by RJ Blain
“What will happen when that hurricane arrives?” James asked.
“The perfect storm,” Francine whispered with another shudder. The silence chilled me. “It’ll be like nothing we’ve ever seen or will ever see again.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.” James paced across the room. “Is this something you’ve Seen?”
“It’s science,” Doctor Harold replied. “It’s history. While our situation is a little different than the storm in 1991, Hurricane Grace collided with storms in eastern Canada. It produced huge storms, spawned blizzards, and wrecked the eastern seaboard. It’s called a Nor’Easter.”
“I take it you’re a hobby meteorologist?” James muttered in a disgusted voice.
Doctor Harold grinned. “They made a movie about it, the storm was so bad.”
Blinking, James stared at the doctor. “Oh.”
“It works like this, though. Come here,” the gray-haired man said, gesturing to a stack of Petri dishes on the counter. He picked up two of them, handing one to James. The werewolf took the dish with a skeptical expression. “Hold that and make a counter clockwise motion with your arm and dish.”
James looked like an idiot moving his arm in a large circle in front of him. “Okay.”
“Go stand over there.” Doctor Harold pointed at the door. “Francine, go stand by the intercom.”
The witch obeyed with an amused smile.
“James, you’re a hurricane. You’ve formed off the coast south of Florida somewhere. Maybe closer to the Caribbean. Either way, you’re headed northbound and a little east. Just stand there for the moment.”
James fidgeted, still sweeping his Petri dish in a circular motion. “Okay.”
“I am an arctic born storm system.” The doctor, to my amusement, began sweeping his arm in a clockwise circle with his Petri dish. “Now, walk towards Francine, James. Pretend that she’s the Caribbean Islands or the Gulf of Mexico.” James took three steps towards Francine before Doctor Harold stopped him by clearing his throat. “Okay, you’re swerving towards me now because my winds are sucking your moisture and air in this direction.”
Twisting around, James diverted his path, walking towards the doctor.
Doctor Harold slammed his Petri dish against James’s. They hit the floor and bounced. “Bang. The perfect storm. Hold onto your britches, boy. It’s going to be a rough one.”
James shuddered, recovering enough to pick up the fallen Petri dishes. Both were cracked. “How rough?”
“People will die when their homes on the shore are washed away. Those who do not find shelter will freeze to death in the streets.” Francine swallowed, her throat pulsing with her racing heartbeat. “Some of them won’t be found until the spring, when the snow finally melts.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
The Inquisition outpost roused with the same determined energy of an angry swarm of wasps descending on a hapless foe. James went to oversee the werewolves. Doctor Harold hid in his lab. Without anyone caring what I did, I followed Francine. In theory, I suspected I could divert the hurricane or shift the blizzard elsewhere, but the autumn snowstorm was as unusual as an after-season hurricane.
The ease in which the hurricane had answered my call, barreling its way towards me across the Atlantic, led me to one conclusion: Nature would’ve lured the system to me whether or not I had wanted it to come. The storm wasn’t entirely my fault.
Not entirely. I had hastened the process a little, in the same way a superior homing system on a missile ensured it hit its target within inches instead of feet.
Anyone in the detonation area wouldn’t care how accurate the missile was. Dead was dead.
Instead of checking me for her sister’s power, Francine ignored my presence. Floor by floor, she gathered men and women until some fifty people followed her to the first basement level of the complex.
“What’s the deal with the wolf, Coven Mother?” The young man who spoke looked no older than twenty, but his dark eyes were hard with the weight of years and experience.
I wondered if he had volunteered to join the Inquisition or if he had been forced.
“She has killed our sister, Mrs. Livingston, the Destroyer.”
Every eye focused on me. The anger I expected, both from myself and from them, didn’t come. I was too tired to feel much more than wary regard for so many witches nearby. The sharp tang of fear drowned out all other scents. I could almost hear their doubtful thoughts.
Which one of them would be next? Would I attack them for having come from the same coven as the Wicked Witch of the West?
I was too weary to be bothered with bearing my fangs at them.
As if sensing their thoughts herself, Francine waved a dismissive hand. “We have more important concerns. Within the next twelve to twenty-four hours, a category four hurricane will hit the coast of North Carolina. A few hours later, it will strike us directly.”
Silence answered Francine’s announcement. Their fear intensified, so strong it threatened to choke off my breath.
The old witch blessed her witches with a sad, understanding smile. “Come, my coven. We must do what we can to prevent this tragedy from happening.”
I put my ears back. Had I been human, had I a chance or even a choice, I might’ve told her the folly of her desire. I welcomed her to try to change the events I had triggered and nurtured with my strength.
“But what can we do?” a woman I couldn’t see asked. “We are witches, not weather workers. We certainly aren’t gods.”
“Weather witches, like wizards, are rare. Dangerous. Hunted. Wanted by all. But if we work together, we might be able to do something. Fire can be used to warm the air and dry out the clouds, no? We can raise up the earth to stop the sea. Those who work with water can ease the tides and stop the flooding. The winds can be calmed if we but try.”
No one voiced their doubts, but I could see it in their eyes and smell it in their fear.
Francine meant well, I suspected, but the others knew what she couldn’t see. The weather was not so easy to change, nor were the seasons. And in the conceit of those who were not burdened with my duty, they would try and they would fail.
The storm had only answered my call because nature wanted to follow its true course. When they collided, the snow, the wind, the rain, and the thunder would revert the weather and nature to its proper state. I had purged myself of all of the magic in my system in doing so.
And as the Caretaker of the Seasons, I had become nature’s tool. Maybe I could divert the storms and lessen the impact of the systems colliding, but I would pay for it with my life. Even if I had the power to, I wasn’t sure I would.
The witches of Slide Mountain had called the early winter, putting things into motion that they could not stop or control. They had done so despite my interference.
My duty was to set things right, whether or not the humans suffered as a result.
I hated the autumn, but I had to let stay for its full turn of the seasons, so there could be a true winter, a spring, and a summer when they were due.
Francine was right. People would die in the streets if they didn’t find shelter.
But if the winter came early, what would happen in the next year, or the year after? A quick death of a few in the cold was a small price to pay to ensure the survival of the crops to come.
If Samantha was alive, I suspected she would have agreed. Samantha had been a smart, wise witch.
She had been my witch.
I closed my eyes and faced the grief I couldn’t let go of. Samantha would have known to check the weather. She would have seen what Francine did not.
Samantha would have recognized the truth, and she would have encouraged me to do as I had done. She would have stayed with me through it all, grieving for those who would inevitably die so others could live. Without the harvests of future years, thousands or millions would die if the summer turned to drought or the spring floods washed away the crops instead of nurturing their growth.
/>
What happened to the east coast of the United States would impact the entire world.
“What do we do?” the woman in the crowd of witches demanded.
Francine sighed. “Divide yourselves into groups based on your elements. Think of ways you can help mitigate the impact of the storms. That is all we can do. Each group is to send someone to me in four hours.”
“What about the Caretaker of the Seasons?” a soft voice called out from the back of the group.
I put my ears back and turned my head away from the witches. They didn’t know who I was, but the desperate hope in the question hurt. Revealing myself to them was equivalent to suicide.
“Don’t rely a thing of legend and myth. We can rely only on ourselves. Now, go.”
The coven scattered. Francine stared down at me. “If she existed, I doubt she would help us anyway. Maybe we deserve this, for all of the things we have done.”
I cocked my head to the side, meeting her gaze with a single eye. I couldn’t say anything, but I wouldn’t, even if I had a human voice to speak with. Francine was right, although for all of the wrong reasons.
I couldn’t help them.
I hadn’t founded Marrodin out of greed, although I was plenty wealthy. The Inquisition would never understand my motivations. That was fine by me.
All of the power I’d ever had, all of the strength I could’ve rallied, it all belonged to the storms. That was the price of my magic. Once I committed myself, once I decided on a course, I couldn’t change my mind. I could make alterations. I could divert—a little.
Nature always faced the consequences of humanity’s actions. As the Caretaker of the Seasons, I had to see my summoning through to the bitter end, no matter what the consequences were.
~*~
The hurricane drew closer. My body burned, all of my energy sucked right out of me, fueling the encroaching storm. I lay flopped on a rug, incapable of doing more than watch as the infrequent passerby scurried across the room.
“What on Earth are you doing? You crazy wolf.” James stood over me, his arms once again crossed over his chest. He stretched his leg out to nudge my side with his toe. “You’re in the way.”
I huffed, but I didn’t get up.
“You may as well leave her,” Francine said with a shake of her head. “She’s not going to bother anyone. I’d rather have my eye on her. Some of my brothers and sisters are displeased with her. I can’t guarantee her safety.”
James snorted his disgust. “Of course you can’t. You didn’t have to tell anyone she’d killed that damned witch.”
Francine sniffed. “That is not fair to my brothers and sisters.”
If James had fur, I imagined James’s hackles would’ve been standing straight on end. “And it isn’t fair to her brothers and sisters who are hunted by your kind. She killed Mrs. Livingston. So what? We would’ve killed her otherwise.”
“She is no longer a human.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Who are we to judge?”
“James, it’s unnatural. Werewolves are cursed humans, not wolves.” Francine refused to look either one of us in the eye.
“Not all of us were forced into the ritual,” James whispered.
“Name one werewolf who wasn’t.”
“My father before me wasn’t. But the Inquisition killed him because he was a threat. My mother wasn’t forced, either. Guess what? She’s dead too, at the Inquisition’s hands. No surprise there. If I go against your wishes, it’ll be me next. You know what civilized people call that, Francine? Slavery.”
Francine kept her eyes averted. “You were changed against your will, though.”
“What of it, Francine? Remember, witch, if you cross the Inquisition, you won’t be a predator anymore either. You’ll be prey.” James stepped over me, sinking down on one of the couches nearby.
“I know.”
“Then act like you know. You outed her with the witches on purpose. Your sister murdered innocents. She forced me and others to do the same. Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
Francine lowered her head and said nothing.
“Enough fighting,” a gruff voice snapped. A tall man with black hair touched by gray strode into the room. He wore the sort of business suit not even my board members liked paying the steep prices for. He halted, his gaze falling onto me. “Why is there a dog in my office?”
“Lupus Dirus hybrid, sir,” Francine murmured.
“A what?”
The witch swallowed. “A dire wolf, sir.”
“My black lab is larger. What is it doing in my office?” The man shifted his weight. I kept still, tensing in case I needed to roll and dodge a kick.
“She killed Mrs. Livingston, sir. I couldn’t put her in holding. The other witches would surely execute her.” Francine’s lie soured her scent.
James made a growling noise in his throat, but didn’t correct the woman. Fear radiated from the British man.
“Is that so? How curious.”
When I wasn’t kicked, I forced my muscles to relax, stretching out with a yawn. James flinched at my movement before he said, “It was self defense, sir.”
“I’m sure it was. I fear more are upset at being robbed of the chance to kill that old hag than they are over the fact that she is dead,” the man replied, tone lightening with amusement. “Very well. Get her out of here after the storm ends and take her back to her pack, then. Livingston is a thorn out of my side.”
“You don’t want her?” Francine’s voice rose in surprise.
“There is only one wolf I want, Francine.” The man’s tone lowered, fringing on an aggressive growl. “Don’t forget your place.”
“Yes, sir,” the witch whispered.
“Any progress on the storm?”
Francine’s fear reeked. I sneezed, draping my paws over my muzzle to fend away the stench. “It’s getting worse, sir.”
“And what are you planning on doing about it?”
“We’re working to lessen the brunt of impact, sir. The fire witches will focus on raising the temperature, while water and earth witches divert the flood waters.”
Even I flinched at the anger in the man’s narrowed eyes. “So you can’t stop it?”
“No, sir, we can’t.”
“There are easily sixty of your coven in this compound, and you’re telling me there is nothing you can do except mitigate the damage?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“We’re witches, not wizards, sir,” Francine whispered.
“Explain.”
“Wizards don’t have the limitations we do. I can see things, but little else. My coven is the same. Weather witches are rare. Wizards who can work the weather are rarer still.”
“What of the Winter Wolf?”
I raised my head in surprise, ears twisted back at the mention of the other werewolf. Francine had spoken of the Winter Wolf once, but I hadn’t put much thought into it. The woman had come and gone, vanishing off of the face of the Earth a few years ago, leaving enough mystery in her wake that I wasn’t sure if she was just a legend or not. She was a lot like me in that regard.
I hoped she remained lost to the world forever, hidden and safe from the Inquisition.
If—no, when—they figured out who I was, there would be reason enough for worry. They didn’t need a wizard wolf and a witch wolf. The Inquisition had enough power under its thumb in the form of entire witch covens.
“I don’t think the Winter Wolf could help us anyway,” James said in a timid voice. “Fire, ice, and plague aren’t exactly what we need. She causes snowstorms; I don’t think she stops them. Good luck getting past her mate, too. No amount of money in the world is enough to talk me into making a run at him. Sorry, boss.”
“I understand.” The man’s eyes focused on me. Baring my teeth at him earned me an arched brow. “You said she’s a dire wolf?”
“A hybrid, sir, from the looks of her.” Francine sank back into the couch.
“I w
as under the belief that dire wolves were extinct.”
“They are,” Francine confirmed.
The skeptical glare shifted from me to the witch. I flicked an ear. If the man was a werewolf, he’d be a force to be reckoned with, considering how Francine recoiled from his stare. Whoever he was, he was definitely dominant.
I stood, shaking myself off. Three pairs of eyes snapped to me as I stepped forward. I breathed deep. The scent of humans and wolves filled my nose. I couldn’t tell if James’s scent clung to the man or if he was a werewolf masking his scent.
Our eyes met. Crouching down in front of me, he held out his hand. With as much dignity as I could muster, I placed my paw on his palm. He curled his fingers, lifting my paw to kiss my fur. “My name is Devonshire, Lady Wolf. Carl Devonshire. I thank you for the service you have done us. Mad witches, like mad wolves, should be put down.”
Devonshire’s grip on my paw tightened. His eyes darkened. So close, I couldn't mistake the faint scent of repressed wolf.
James cleared his throat. “I, unfortunately, do not know her name.”
“She is not the one who has been performing the rituals. She is far too small. Bitches have other ways of building new packs. I can’t imagine her having the violence needed to dominate so many new wolves in such short order. That’s a lot of power needed,” Devonshire said.
I kept still, hiding my reactions by freezing in place.
“Tell that to Olivia,” Francine muttered.
“Any wolf would attack to defend themselves or their pack. That doesn’t mean she is capable of performing the ritual on unwilling victims.”
Francine turned her head, making a soft growling noise. “That doesn’t mean she isn’t capable of it.”
“Until she returns to her human form, we have no proof.” There was a long pause. Once again, everyone stared at me. Devonshire’s voice turned cold. “If she can turn into a human at all.”
I bared my fangs at him.
“She’s either unwilling or unable,” James said, wrinkling his nose.
“Leave us.” Devonshire snapped his fingers, gesturing towards the door. “I will speak to her. Alone.”