Werewolf Forbidden

by Christina E. Rundle

  Her eyes narrowed, diminishing her innocent appearance. “You’re the one that let him get away.”

  She spoke those words too often since Wolffey escaped with the vault treasures. Despite the jeopardy the assassin put the throne in; he didn’t regret his protégé getting the slip on him as much as he regretted giving Sayen-ael his real name.

  “In the end, blood is thicker than water,” Aire’Si warned.

  The queen scoffed. “Wolffey can no sooner stand the werewolves than he can stand being in a room by himself. He’s mine. I see it in his eyes. The werewolves will make him hesitate; they will get the collar on him, where my fey have failed.”

  “Then you are going to call the forest fey off your assassin,” he asked.

  “No. Wolffey needs to feel the pressure on both ends,” she answered.

  Aire’Si clenched his fists to keep from speaking more on the subject. “If this is all I’m needed for, I have duties to tend to.”

  “Of course, Resi, go now and leave me alone.”

  SIX

  The cave was massive with an uneven floor. The sharp rocky edges dug into the soles of his soft leather shoes. Even with Wolffey’s superb steadiness, it was difficult keeping balance. If this mission became a battle, he’d be at a disadvantage. No amount of training could factor in the environment, though he was taking careful note where the ground was even.

  There was only one direction to head in the cave, though his headlamp provided minimal visibility, making it difficult to see more than a few feet. Above him, the entrance to the cave was concealed by darkness and the walls were deeply scratched. He ran his fingers over the grooves, estimating the size of the talons on the demon, but it was difficult to judge its true magnitude.

  The dark was encompassing, both in the thickness and the weighty silence. Both were elements he lived by. It protected him; kept him alive, but now, they worked against him. The cave seized the Beithir’s essence. Not even the frigid air could reduce the stench of rot and fecal matter.

  Despite Rufus's absence, he heard the fey's warning. The Beithir wasn’t something to mess with. The faerie avoided demon realms, though this demon co-existed on earth. Unlike the fey, he wasn’t shy about being in realms he didn’t belong. He had no problem stirring the pot and making questionable trades despite Aire’Si’s caveat.

  The walk was long, and though the air was chilled, his clothes clung to his body with sweat. The air was stagnant with death, which forced him to breathe through his mouth. He glanced overhead, sensing the new presence. He’d been hunted before. It felt similar to this.

  His fingers itched to pull his blade, but he chose the simple bow. It was reliable, something instilled into the soul of his being. He pulled the first quiver from the pouch and ran his hand over the shaft, letting go before his fingers got near the tip. It was a footed arrow; a short length of hardwood at the front of the arrow and the rest of its body consisted of soft wood. He knew the arrows in his pack by their fletching.

  Two miles in and the path ended with a rock wall. A crevice crawled up the rock, wide enough to allow him to crawl through without the quiver bag. He laid his bag against the wall with the bow on top. Though his hearing was good, the hushed serenity gave him a chance to reevaluate the success of a bow and arrow when his eyesight had limits in a pitch black cave. He pulled his blade and entered the crevice with his right shoulder in the lead.

  The hole was narrow, forcing him to take shallow breathes. At its tightest, he forced his way between the jagged rocks that caught his skin through his layered clothing. He hissed in discomfort at the pain that ran from the top of his right shoulder to mid scapula. The cut was deep since he felt it so sharply. His numb skin never would’ve felt a surface scratch.

  The sound he waited for came as a scrapping just beyond the crevice. It was alert of his presence. No doubt, the demon could taste his blood in the air. He stopped moving and so did the scrapping. This wasn’t going as planned. If he waited too long, the Beithir would come straight through the hole after him.

  Determination pushed him through the ever decreasing space. His first real deep intake of air clotted the back of his throat with thickness. His eyes watered from the stench, adding to his visual disadvantage. He raised his blade, but the ache was profound, making the movement less stable. If the cut needed stitches, he’d have to find help, and that was the last thing he wanted.

  He slowly circled with the dagger in his hand. All he needed was Beithir blood and the demon didn’t have to be dead for him to retrieve it. It worked for the both of them, but where was the Beithir?

  With the alcove more condense than the cavern, there wasn’t a great deal of places to hide. The ceiling was within touch if he rose on his toes and even with the dim light, he could see the nest. As he moved towards it, the light reflected off gnawed bones and ripped shards of fabric.

  The scrapping started again, this time from behind the nest. He started to move towards, hesitating where the ground was slick. Shards of bone lay along the wall, but some of the pieces were full limbs and small. He pushed back the image those small fingers induced. The demon had lived in Superstition Mountain for a long time, and he wasn’t here to save the world. He was here to advance his undertaking.

  Sulfur rolled through the air, thicker than the body decay. He braced his legs, lifting his dagger. The pinch between his shoulder blades made his movement faultier. He refused to let the cut on his back get the best of him.

  His nerves vibrated with the silence. He held his breath, determined to hear the tiny sound that would betray the Beithir’s location. A warm puff of air sent his hair over his shoulders. Adrenaline surged, but his mind went blank. His body was in action, turning to face the demon straight on.

  The Beithir’s quarter sized pupils dilated against the light. The demon blocked his attack before Wolffey could knick the glossy, black shell that covered its skin. The dim beam didn’t hinder the details of its scorpion shaped body with centipede legs and outstretched leathery wings. Its glossy black lips pulled back, exposing sharp teeth.

  A flicker of movement at the edge of his vision was the only warning that something was coming. Wolffey threw his weight back, finding momentum to escape the downward slash of the scorpion tail. He rolled off the pile of bones, forcibly aware of the cut between his shoulder blades.

  Before he could find his footing, the Beithir was on top of him, forcing him back against the bone. His hand went through the pile, throwing his balance off. The sliding debris provided the inch he needed to miss the full throttle weight of the Beithir’s plunging, sharp limb. The bone pile busted and scattered, forcing him to slide down under the creature’s long body.

  There was no leverage being tangled with the bones under him. His stomach muscles tightened; he pushed everything into that upward thrust. The blade dug into the soft connecting tissue between the limbs and body, separating the folds. The Beithir reared back, taking one of the blades with it.

  Its screech left more than the alcove echoing. Wolffey fumbled backward, climbing the bone pile to get out from under the demon when its clawed foot came down on his side. The talon dug deep; the invading pressure stole his breath. Coldness spread under his skin and his limbs tightened. It was a warning sign of possible paralysis.

  It paid off injecting small portions of lionfish venom to counteract symptoms like these, but he’d need the anti-venom in his pouch to keep the symptoms from worsening. With stiff hands and joints that protested movement, he unsheathed his copper edged blade as the Beithir twisted its sharp point. The agony stole his breath.

  It stared down at him with large, unblinking eyes, cocking its head to watch him gasp. It was playing with him. He held his breath, tightening limbs that were already uncomfortable and jerked upward, shoving his dagger into its soft underbelly. It screeched as it jerked back. Its hooked talon pulled Wolffey off the ground with it.

  With his remaining strength, Wolffey shoved his entire weight against the dagger hilt, forci
ng the blade further into the demon. It jerked, trying to shake the blade. Hot, acidic liquid oozed over his exposed fingers. If he let go, if the demon dislodged the blade and caught its second wind, he’d be dead.

  The Beithir went limp, the momentum bringing Wolffey down on top of it. He fought the desire to go boneless too, as the demon’s breath shuddered under him. It was still alive. Passing out here wasn’t an option.

  His hands trembled as he dislodged the claw from his side. It was difficult to gauge the damage with the dim light strapped around his forehead and the thick leather vest securing his torso. When he moved, he felt the pull of the hole and the wetness of his clothes. If the blood was warm, he couldn’t feel that at the surface of his skin.

  His slippery fingers fumbled with the anti-venom, though he’d never been subjected to this much venom in one go. He popped the cap off the syringe and jammed it into his thigh, grateful for any time it bought him. Discarding the empty syringe, he pulled his blade from the demon’s torso and plunged it between two plates of armor that protected its neck.

  “Do us a favor and stay down until I’m out of here,” Wolffey whispered, barely finding the breath to speak. The unconscious form didn’t respond, though he expected a language barrier. He collected the demon’s blood in vials and tucked them back into his pouch.

  The light quivered, dimming at the edge of his eyes, or the venom was affecting his eyes. It was time to get going. When he stood, the blood drained from his head, forcing him up against the wall for support. Pure determination got him through the crevice. The rope, he wasn’t sure how he was going to climb.

  oOo

  The woods surrounded Wolffey with smells that were both comforting and fearful. The ache in the back of his head slid into his shoulders and lower back, but he kept running. His mouth was dry from trying to pull air into tight lungs. He never ran like this. He never hunted. His body protested in exhaustion, he wasn’t trained for this.

  Adrenaline coursed through his veins. It kept him on his feet when his legs wanted to give. If he stopped running… if he stopped…

  Wolffey jolted awake, startled by the deafening crack of splitting wood. Streetlight streamed in through the open doorway, but it wasn’t enough to separate shadows of movement. He tried to get his hand underneath him and sit up. His muscles refused to tighten.

  “Rufus?” His heavy jaw slurred the word.

  There was no response. With his face buried in the sheet, all he could smell was the Beithir. The stench drew bile to the back of his throat.

  Red light flickered in the dark as a match touched the tip of a cigarette. Danger was prominent, but his arms hung boneless. He found no comfort in the muggy air seeping in from the open doorway; coldness crept under his skin.

  “Wolffey, it hurts the Grand Master that you’d come to town and fail to see him,” a familiar male voice said.

  His brain was slow to register the heavy accent. Shit.

  Wolffey forced his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his blade. It was missing. Someone approached. He kept his head down, because he didn’t have the strength to lift it, but he could now smell Dyckran and the others. They smelt heavily of burnt charcoal, a cleansing aid that obviously didn’t keep these dead people dead.

  “It was on my list of things to do,” Wolffey said. His words were breathless. It took great effort to talk.

  Soft fingers with sharp nails caught him under the jaw, forcing his head up. The world spun in front of his eyes and he held his breath to keep his stomach from recoiling. Lavender oil and charcoal; Mayda, he wouldn’t forget her scent any time soon. The Grand Master would be dead if Mayda hadn’t interfered with Wolffey’s orders. His ties with Mayda ran deep, with physical scars and near death experiences. It was a matter of who would kill the other first.

  "Look at you laying here weak and hurt. You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked,” Mayda purred in his ear. Her cold tongue licked a path over his temple and into his hair. She didn’t smell like blood, which meant she hadn’t fed yet.

  Wolffey chuckled. Even his throat had no interest in tightening and making words. “And miss out on guests?”

  Her nails tightened around his jaw, digging into his skin. She tilted his face to meet hers. "Tsk, tsk, Wolffey, getting yourself caught like this. You really should be more careful when you’re indisposed. Anyone can come through and finish you off.”

  He swallowed, but his throat remained scratchy. “I was hoping it would be you, Mayda, so we could finally finish this.”

  Her nails ticked into his skin, digging so deep that he felt the hitch in his pulse. She played her tongue over her elongated fangs.

  “You find this amusing?” Sergei asked.

  A stealth shadow moved forward and was immediately pulled back by a shadow with girth, possibly Dyckran running interference. Three, that’s all the Grand Master sent, but it was his three best. Mayda alone was difficult.

  “We’re wasting time,” Dyckran said.

  Mayda released him and his head fell back against the mattress. The jarring movement was enough to clear his head so he could focus on his muscles. He tightened and released his hands, forcing his breathing to remain calm and his thoughts clear. Panic would only redirect his thoughts and he needed to plan his next move.

  His thoughts were too heavy for air magic. He couldn’t open a path when he couldn’t focus.

  The three Romani hashed it out in hard whispers. He caught a few of the words they spoke, but the context meant little. No doubt Mayda wanted more from this meeting than the orders she was given.

  Wolffey’s stiff fingers roamed over the empty sheaths on his body. How many blades did he lose in the mountain? He barely recalled anything after the fight, including how he got out of the cave and back to his hotel, one in which he never officially checked into. Luckily the location was a dive, or sirens would be screaming towards them.

  There was nothing but silence. No one wanted to interfere.

  Mayda returned to his side of the bed with Dyckran trailing behind her. A cloy, reptilian stench ebbed from them.

  Dyckran caught his chin and forced his head back. His neck muscles tightened in protest. “You know where to find us when you wake up.”

  Light reflected off the jeweled fist aimed at his face. It was a white force that threw him back into darkness.

  oOo

  The overgrown orange grove was disconcerting in the morning twilight, with the leaves brushing and the world utterly still. There was no smell beyond the citrus leaves. When was the last time humans came this way, or any animal for that matter?

  Mercer kept walking forward, even with the stillness crawling along his skin. His ear drums pricked with the silence, almost a hum that was slowly drawing him insane. If he didn’t hear something, he was going to rip at his own skin to make that humming stop.

  “Something is wrong. He should be out by now. I’m going in.” The voice was distant, but distinguishably Rider’s.

  “It’s already daylight. The doorway won’t be open.” Fallah said. Her voice was even softer than Rider’s, the low syllables nearly eradicated by the clapping of the leaves.

  With the distance he walked and the wet, clean scents that penetrated the air, this was starting to feel like a dream. The fog was lifting and with it, the clarity in which he perceived the hill. He refused to let it go, but the details were readily leaving him.

  “Is Mercer trapped? How do we get the doorway open?” Dax asked.

  “We don’t,” Fallah said. Her voice raised in distress.

  Mercer picked up his pace, pushing through the brush. He broke free from the plant life, into a wide space that separated the second grove. The group was facing away from him, Rider intent on taking the same path he did into the Hill. It was perplexing seeing them face the opposite direction. His sense of direction was disconnected.

  “Stand down, Rider.” He ordered.

  The group spun, looking as perplexed as he felt. It wasn’t his imagination; h
e had entered in the direction they were watching. They weren’t quick to approach, scrutinizing him as though he weren’t real.

  “It’s done. The fey will help for a price,” he said. There was no need to assure them he was okay, he wasn’t sure he’d know if he wasn’t.

  Fallah was the first to step forward. “You’re pupils are dilated. What did you eat inside the Hill?”

  He thought about the smoke in the vial. Did that count as consumption? The scent was starting to fade. He’d been so sure it was familiar, but now, like a dream, the details were meshing together.

  “Mercer?” Rider asked.

  His name startled him. He raised the box he held, grateful for the redirection in conversation. The dark, oak surface was smaller than it looked in the cave. “I need to hunt a pet down, put this collar on him and then the queen will take me to Chancellor’s.”

  Fallah’s eyes narrowed. He waited for her to bring the subject back to the original question.

  Rider took the box and flipped the latches. The studded collar looked amazing, resting against the black velvet. The diamonds sparkled in the morning light.

  “What type of animal are we hunting? This is a little diminutive for something exotic,” Rider said.

  The scent crossed Mercer’s memory. It was familiar, though fleeting. “I don’t think it’s an animal.”

  “There are many types of fey creatures. Even the small can be dangerous,” Fallah warned.

  "We’re going up against something intelligent enough to gamble at the Bird Nest. If I take a hunting party, we can make this quick. I could be at Chancellor’s by tonight,” Mercer said.

  "Never underestimate the job a faerie gives you.” Fallah shuddered. “Something about this collar makes me real uncomfortable.”

  Her words brought the same feeling to life within him. He closed the box, but the cold energy lingered.

  “Did she give us any precautions on approaching this runaway?” Dax asked.

  “None,” Mercer said.

  His phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the number. It was unlisted and he doubted it was going to be news he wanted to hear.