“You’re a black werewolf with the delusions and bloodlust of a Muraco. I didn’t think that terrible combination was possible, yet here you stand.” Alarick had embraced Zev again. “I love you, bro. So does Dad and Mom. And so did Marrok. Remember that.”
Zev remembered. He would never forget. Not when the day of reckoning came to the cities of Janus Nether. Not when the Muracos appeared, as if birthed from the white moon. Not when Zev joined his white brothers in claws and fangs against the Crimson Guards. Not when he spotted Oriana across the battlefield—tired and weak from a long day of fighting but as much a stubborn warrior as Zev.
Not when he’d gone for Oriana’s throat, rage overtaking him, the love he felt for Marrok all the fuel he needed to harness the power of the white moon. Zev slashed out, missing her throat but catching her blocking arm. Oriana blasted him with her cannon, her counterattack quick but nonlethal.
Yes, Zev remembered it all.
His love.
His hate.
April 30, 2243
Irongarde Realm
Iron Spire
The last time she stood on her mother’s office balcony, it had been too dark for her to see Wild Moor’s Starmount Tower. But during the bright light of day, and with no fog to impair her sight, Oriana could see all the way to Wild Moor. From this very spot, Kalinda had focused her magic on the Starmount Towers of Janus Nether, turning them on and triggering Stormbringer.
Matriarch Alba had been the first witch to realize metal could not only be used to help witches control their magic but could also be used against werewolves. The Stormbringer spell had evolved out of necessity and used to protect the lives of witches. Without it, the Blood of the Sun family would’ve perished like so many other witch families during the War of Eternal Hunger. Oriana now knew the true meaning behind the title of the war between werewolves and witches.
She hadn’t needed the rest of her grandmother’s journals to figure out the truth, not that Kalinda was willing to part with them. What she’d wanted was confirmation. Oriana wouldn’t get it, at least not from Helen’s journals.
Solange’s magic preceded her arrival beside Oriana.
“You could’ve entered the office like a normal person. Mother’s with Keira at the stable.”
“Only Matriarch Kalinda would have a stable of horses in a big city instead of in a rural area where they belong. When we were children, I thought it strange. I still do.”
“Mother hates the smell of trees, grass, dirt, and manure.”
“Basically, she dislikes the outside and everything about horses except for the prestige of owning the best thoroughbreds this side of our solar system. For your mother, that actually sounds about right.”
Oriana peeled her eyes away from Starmount Tower. During Alba’s time, Stormbringer may have been necessary. The spell had probably even been an appropriate response to the subjugation of witches, as they fought for their freedom against the physically more imposing werewolves. But that hadn’t been the case when Kalinda had decided to use the spell. There were other options. Countless more. Her mother hadn’t wanted to explore any of them.
“We need to be quick and decisive,” Kalinda had told Oriana.
Quick and decisive meant hand-to-hand combat when Oriana’s Whisperer of Echoes Crimson Guards could’ve simply transported the Muracos back to Steelburgh. Once they were in the range of the guards’ magic, the spell could’ve saved many lives. It wouldn’t have been easy to corral Muracos. Witches and werewolves would’ve still died, but the attempt should’ve been made. Kalinda, however, had overruled that as a viable strategy.
Whereas Oriana wore dress slacks and a pullover blouse, Solange wore the familiar red-and-black Crimson Guard body armor.
“Let’s sit and you can tell me what you’ve found.”
Oriana ignored her mother’s chaise lounge, choosing to sit beside Solange at the glass top table with black leather chairs. “Did you retrieve what was left of her?”
“That’s a good way of putting it.” Solange, who loved gory horror movies, appeared as if she would vomit. “Half an arm, and the top half of her head. That’s all that was left of Dr. Bhavari.”
“Did you interview the Crimson Guard who found her?”
“I interviewed all of them. Considering what happened to the last batch that worked there, they were quick to answer my questions. Your reputation as Crimson Hunter precedes you.”
Oriana shifted in her seat. Being a killer wasn’t the kind of reputation she wanted. Trust and faith inspired, while fear created unseen enemies.
“The guards have no idea she got there or when she arrived. The guard who filed the report was the one who found Dr. Bhavari’s remains. Two shifted Muracos were fighting over what was left of the healer. The guard broke up the fight, and that’s when she discovered the source of the werewolves’ battle. To be eaten alive, that’s rough.”
“You’re assuming the Muracos killed her. I’m not.” Oriana shifted again, uncomfortable with her train of thought. Yet, it had been the same one she’d had for days. Dr. Bhavari’s death, at Steelburgh of all places, solidified the terrible thoughts filling her head.
“You think she was murdered then given to the Muracos as evidence disposal. Smart.” Solange’s shrug could’ve meant anything. Most likely, though, it meant she couldn’t care less how the witch died, or even who killed her, as long as she reaped her overdue punishment.
Oriana, however, very much cared who killed Dr. Bhavari.
Her attention shifted to Starmount Tower again. The edifice, much like witches, was a lightning rod of immeasurable power and destruction. “Did I ever tell you my grandmother cut off her arms and legs?”
“She what?” Solange sat forward in her chair, elbows going to the table, face turned toward Oriana. “Why would she do that? Wait, I thought your grandparents died in a fire.”
“They did. Wild sun magic fire.”
Like Marrok, so many of Solange’s thoughts showed across her face. Oriana observed her friend work through what she thought she knew about Helen’s and Tuncay’s death and what Oriana had just told her. She saw the moment when her calculations bottomed out at zero.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m fairly certain Grandmother tried to rid herself of the liquid steel in her body.”
“By what . . .? Bloodletting? No healer would approve the use of an outdated and ineffective medical procedure.”
“I agree. Let me try this again. I don’t think Grandmother intended to sever her limbs. Most likely, she and her Crimson Hunter used an experimental spell. They focused the spell on Grandmother’s legs and arms because that’s where the metal was isolated.
“Not bloodletting but a weird blood cleansing spell. No offense, your grandmother couldn’t have been that naïve or st . . .”
“Stupid? It’s fine if you say it. I’ve certainly thought it. Maybe I’m as crazy or desperate as she grew to be, but I think my theory has merit. Something went wrong. That’s undebatable. Her magic must’ve blazed out of control, damaging her arms and legs.”
“You’re saying Matriarch Helen blew herself up.”
Solange gaped at Oriana in that way of hers when she toggled between the appropriate comment to say to a friend who also happened to be her Matriarch. The hand she ran over her face and the fish-like opening and closing of her mouth were enough to have Oriana taking pity on her friend.
“I’m not asking you to help me the way Grandmother’s Crimson Hunter served her.”
“Good, because I won’t. Your grandmother killed herself, Oriana, and I have no idea what she hoped to achieve.”
“I’ll tell you, if it works.”
“You mean if you don’t die.”
That’s not what Oriana meant by if it works. But Solange’s point preceded her own. If she died, the second half of her plan wouldn’t matter. Although life for Keira wouldn’t be the same without Oriana and Marrok in it, Oriana had made arrangements for her daught
er in the event of her death. Keria would be happy with Io and Lita. Then there was Solange, Alarick, and Bader, all of whom would help raise Keira the way Marrok and Oriana would’ve. If Kalinda knew of her updated will, she’d be furious. But her mother’s opinion no longer mattered. Kalinda had ruined enough lives. Keira’s life wouldn’t be added to the long list.
Oriana pulled up her sleeve. Zev’s claw marks had closed but they’d left a faint scar that hadn’t yet healed. Would she repay him in kind, if she found her brother-in-law alive?
An image of Zev going for her throat, not a second of hesitation in his attack, flashed through her mind.
She would repay him. For Zev, death would be preferable to what Oriana had in mind if she found the black werewolf alive and well.
Oriana stood. It was time to hunt werewolves.
It’s decided. I can’t say I’m happy with my decision, but I see no other way. I haven’t informed Tuncay or Kalinda, and I won’t. If I did, they’d try to talk me out of it. In a weak moment, I’d probably allow the persuasion. That’s how I’ve come to this crossroads, listening to Tuncay and my heart instead of following my mind and common sense.
He thinks I don’t know, but very little can be kept hidden, especially from me. Metal is harmful to werewolves. We all know that, which is why witches have injected themselves with liquid steel and iron for generations.
Our metal-magic weapons can kill werewolves, and that’s been our advantage since the time of Alba. After years of feeding Tuncay small doses of my magic, tainted from iron in my body, the unanticipated effect of the experiment has revealed itself as a crippling defeat.
Tuncay is fading right before my eyes. He’s lost weight, his features gaunt in that way of the sick and dying. Iron poisoning Tuncay’s healer informed me when confronted. Death will eventually take him from Kalinda and me unless I discover a way to reverse the damage my magic kisses have done to his body. He thinks I don’t know the real reason behind his illness. Kalinda certainly doesn’t, although. We’ve become a family of liars, proficient at keeping secrets from each other and of self-delusion.
I’ve enlisted Heller’s assistance in what could be my final experiment. She’s the best Crimson Hunter a Matriarch could ever hope to serve her. I wish I had more time to better prepare, but I don’t. Tuncay doesn’t. I’ll have to trust the spell Heller and I devised. The cuts to my arms and legs will serve as a valve through which we should be able to control the flow of blood we’ll pull from me. The critical piece, the part of the plan I’m most nervous about, is the extraction of the metal from my blood.
The trial runs, with small amount of blood, have proven successful. But are the trial results valid? Can I trust the reliability of the process when applied on a grander scale? I wish I knew. I wish, not for the first, or even the hundredth time, since becoming Matriarch that I had the right answers.
Confrontation
April 30, 2243
Irongarde Realm
City of Wild Moor
Zev was being hunted. He could feel eyes on him, sense a presence other than the white werewolves loping behind him. They’d traveled about twenty-five miles from downtown Wild Moor to Redwatch, a suburb of the city. The residential area, popular among single, young fathers, like Io had once been, boasted quiet neighborhoods, low crime, and good schools.
The neighborhood was still quiet, and the only crime in Redwatch was the one perpetrated by Kalinda, Oriana, and their damn Starmount Towers.
The suburb had been razed, a magic blast that leveled homes, memories, and each of those good schools werewolf children could never return to. Everywhere Zev’s paws landed, he stepped in dust and ash caused by the fallout. It fell like black soot from the sky, clinging to everything it touched.
Zev stopped, sniffed the air. He couldn’t smell a damn thing beyond the residue left by the blast. The dust and ash didn’t affect his hearing, though, so Zev listened, ears erect. Turning in a slow circle, Zev strained his ears. He heard little more than the werewolves around him but smelled and saw even less.
The Muracos had also halted. Except for their underbellies, the black dust and ash had turned the white werewolves black. Phelan and Adolfus came to stand beside Zev, their snouts lifted, hairs on their backs raised.
So, he wasn’t the only one who sensed they weren’t alone on the nameless street. Instinct told him to run. But pride kept him rooted.
Muracos growled, snapping at the air. Phelan and Adolfus joined them, jostling Zev from their anxious movements.
The werewolves took off running up the street, plunging through the dust cloud. Zev lost track of them, as they sped past, muscular bodies wound tight.
They ran, their sounds ranging from barks to howls to growls. Still, Zev remained at the end of the block, abandoned by Phelan and Adolfus, who’d been drawn away by whatever they’d sensed in the blackened air.
He wanted to yell out to them. Warn them. He howled. Over and again, Zev howled, infusing a bark into the sounds rumbling out of him. He had to make them understand, had to draw their attention away from the futile hunt. But they weren’t listening. No one returned his bark or howl. Zev detected no paws hitting the ground as Muracos returned to his side.
He retreated, walking backward but eyes on the street in front of him. The sense of being hunted intensified. Zev barked again.
No reply.
A howl.
No answer.
His heart stuttered at the sudden burst of sound and light.
A swirl of yellow-and-red emerged from the darkness. The ravenous maw, a vortex of magic, drew dust and ash into its mouth. Muracos howled, and, for a second, Zev’s heart stopped pounding as relief bloomed. They hadn’t abandoned him. He wasn’t in this fight alone.
Their howls, however, turned to whines. Whatever was happening on the other side of the growing wind tunnel had Zev turning on his heels and getting the hell out of there.
The vortex followed.
He ran faster.
Zev darted around corners. Jumped over rubble. Slid on ash but didn’t lose his balance.
No matter how fleet-footed, the vortex closed in on him. It nipped at his heels, as if playing a deadly game of chase.
Zev didn’t know where to go. Every street he went down looked the same-like an apocalyptic town. Charcity. Cinders. The Void. Any of those names would apply to Redwatch. It was all in ruins.
He skidded to a stop. Where to go? Where to go? Shit, he’d run himself into what looked to be a cul-de-sac. Growling, Zev turned to face the vortex that had chased his ass all over Redwatch.
No, not chased. Hunted. He’d become prey.
The rapidly rotating column of magic, no longer yellow-and-red but a bright red, was over a hundred feet high and two blocks wide. The high winds had ceased sucking in everything around it. It didn’t have to.
Muracos swirled in the tornado, stripped of the black dust and ash, their white fur sparks of morbid light mixed with fatal red.
Crimson.
Crimson Hunter.
Zev waited for Oriana to appear from her death tornado. She’d blocked his route out of there. He’d tried out running her magic. All his effort had earned him were burning lungs and cramping legs.
If Oriana wanted to fight, there the hell he was. Standing on his hindlegs, Zev growled. Oriana may have made Marrok Cyrus of Steelcross but once he killed her, Zev would become Alpha of the Black Moon Werewolves. She’d felt his claws once, and Oriana would feel them again.
But the damn witch was toying with him, hiding behind her vortex that was . . . . retreating? Not retreating but crumbling in on itself. In deafening waves, the vortex imploded, made scarier by the death whimpers of the crushed Muracos. The image no different from the beer cans Alarick had crushed in his strong hands then tossed onto Zev’s table—trash to be discarded later.
The gruesome scene had taken less than a minute. Zev could now see the cul-de-sac clearly. It’s destruction as complete as the rest of Redwatch. Gone were t
he dust, ash, and sooty curtain of air, replaced by a blue, cloudless sky he hadn’t seen in days. For the first time, Zev found himself more grateful for the sun than for the moon.
Oriana had spared him. He didn’t know why she had, no more than he trusted her retreat. She’d be back, but Marrok wouldn’t wait around for her to return.
He took off. Moonblight Penitentiary was a half day’s run from Redwatch. If he pushed himself, stopping for quick breathers and water, he’d reach the prison by nightfall. When he did, he’d free the Muraco prisoners. Zev could still make his plan work, even without the Steelburgh white werewolves.
Yet, when Zev reached the small town of Brassville, most buildings wrecked, Moonblight Penitentiary stood tall and strong—a pillar of iron. Zev’s oasis. His army to lead. His . . .
Zev quirked his head to the side—listening. Creeping closer to the security gate, Zev tried to detect movement and sound. Giving up on stealth, Zev released his werewolf form. The transformation hurt, his mind and body conflicted over which form to take. To get inside through the gate, Zev needed to forgo the safer werewolf form for the practicality of human hands.
Zev tried the gate. Open. On high alert, he stalked inside only to find himself the only werewolf at Moonblight. The Matriarchs didn’t give a shit about werewolves. If they did, they wouldn’t have used their Starmount Towers on Janus Nether. Yet, they’d evacuated a prison of convicted killers? Saved Muracos from their attack?
No, this couldn’t be.
Zev shifted, running away from Moonblight. Exhausted but fueled by an emotion he refused to name, Zev ran the length of Brassville, searching for signs of life. When he found none, he returned to Redwatch.
After a restless night’s sleep, he continued his search.
Ironbark.
Mage Flame.
North Star.
Days later, Zev found himself back in Wild Moor, in the center of the same town square where he and his Muracos made their stand against Oriana and her Crimson Guards.
Promise Forever: Fairy Tales with a Modern Twist Page 53