimson Hunter’s personal bedroom.
Marrok growled. The witch thought she’d catch Oriana unaware. Asleep and vulnerable for an attack by three big ass, salivating Muracos. Instead, she’d gotten Marrok--a pissed-off black werewolf who neither appreciated the invasion of his territory nor the planned attack on his family.
The Muracos charged.
The witch disappeared.
And Marrok closed his daughter’s door, shoving a heavy armoire in front of it.
The first Muraco slammed into him, jaws snapping. Evading his teeth, Marrok countered, slashing out with a hard paw across the Muraco’s face.
The blow landed, slicing snout and left eye. Marrok struck out again, going for the same side. Claws dug into the left side of the Muraco’s face, gouging his eye from the socket.
The Muraco howled, countering with a slash to Marrok’s midsection, cutting him open and drawing blood.
Marrok lunged at the half-blind Muraco. If he could disable one of them, his odds of surviving the battle would increase. He had to go the distance. Marrok had to make sure he stayed the focus of their attention and not the little witch in the room next door. Keira would not become a meal for these white werewolf bastards.
He ripped into the closest Muraco, going straight for his throat and clamping down. His collar, which hummed with magic the moment Marrok locked gazes with the black-haired witch, pulsated with the power of its magic emission. Dammit, not now.
Marrok had never enjoyed wearing his collar, but he’d adjusted to the inevitability of it. On any other day, he could ignore its limitations, pretend the restrictions weren’t a physical and psychological form of external control.
Blood flooded his mouth, and Marrok fought the werewolf under him as much as he did the Rage Disrupter.
The other two Muracos crashed into him, their claws scoring his back and hindlegs.
Marrok bellowed on the inside but refused to release the Muraco. Claws buried deep in the Muraco’s chest, Marrok used the big bastard’s body for leverage, yanking at his throat and ripping it out.
One of the other two Muracos bit into him, and Marrok scrambled away. Shit, he was bleeding, jagged cuts open and spilling blood everywhere. His collar pumped even more magic into him, working hard to dull the razor-sharp edge of his anger.
He shook his head, ears alert and muzzle wet from blood. He could hear Keira moving around in the other room, the fight having awoken her. If he could hear her, smell her, so could the Muracos.
Marrok went on the attack, driving his body into the nearest Muraco. They fell over a nightstand, breaking the wood and knocking into the bed as they fought.
The Muraco clamped down onto his shoulder, biting into bones, ligaments, and veins. Marrok grunted but countered. Arm wedged between their bodies, Marrok opened his hand wide, curled his fingers, and grabbed his muscular stomach, twisting his claws and yanking with all his might.
The mouth on his shoulder loosened but didn’t release Marrok, so he stabbed the open wound, shoving as much of his hand as he could fit into the hole he’d made. That got the piece of shit white werewolf the hell off him.
Keira began to cry.
Marrok fought harder. His daughter was tall enough to reach the doorknob and knew how to use it. More, she had a habit of leaving her bed and room and coming into Marrok and Oriana’s. That was how she’d come to be in their bed before Oriana had left for Irongarde.
Marrok felt weak, his adrenalin and strength abandoning him the longer the Rage Disrupter’s magic assaulted his central nervous system. How in the hell did black werewolves push past the magic attack to become a white werewolf? They must’ve been damned determined, must’ve craved the kill and the blood more than they valued their mind and heart.
He shoved the Muraco off him, only to be slammed back to the floor by the other one. Claws raked down his back. A waterfall of blood followed.
Keira’s cries grew louder, intensifying into screams and, no, no, no, he could hear her at the door, jiggling the doorknob.
As if controlled by a puppeteer, the Muracos left Marrok, their strings pulling them away from him and toward his daughter. The armoire, a temporary stop gap, wouldn’t do much to keep them on this side of the door.
Seconds. That’s all Marrok had.
He wouldn’t make it out of this fight. He’d been bitten too many times by the Muracos, tasted their blood, swallowed it. Gone. It was all gone. His untainted blood. His life. His future with Oriana and Keira. Gone.
No more playful banter and magic-laced kisses. No more declarati
ons of love and conversations at midnight. No more tight hugs and gentle caresses.
Marrok struggled to his feet, woozy, muddle-headed. He felt too hot, too heavy, too . . .
He rushed the Murcaos, tackling one but missing the other. With a strength and rage he’d never known, Marrok ripped into the downed Muraco, slashing over and again. Claws arced and blood spurted, splashing his fur in gooey spots of crimson and flesh.
Wood crunched behind him, pieces of the armoire breaking off and flying across the room. For a second, he cared about nothing but the kill. Nothing but showing the Muraco his insides, one brutal cut at a time. He’d come into his home to murder his wife. No, that shit wasn’t how it worked.
He deserved to die. They all deserved to die, and Marrok would send their asses to hell. He ravaged the Muraco’s throat, gnashing his teeth together and pulling until the bastard stopped mewling and twitching underneath him.
He reveled in the kill, the Rage Disrupter muted chatter he happily ignored. Yes, the collar’s magic had ebbed, retreating like a defeated tide, Marrok’s shore of a werewolf body the undisputed winner.
Raw power surged through Marrok, like lightning breaking from the clouds, sharp cracks heralding its arrival and might. He roared and roared and roared, the sound savage in its depth of intensity—rusted chains broken and stomped to dust.
Free. Emancipated. Yes.
Marrok roared again smashing his hand into the dead werewolf’s face, ripping the lower jaw and hurling it against a wall.
Freedom had never tasted so good. Tasted so—
Keira screamed. But it sounded differently this time. It hadn’t been the scream of a child frustrated with being ignored by her parents. Not the scream that followed tears but held no true weight. Nor had it been the kind of scream preceding a fall or scrape.
Marrok bolted to his feet. He knew all his daughter’s screams. Every. Single. One. And he’d never heard the sounds coming from her—abject terror.
He had to protect her. Had to—
The Muraco had already removed the single barrier to Keira’s room. Bits and pieces of the armoire were everywhere, as was the adjoining door—pointy shards of a father’s devolution into madness. No, he had to keep it together a little longer. But the Muraco was stalking forward, claws glistening with Marrok’s blood, powerful legs taking him ever closer to his shrieking child.
Marrok ran as fast as he could but no, no, no, he wouldn’t reach Keira in time.
Leaping forward but knowing he was too far away to stop the inevitable, Marrok put all his power and strength behind his jump, his trajectory true but his reaction far too late.
Keira didn’t so much as screech as she gagged on her fear, choking and trembling, eyes wide with a comprehension no toddler should ever know—her mortality.
The Muraco reached for Keira, her bobbing throat his target.
Bam. Bam..
Marrok ducked, dove, and landed beside Keira. Covering her suddenly quiet body with his, he shielded her from the gunfire above him.
Bam.
“He’s down. Cornered but not dead yet.”
Marrok recognized the voice, the scent of magic. Not Oriana’s but . . .
“Finish his ass, Nahara. I’m going to check on the other two.”
“What about him?”
“Stay the hell away from Marrok.”
“But, but, he has the baby.”
“Yeah, well, unless you want to end up like the two dead Muracos I’m looking at, you stay away from him. Damn, he did a number on these two in here. I didn’t know Marrok had it in him to do this kind of damage.”
Beneath him, Keira began to cry again. Worse, she pushed against him, her breaths coming fast.
“No, Daddy, no.”
“Umm, Solange, we have an issue in here.”
“I said kill the asshole.”
“Not that. Wait.”
Nahara’s pistols rang out, four explosive sounds that had Keira screaming again and Marrok scooting backward, taking his daughter with him. Holding Keira around her waist, Marrok stood, wedging himself between his daughter’s bed and toy chest.
“Marrok.” Solange glanced over her shoulder to Nahara, the last Muraco finally dead, brain splatter a gruesome abstract design. “It’s over.”
It wasn’t. His body felt odd, different. His head ached, and why did Solange, Nahara, and Keira smell so damn good?
He clutched his daughter tighter, her whimpers of “Daddy, let down,” toxic vapors to his senses. Didn’t she understand? He was trying to protect her. The black-haired witch could return with more Muracos.
Solange should be on alert. They’d only killed three of them but over thirteen hundred were still on the loose. What would they do if more arrived? No, he wouldn’t let Keira down. She would stay right where she was, her delicious scent meant only for him.
He sniffed her neck and red-streaked black hair.
Solange backed away. “Watch him. I’m going to get Oriana. She’s the only one who has any chance of talking him down. He hasn’t changed yet.”
“What if he does, while you’re gone?”
Marrok growled at the witches, disliking that they talked about instead of to him.
“Do you want me to shoot him?”
Marrok growled again, eyes narrowed on Nahara. If she raised her pistols at him, he’d kill her.
“Daddy, let down. Let down.”
“Don’t shoot him. Shit, I don’t have time for this. I need to get Oriana. Now.”
Magic swirled around Solange then she was gone, leaving him with Nahara.
The witch raised her pistol arms, pointing her weapons at his head. “Please, don’t make me kill you. Do you hear me, Marrok? Stay calm and, for the love of your wife and daughter, fight the Muraco clawing to take you over. You’re a proud black werewolf. Stay that way. Black and proud. Don’t you dare change.”
Nahara’s words echoed in his head. He heard her, understood her, knew she spoke the truth. But what good was the truth when every cell in his body betrayed him? He’d never been so hot, a volcano ready to rupture from the crust of his black werewolf’s body, spewing lava, volcanic ash, and gases in a flurry of violent rages that’ll consume them all.
“Daddy, let down.”
Noooo, his mind yelled.
“Big teeth,” Keira cried. “I want Mommy. I want Mommy.”
Marrok sniffed Keira again. Big teeth, he agreed. Better to rip your throat out with.
At the sight of Marrok, Oriana nearly rushed to him in a panic. For a second, all she could see was her consort covered in blood, bite and claw marks. Not the destroyed suite behind her or the three dead Muracos, not even her sweet girl, afraid and crying for her, reaching out to Oriana as Marrok clutched her too tightly.
No, for precious, agonizing seconds, Oriana only had eyes for her husband, her Marrok. “Leave us,” she said, voice so low and full of pain she wasn’t sure Solange and Nahara had heard her. But Solange’s equally soft curse followed by retreating feet had Oriana alone in her suite with her husband and daughter.
Her husband. Her black werewolf.
Tears fell, blurring a vision she wished was an illusion. She’d never seen the process firsthand. Oriana didn’t know anyone who had. Maybe because anyone unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity of the awful transformation didn’t live long enough to tell the tale.
But Oriana watched, in horror, as Marrok’s gorgeous black fur began to fade, to dim from a vibrant onyx to a dull, defeated gray. Not white. Not yet.
She stepped forward. But only once, his arm around Keira too tight for Oriana’s comfort, as was the nose that kept sniffing their daughter’s hair.
“Marrok, love. Thank you for protecting our daughter. Thanks to you, she’s safe. She’s safe, Marrok, so you can let her go now.”
A rumble of a growl filled the space between them.
Oriana moved closer, arms in front of her, palms up and out. No danger. No Ravagers of the Lost Cannons.
&
nbsp; Keira had fallen into an endless cycle of soft sobs and hiccups, eyes red, face a snotty-wet mess, tiny arms extending toward Oriana, fear of her father in every line of her body.
The sight tore at Oriana’s insides. Keira had never been afraid of Marrok, in human or werewolf form. Now, her body all but vibrated with the emotion.
Not good. Werewolves, especially white ones, relished the fear they evoked in their prey. They enjoyed the hunt even more. Not that Marrok would have to run Keira to ground to claim her. All he’d have to do was open his mouth and . . .
“I’m here now, my love. I can take care of you both. You’re hurt, and Keira is afraid. Let me have her then I can take care of you.”
More black fur faded to gray, and some of the gray was already turning white.
Oriana shut her eyes, revolting against the sight of her Marrok turning into a white, bloodthirsty Muraco. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. She was losing him.
But he wasn’t yet lost to her, to them. Her Marrok was still inside the fading black werewolf. A part of him was fighting back, even as he plastered himself against the wall, silently refusing to relinquish their daughter to her.
Red eyes tracked her, as Oriana continued to close the distance between them.
“Please, Marrok. Give me our daughter. She’s crying and afraid. Let me have her. I know you don’t want to hurt Keira.”
The red of his eyes deepened, as more gray gave way to white. Only a few patches of black remained, on his clawed feet and left hindleg. Every other inch of Marrok was swiftly shifting from steel gray to pearl white—at a depressing metabolic speed.
Oriana stared at her outstretched hands. For all the magic she wielded, in the end, she was a damn weapon of mass destruction, incapable of curing or saving her husband.
“Mom-my. Mom-my.”
“I know, baby. Mommy’s here. Don’t be afraid. Daddy won’t hurt you. Daddy won’t—”
Promise Forever: Fairy Tales with a Modern Twist Page 50