Only Perfect Omegas: A Reverse Harem Fantasy Romance Series (Rebel Werewolves Book 1)

by Rosemary A Johns

  My shadows weaved in victory around me, whilst I stared at the fragments of the ring, which oozed with blood in a sludgy puddle. I felt lighter…freer…than I had since I’d arrived. Why would Stella have wanted me to wear something like that, even if she could summon me through it? Unless, you know, she’d done more than that, like control me?

  I blinked. Had the magic from the ring been bleeding into me and my thoughts as well? Had it been influencing me as a Wolf Charmer?

  I jumped at a sudden crash from inside the library, paling.

  Jesus, I was glad that I’d changed back into my jeans, although I still wore the cape, because if the witches had come to fight us already, a ball gown made Karate kicks more difficult. Although, I’d only studied Karate for a year at High School with the vague idea that it would make me more intimidating to the bullies.

  It hadn’t.

  I steadied my breathing, before bursting through the library door with a screech, raising my hands for a Karate chop.

  Ramiel blinked at me from behind the silver-inlaid desk as he bent over to retrieve the pile of toppled books from the floor.

  Huh, so falling books, rather than witch attack. Somebody really needed to tell my hands that because I couldn’t make my adrenaline-soaked body lower them just yet.

  The vast library ran both sides of me with bookcases in archways that mirrored each other, as if they only needed to be pushed to fall like dominoes. Above, the ceiling fluttered like the pages of a hundred books. It was warm, and I couldn’t help taking a deep breath of the peculiar smell of old books.

  Mischief lazed on the top of a bookcase, laid out like a cat with his hair falling into his eyes, whilst his lips curled into a wicked grin, as he studied me. “Oh, consider me terrified by your display of fighting prowess, witch girl. Wait,” his grin widened, “my mistake, not terrified…entertained.”

  I shrugged myself out of my fighting stance, flushing. “I thought—”

  “Don’t get started on your thoughts; we only have a day to save the world.” Yet Mischief’s smile softened. “Whilst you and the wolves were playing with the witches, do you imagine that we were senselessly—”

  “Playing with yourselves?” I offered, just to watch Mischief’s spluttered outrage.

  Ramiel’s delighted laugh, however, made it worth it. He ducked back from underneath the table, stroking the worn covers of the books lovingly. I was fixated with the way that he caressed them with the pads of his fingers. What would those long fingers feel like touching my skin with the same reverence...? I shivered, flooded with warmth.

  “We cornered Zetta and had a rather frank conversation with her about the difficulty of your position here, as well as Mischief’s. I think that the problems are connected.” Ramiel curled his wings forward on the desk, before propping a book open on them and scanning it. Then he rubbed a hand over his eyes, and I noticed just how tired he looked. Had he even rested, whilst we’d been away? “Zetta showed us the shocking murder that you were tasked with investigating, whilst visiting the Clocktower. If I may, I believe that it’s the heart of this entire matter.”

  Mischief had insisted that Ramiel was more than a pink-haired pretty angel, and now I believed him.

  I scuffed my boot against the desk. “The murder that all the wolves insist couldn’t have happened.”

  Ramiel’s pale wings carefully laid down the book. “Or do you simply mean that they deny a wolf would’ve committed it?”

  I stared at him. “Option two.”

  “Do you wish to hazard a guess how helpful this house…by which I mean Zetta…has been since we started to actively research both the murder and my captivity?” Mischief rose up in a flutter of agitated feathers.

  “Don’t tell me…she brought you cups of tea but forgot the snacks?” I gasped in mock horror.

  Mischief flew from the top of one bookcase to the other, so quickly that I became dizzy. “Excuse me, what was I thinking that you’d take the potential destruction of worlds seriously, when you’ve never had to think of anyone but yourself before?”

  “Mischief, have patience,” Ramiel chided.

  I stiffened, stung to exhausted tears by the truth of his words. I’d been lonely, grieving, and isolated, but I’d never had to care for anyone, even my cousins had looked out for me, rather than me needing to have their back.

  Now suddenly I had a war to stop between the witches and wolves, as well as needing to save the lives of my Charms, their families, angels, and mages.

  I didn’t blame Mischief for kicking my ass because a couple of weeks ago, I’d have run…or hidden in a wardrobe.

  But not now.

  I straightened my shoulders. “Maybe I don’t have as much experience at saving my people as a royal prick like you, but I’m a Wolf Charmer — the last of my kind — and I’ll protect my pack and the supernatural world.”

  Mischief nodded. “I rather think that you will.” Then he plunged to the next bookcase, which wobbled dangerously. “How did Zetta sabotage us? Let’s see,” Mischief’s feathers bristled, as he counted out the ways on his fingers, “books disappearing, bookcases attempting to squash me, sudden floods…”

  “That time all my pencils danced the tango, whilst writing Mischief Stinks,” Ramiel offered.

  I snorted with laughter, as much at Mischief’s sniff of disdain, as at Zetta’s antics. I’d have loved to have seen his frantic attempts to stop the pencils.

  “And if we even attempt to rest or pause in our work, Europe’s “The Final Countdown” booms from the walls, although I’m certain that you can imagine how that focuses the mind on finding a solution.” Mischief grimaced.

  “You’ve done enough to convince me that Zetta’s on the side of bad witchiness,” I sighed.

  “You’re taking my fabulous name in vain again?” When Zetta’s head popped through the wall, I startled. I also squeaked in shock but I covered it with a cough. Zetta smirked like she hadn’t been fooled. “What are we up to, gang?”

  “Privacy,” Mischief howled, snatching a book off the bookcase beneath him and hurling it at Zetta. “Insufferable creature, you promised me at least an hour of—"

  Zetta ducked the book, which cracked against the wall beside her. “Hmm, how to put this to the sexy fairy meets angel…? I am the house. Throw in threatening line about how I can see everything. Don’t stress though, it can’t be good for you, and your nights with the pink angel are such kinky fun.” She waggled her eyebrows, before her head disappeared again.

  Yet, she was still watching us.

  I studied Mischief carefully, whose head was turned away. “Hey, so what did she mean? Stress not being good for you?”

  “I’d imagined stress to be bad for everybody.” Still, Mischief wouldn’t meet my eye.

  “He’s been forced to go inside his own private library…” Ramiel admitted.

  Mischief rose into the air. Silver crackled across his wings. I stepped back from the splendor of his power.

  “Secret,” Mischief’s eyes sparked furiously, “does that have no meaning to you?”

  When Ramiel kicked back his chair, pushing himself to his feet with his wings widening in a display to match Mischief’s, I gasped at the beauty and glory.

  These were angels, my mind supplied in awe, and centuries old. I knew it, and yet the truth of it only showed through in flashes. What would they be like in battle? I thrilled with the thought of having them by my side.

  “Dying?” Ramiel’s eyes narrowed, glowing as brightly as Mischief’s. “Has that no meaning to you?”

  Suddenly, I was cold. My head jerked back, as I whispered, “Dying?”

  Mischief glanced down at me, and I must’ve looked as stricken as I felt because his gaze softened, before he landed in front of me, curling his wings around me. Their silver wove through my red, and I sighed at his touch and connection. He stroked my hair back from my face with the back of his finger. The scent of his popcorn crackling magic, made me hug him closer.

 
; “Fading…diminishing…weakening to the point of no return…it all amounts to the same thing.” Mischief lifted my chin. “My power is being stolen. Pray, did I not make this clear enough to you?”

  “Trust me, if you’re dying, holler: Dying over here! No more of this stiff upper lip crap. Promise?”

  He arched his brow. “I apologize for my excess of stiff upper lip. So, let me be clear: Whatever has trapped me here is also taking my power. Yet to pull me from the Realm of the Seraphim, the fiend would need a Gateway, which is how you can travel between worlds, time, or even alternate universes.”

  I stared at him. “But there’s no Gateway in this house or you could’ve escaped…?”

  He smiled. “Astute.”

  “Wait, what’s this library inside you? Like a memory palace? Do you have a Sherlock Holmes thing going on?”

  “Nothing so obvious. Gateways are not simply a way to travel but are also databases of knowledge. On Angel World, we didn’t have human books, rather the Gateways. When I was young, I was often lonely. By creating a private library in my mind by borrowing them—”

  “Stealing,” Ramiel corrected.

  “Pray, who was it who helped stop two apocalypses…?” Mischief cocked his head as if in thought. “Oh yes, that’d be me. What a terrible indiscretion it was, but I borrowed Gateways from the library on Angel World. I fear that’s how I was dragged here and what is now being drained.”

  “So, you have an entire library in your mind?”

  Mischief pulled back from me, hopping onto the table. “You had a wolf stuffed in your wardrobe.”

  “Touché.” Then I studied the strain around his eyes and how his hands trembled, although he was trying to hide it. How much was this…fading…hurting him? “You know, we said that we’d had it with the stiff upper lip crap. Are you in pain?”

  Mischief’s eyes widened. “It almost sounded as if that would be of concern to you.”

  I stroked the back of his hand. “Duh, of course it would. When you’re not hurling disks at me, you’re my favorite mage.”

  Mischief rolled his eyes. “I believe that I’m the only mage you know.”

  I smiled. “Still.”

  “May I?” Ramiel held out his hand to me.

  I nodded.

  Ramiel tugged me around the desk and then onto his lap. Then he snaked his arm around my waist, whilst his wings sheltered me; I was safe in their nutmeg scent.

  His gaze met Mischief’s across my head, and Mischief’s expression was suddenly serious.

  “I believe it will help,” Mischief muttered.

  “It’s not easy to turn against those we were raised to admire, follow, and obey.” When Ramiel caressed the back of my head, I shivered. “I loved the Glory who took me as her Wing. Unlike others,” I didn’t miss his glance at Mischief, “I didn’t struggle to submit, despite her strictness. Yet I couldn’t abide cruelty to the Fallen who were taken prisoner. On my wing, I hated them as our enemies and on the battlefield, but the way that the Glories played with those who they captured made me question how different we were in truth to the Fallen themselves.” Ramiel swallowed and looked down. I rested my head on his chest, listening to the reassuring thud of his heart, whilst his soft hair stroked across my cheek. “My Glory brought home two Fallen prisoners as spoils of war who were pretty identical twins, barely old enough to be fighters. She wished me to…” He trailed off, pinking. “…Hurt them and use them as toys, but I wouldn’t. Cowardly of me, but instead I ran to the human world, taking the twins with me and freeing them.” His eyes glistened with tears, as his gaze met mine. “I betrayed my world that day and became a Human Addict who only the witches could save from becoming the Fallen myself.”

  “You mean that you stood up for what was right and saved abused prisoners…?” I murmured.

  Ramiel shook his head. “I didn’t fight. This time, with your permission, I will.”

  I met Ramiel’s gaze, flooded with gratitude for his bravery to battle with me but also for sharing his painful past because boy, did I get it now.

  I licked my lips, glancing at his, before gently moving forward to touch his mouth, which opened in invitation. The kiss was sweet and tender, as I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. I circled my thumbs over the feathers on his shoulder blades because I’d been desperate to touch his wings, and he almost jolted off the chair at the sensation. Then he purred, like he had for Mischief, and I thrilled at dragging the sound from him. So, sensitive place on an angel, good to know. We both laughed against each other’s mouths.

  Who’d have guessed that kissing an angel was sweeter than candy floss?

  Mischief rapped on the table. “Although watching you prepare for an orgy is scintillating, would you like to know just who it is that we’re fighting?”

  I drew back from the kiss reluctantly, twisting to Mischief. Then I gaped at him. “Did you say know…?”

  Mischief launched into the air with a powerful beat of his wings. “Well, an educated guess. Ramiel and I analyzed the mud on the fingertips of the murdered boy, which your wolf and my subject noticed.” Mischief preened. “It appears that it’s only present on the stretches of the banks of the River Thames at one particular point. Pray, do you perceive who we suspect?”

  My brow furrowed. The thought had been creeping up on me like the tide that no shifter from the wolf kingdoms would kill the son of a witch and risk sparking a war, when they hadn’t been able to win even at the height of their strength. Now…? They wouldn’t simply lose, it’d be genocide.

  The blow to murder my parents had been assassination because we were the Wolf Charmer line, as much as it made me wince. Had they succeeded in killing me as well, maybe the wolves would’ve had a chance in rising up. I didn’t know how I felt about that.

  There were vampires like Dual. Did they want to create chaos? Yet he’d seemed more interested in screwing a wolf, than seeing one killed.

  My mind shied away from the answer because it only left the witches, and there was one coven alone who stood on the banks of the Thames.

  “The House of Blood?” I shook and I didn’t know if it was with fear or rage. “Why on earth would they murder one of Aquilo’s friends and then cover it up to make the wolves look like the killers when they knew that it’d kick off a war?”

  Mischief snorted. “Oh, I remember now, you’re the witch who doesn’t know a damn thing.” I bristled. “Kolby was a mage. How clear was I on the whole witches hate us?”

  “The coven killed him because he’d discovered that he was a mage,” I pondered. “I need to invent a whole new category of witching messed-up just for that. But it still kind of doesn’t add up because why drag the shifters into it? Can the witches seriously want another war?”

  Ramiel’s arm curled more tightly around my waist like he could protect me. “Is it so surprising that they would wish to murder their enemy again?” He murmured against my hair. “Does not every war need a pretext?”

  “Then I’ll show them that I’m a Wolf Charmer,” I snarled, “not a freaking pretext.”

  “Technically, you’re now a rebel witch…” Mischief tried to smirk, but suddenly his eyes rolled back and his wings stopped beating.

  I cried out, as Mischief collapsed. He crashed down, catching the bookcases, and just like the dominoes that I’d imagined, they fell backwards on top of one another. The books flew down into broken piles.

  The room shook, as Mischief fell to earth.

  Ramiel howled in anguish, swooping over the desk with me in his arms. I gasped at the sensation of flying, whilst my stomach lurched.

  What would it feel like to fly high in the night-time sky out of joy, rather than fear?

  Ramiel landed next to Mischief in the wreckage, pulling me down next to him. Mischief was still and pale; his breathing was ragged and his eyes were closed. Ramiel cradled Mischief’s head in his lap, whilst I brushed his hair back from his forehead that burned with a fever.

  My lip trembled, as I whispe
red, “Holy hell, he’s on fire. What’s happening?”

  Ramiel clasped Mischief closer with desperate care. His voice was tight with tears as he replied, “I told you, he’s dying.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I ran through the mansion, which was blurred by my tears. Doubling over with sobs, I clutched onto the stone bust of my ancestor who would’ve rejoiced rather than wailed over the death of a mage. My fingers ghost trailed through the dust. My shadows billowed around me in distressed waves down the staircase and around the chandelier, until the light became filtered to a hellish red.

  Ramiel had insisted that he carry Mischief to his attic, rather than my bedroom. Mischief still hadn’t woken up. I could only allow myself to think that he was asleep and not, you know, something worse. It’d hurt not to have him close to me in my own room.

  How had I ever slung his unicorn ass into a cage?

  Then Ramiel had settled Mischief into the nest of pillows and blankets. Mischief must’ve taken the bedding for Ramiel from the rest of the house because when I’d first discovered the Addict angel in the attic, he’d only had a thin mattress. Ramiel had purred softly as he’d rubbed his cheek against Mischief’s like he’d only needed this tender touch to awake.

  “There must be someone we can call,” I’d insisted. “I mean, I’m not such a dummy that I think we can smuggle Mischief into hospital, but surely there must be a doctor who deals with supernaturals? You know, like a vet for angels?”

  Ramiel’s look had been cool; for the first time, I’d realized just how ancient he was. “Angels don’t become sick. You may only harm our heads or our hands. We fear little else but fire. What afflicts Mischief cannot be cured like a disease because it’s magical. It’s an attack on the Gateways.”

  Mischief cared for his people — even me — before himself. Despite considering me his enemy, he’d tried to stop me touching Zetta. Once he’d known Moon was his subject, he’d fought to do what was best for him, whilst quietly in the shadows he was fading away.

  Was that what it meant to be a leader?