by RJ Blain
Vengeance would be mine.
~*~
Hail slammed in through the ruins of the window, bouncing across the carpet to pile around my feet. By the laws of nature, tornadoes connected the sky and the ground in swirling masses of air capable of destroying everything in their paths.
My tornado, like some demented slinky, hit the ground, gathered up all of the snow it could, and arced towards my window. The cold bit at my lungs and froze everything in place.
The wind died away, revealing an enclosed slide of snow and ice. Icicles cracked and fell away from my body as I managed to take a single step forward.
The tunnel extended some fifty feet away from the building, ending in sheet of blue-white ice. I shuddered.
In my head, I had imagined a simple ramp extending to the ground below.
The strength flowed out of me. With a groan, I sank to my knees. What had I done? More importantly, how had I done it?
Behind me, one of the wolves whined.
“Go,” I gasped, unable to force any strength into the command. James drove Mark past me with nips and warning growls. Both wolves paused to stare at me with solemn eyes.
I couldn’t smile. It took all of my will to keep myself kneeling upright. “Go on. Hurry.”
Mark whined, stretching his nose towards me. James snarled, nipping the smaller wolf, driving him towards the slide. With a brutal slam of his shoulder, James sent Mark tumbling down the slide. After a moment’s hesitation, the mastiff-sized werewolf plunged through the hole.
Ice crackled. I crawled forward in time to catch a glimpse of both wolves slipping, sliding, and spinning as momentum carried them across the ice field beyond the slide. A cloud of white plumed as the slide collapsed in their wake. I recoiled, shielding my face with an arm as shards of ice pelted into me.
My breath fled me in a sigh. The air shimmered around me in the green and yellow of an aurora. The door opened, slamming into the wall behind me. I couldn’t find the strength to turn and face the Inquisitors.
“Don’t move, witch,” Anderson’s voice called out.
I wanted to laugh. From behind, I doubted my young CEO could recognize me, white-haired and caked in snow and ice, while curtains of light danced around me. A witch, indeed.
The song of the storms continued in the back of my head, their presences soothing despite my awareness of a swiftly approaching death. I didn’t move, as commanded, but only because I couldn’t.
If god existed, he was surely laughing at me.
“Hands where we can see them,” Anderson ordered.
My arms trembled. I didn’t manage to spread them to my sides. Lifting them didn’t work either. My fingers twitched in spasms.
“You little bitch,” Devonshire snarled. Fingers dug into my shoulder, forcing me to turn. I fell against the other werewolf’s legs. The man recoiled several steps. I fell, my elbow banging into the floor.
In his calm, businesslike way, Anderson asked, “Do you want me to shoot, sir?”
“One shot. Try not to kill her.”
The crack of gunfire deafened me. I couldn’t tell where I’d been hit. The burn of silver seared through me, lighting every nerve in my body on fire.
I screamed. Before unconsciousness could claim me, I thought I heard the sweet melody of my storms sour with rage.
It was enough for me to cling to awareness, barely.
Chapter Thirty One
Instead of blood, fire ran through my veins. My wolf howled in my head before she was gone altogether. The pain faded to a distant throb. Panic closed off my throat, but cool air was forced into my lungs. I was aware of being carried, but I couldn’t force myself to fight against those who held me.
Disinfectant burned my nose, but I couldn’t voice my anguish.
Captured, shot, but alive.
Anderson had shot me. The memory replayed in my head, over and over as though to ensure I would never forget the truth. Not only had he shot me, he had done so with a silver bullet. Unless I was trapped in a nightmare spawned from my meddling with the weather, he had shot me with a bullet crafted of old silver.
My memories of shooting other werewolves with old silver refused to be ignored. Blood turned black on the impact of the bullet. More often than not, my victims had slumped to the ground, releasing a breath as a sigh, as they slipped into comas they’d never awaken from.
It was easy to kill a werewolf who couldn’t fight back.
Slitting throats had been my preferred method. Quick and merciful. I couldn’t remember how many of my own kind I had killed when I had been forced to obey the Inquisition.
Despair smothered me, but the life support machine’s beeping reminded me that Devonshire and the Inquisition had me.
This time, they wouldn’t let me go, alive or otherwise.
At least I had bought James and Mark enough time to escape. I embraced my relief that I’d managed to do something. My hopes of doing any damage against the Inquisition crumbled, but the outcome didn’t surprise me. Death was inevitable.
Unless I managed to escape the life support machine and let the silver finish its work, it’d be a long time in coming, however.
Listening to the infernal beeping of the machine, I tried to come up with a plan. Killing a werewolf my age was difficult, but so long as my blood turned black in my veins, death would come.
My storms doomed me with weakness, but they could offer me the mercy of death the Inquisition wouldn’t. All I had to do was call out for the storms, order them to do something far beyond my capabilities, and let them drain me dry.
Without magic and without my wolf, I would die.
It’d be a mercy for both me and my wolf. I—woman, witch, and wolf—could be free. We could hunt for Samantha and the rest of my pack in the afterlife, if there was one.
The bleak hope of death dulled my grief.
“If the generator dies, we’re going to lose her,” Doctor Harold said somewhere over my head.
Someone cursed.
“We’re down to one generator, and the storm isn’t letting up at all,” another replied, his voice deep, masculine and unfamiliar.
I tried to catch their scents on a breath, but my nose wasn’t working right anymore. A faint hint of disinfectant mingled with a stronger cologne. Had cologne always been so sweet and enticing? It didn’t stink as much as I remembered.
“She probably won’t live even with the generator,” Doctor Harold continued, speaking in the same tone of a reporter relaying insignificant news.
“Explain,” Devonshire demanded.
“It’s the silver, sir. It’s in her blood. You kill the wolf, and the woman’ll follow soon enough. With as much black in her bloodstream as there is, her wolf is likely already dead. Take her off oxygen, and I suspect her heart will stop within minutes.”
I didn’t like the man’s matter-of-fact tone. It didn’t help I agreed with him.
Take away my wolf, and the inhuman years I’d lived through would catch up with me. Considering how few humans lived over a hundred, let alone any longer than that, I suspected I’d wither and die within a few hours at best.
Werewolf invincibility only went so far, and I hadn’t been kind towards myself over the years.
“What are her chances if you remove the bullet?” Anderson asked.
“If her wolf hasn’t died? Guaranteed. If her wolf is dead? Zero. Look, Mr. Anderson, I’m not a surgeon. I’m specialized in infectious diseases. But I’ll tell you this much: If that bullet isn’t removed, she dies. Period. End of story. No chance of survival. Werewolves aren’t gods, and they certainly aren’t immortal.”
“Devonshire, I paid you to catch her, not to kill her,” Anderson said, his tone dark. “I’ve another bullet in the chamber, and I’ll happily use it on you if she dies. Am I clear? This might be your outpost, but I won’t hesitate to take you out.”
“Understood. Fine. Remove the bullet,” Devonshire spat.
“Good man,” Anderson replied. There was a b
rief moment of silence, broken by the beeping of the life support machine. “Go back to your cage and stay there.”
The slap of running feet and the slamming of a door announced Devonshire’s departure.
I tried to make sense of what I was hearing. Why was Devonshire obeying Anderson? At the gas station, Anderson had mentioned the Archeons, the secondary rulers of the Inquisition, who bowed only to the Shadow Pope. Was Anderson one of the Archeons? Or was the Archeon hidden amongst the Inquisitors, watching and waiting?
As the commander of the outpost, Devonshire had to at least be a Cardinal.
I wanted to scream my frustration and confusion.
Doctor Harold cleared his throat. “It’s fortunate you hit her arm and missed the bone. I think even I can pull the bullet out without killing her. It won’t take long.”
“And here I thought you weren’t a surgeon or good with werewolves.” Anderson sounded amused.
“I’m not, but this isn’t a difficult operation. Give me five minutes and a pair of tweezers and it’ll be out. What kind of round was it?”
“A very special one. Pull it out and keep me informed of her condition.”
“Of course, Mr. Anderson.”
“Oh, and Harold?”
“Sir?”
“Give me the key for the back door. I have to go outside to check on the generator later. I’ll be back to check on her in an hour. Assuming all is well, I will leave the door unlocked.”
“Sir?” Confusion infused Doctor Harold’s question.
“Some wolves need to be caged. Others belong wild and free. Nature doesn’t like being tamed. There needs to be at least a few wild things left in the world.”
“As you wish, sir.”
The silver’s poisoning surged through my veins. A vice-like grip clamped down on my arm. I struggled to pull away, but my muscles refused to obey. The cold of metal touched my scorching skin, and then the silver’s fire consumed me.
The world went dark and silent.
~*~
Maybe it was my growing aversion to hospitals or the removal of the silver bullet, but I doubted I had been out for too long before the throb in my arm woke me. Cracking open an eye, I swallowed back a groan. Doctor Harold hadn’t bothered to bandage the wound.
I bled black, staining the white sheets with fluid I expected out of a zombie horror flick rather than out of me. At least I was dressed in my own clothes. My effort to kick off the sheets didn’t work. I did manage to sit up, gasping from the effort.
At least I hadn’t been left naked.
The room spun around me several times before stilling. A black, oozing scab marked where the IV had been.
The single overhead light flickered. My hand shook as I reached up to rub at my eyes. Was my wolf dead? I didn’t think so.
If she had died, I’d be a shriveled corpse.
“You’re awake? About time,” Anderson said from the doorway. I stiffened as I realized he stood between me and the only route of escape.
My reply emerged as a zombie groan.
“You know what I’m going to ask, don’t you?” Anderson’s voice was quiet. Was it regret I heard in his voice? I pondered that for a long moment.
The Inquisition often left people regretting their actions.
I managed a wry, regretful smile. “Who died and made you Pope?”
Anderson jerked. Maybe it was due to the habit of working for me, but he answered, “My uncle.”
My mouth dropped open.
I had been joking.
It took me a few minutes to think, but Anderson waited, his expression that of patient tolerance. “Carlsten?” I hadn’t met that particular Shadow Pope, but like all of the others, the thought of the man left a sour taste in my mouth.
“I should’ve known you knew who my predecessor was.”
“You’re truly the Shadow Pope?” I whispered, not wanting to believe it. I trembled, but I wasn’t sure if it was weakness, rage, or grief. “You?”
“I am.”
A hundred conflicting emotions silenced me for several long moments. I managed to swing my legs off the bed, though the effort left my face sweaty and my hands shaking. “Why are you here? Why Marrodin?” Spitting out the questions heightened my awareness of the man standing beyond my reach.
James had tried to kill me to save me from falling into the Inquisition’s hands. Mark had taken Samantha away from me to preserve his own skin, although he’d been paid his bounty for her death.
I could understand that. I had lived through it myself, long ago.
But Anderson stood at the very top of the mountain, staring down at me from a peak I had no hope of climbing. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t force my legs into motion. My fingers curled into claws, but I was powerless to tear his throat out.
It was Anderson.
“Why?” I whispered. With one little word, I had managed to ask a hundred or more questions.
My traitorous eyes burned.
James I could forgive.
Mark I had freed.
But Anderson? How could I forgive him? How could I not? He had never done anything to harm those in Marrodin. I couldn’t imagine him hurting anyone. But maybe that’s what made him a successful Shadow Pope.
He was someone who could vanish without a trace, someone no one expected to lead the world’s largest group of enforcers and murderers. He was someone everyone believed incapable of wrongdoing. He was, at least on the surface, kind and gentle, hardworking, and admirable.
Anderson was perfect for the job.
“Samantha’s death was a mistake.”
Anderson’s words hit hard.
Samantha’s death had been a mistake? Her life was gone, extinguished forever, and it had been a mistake? My pack of two had dwindled to one for nothing? Maybe if I didn’t believe Anderson’s words, she would somehow return to me. I stared at the floor.
Anderson sighed. “I hadn’t realized she wasn’t just a rogue witch.”
“You had her killed. By Mark.”
“He begged me not to. I didn’t listen. I couldn’t allow a witch so close to the board of Marrodin.”
“Mark knew?”
Anderson shrugged. “All he said was that I was making a mistake.”
My rage surged, and my hands stilled. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t rip your heart out and feed it to you.”
“It’d be within your rights, I suppose,” Anderson replied, leaning against the door frame, he crossed his arms over his chest. “But you don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?” I contemplated whether or not I could stand to make good on my threat.
“You could save the werewolves here. You could make them remember how to be human again. You could give them their sanity back.” Anderson made a face like he had swallowed something sour. “I could put Devonshire down, once and for all.”
“You could’ve done that long ago,” I accused.
“I could have,” he agreed with a nasty smile. “But then I wouldn’t have been able to capture you, Ms. Hanover. To think, the most prized of all werewolves, leading Marrodin. And to add to the sweet irony of it, you were never really human at all, were you?”
With far more grace than I remembered him having, Anderson closed the distance between us. There was nothing kind or happy about his grin. His fingers were cold on my skin as he lifted my chin so our eyes could meet.
I couldn’t deny it. Werewolves lost a little of their humanity with each and every transformation, until at last the wolf ran wild. For some, it took hundreds of years if the plague didn’t kill them first. Samantha had saved me from running wild. The next time I lost control—if there was a next time—I doubted there would be anyone to save me. I said nothing, averting my eyes.
“That’s why you needed Samantha. She kept you clinging to that human shell. She kept your true self from escaping. Even now, your lust for revenge keeps you from becoming the true wolf you really are.” Anderson pressed his thumb to my lips.
&nb
sp; I kept silent. There was too much truth to his words for me to deny, but I couldn’t accept it, either.
I wasn’t a true wolf, nor would I ever be one. True wolves didn’t fight for their control. They were born in true harmony with their wolves, as natural as the shifting of the seasons.
There was nothing natural about me.
“You aren’t even allergic to dogs at all, are you? You’re so repulsed by the idea you aren’t really a human at all that your fake, unnatural body tries to reject the very presence of your own kind.”
I closed my eyes, jerking my chin out of Anderson’s hold. “You’re insane.”
“I asked Harold to test you for allergies. You’re negative. It’s all in your head, Ms. Hanover.”
“Bullshit.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you. How long have we known each other?” Anderson’s voice took on a cajoling tone. “I’m truly sorry about Samantha. I will find you another witch—”
“Stop.” My voice sounded as tired as I felt. “You may as well shoot me with your last silver bullet, Anderson. I won’t help you and your Inquisition.”
“You will,” he replied before pausing. “You must.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re the Caretaker of the Seasons, aren’t you? This storm is your doing. You must help. You can’t kill your own kind, and this storm will. You must use your power to calm the storms. Your pack will die.”
“I have no pack.”
“Marrodin is your pack,” Anderson cooed. “All of them. That’s why you founded it, wasn’t it? You wanted something to fill the emptiness within. A wolf can’t exist long without pack. These storms will hurt them. That’s why you’re so generous with vacation days, and why people can take off time once a month. You were letting the werewolves survive, unnoticed, among the humans.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m simply telling the truth. I know what you are.”
I opened my eyes and stared at Anderson. “What do you think I am, you insufferable know-it-all?”
He flinched at the force of my stare before regathering his composure. “You were a human child born to a pack of wolves. You had to be taught to be a human, didn’t you? You had to be kept hidden, a secret shame. You were supposed to be born a wolf to a werewolf mother, who had stayed as a wolf to ensure her offspring lived.”