by Brenna Lyons
Her head tipped back, and the evidence of Veriel’s feeding was revealed to him. Gawen cried out in pain as he realized that the beast had not even drained her dry but had fed and left the open wound so that she bled out slowly. Her clothing and the grass beneath her attested to that fact.
“Mother,” Andris cried out from the edge of the trees.
Gawen ignored his coming, cradling Regana’s head and shoulders to him while he rocked and smoothed her hair. Always, he had given her comfort this way — and comfort to himself as well. His scream of anger and frustration scattered birds from the treetops.
“Uncle, what should we do?” Andris asked in shock and dismay.
“Sheathe her weapons. She will have a warrior’s burial. Take my horse. Gather the lords and warriors. Tell them I am taking Regana to bury her next to her husband.”
“Where?” he asked quietly.
“They will show you, the older ones who were there when we buried him.”
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Regana was my responsibility. I should have stopped this. Now all I can do is give her peace with her lord.” He closed his eyes and kissed her hair. “Go,” he ordered. “I will meet you there.”
By the time the others arrived, Gawen was tearing up the sod with his hands and his blade, oblivious to all else. The grave seemed to appear before his eyes as if by magic, and he stared at the six other lords and sixteen young warriors — the youngest only seven years old — in surprise.
Gawen pushed Andris from Regana and held her to his chest one last time. “My one duty was to protect you,” he whispered. “I failed you, and I am sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Andris assured him.
“Quiet,” Gawen barked at him. “I’ve failed her over and over, but not again.”
“Uncle—”
“Don’t talk about things you have no knowledge of,” he stormed, then his heart melted at the sight of Regana and his voice dropped as she would have wanted it to. “I’m sorry, Andris. Truly, I am, but there are so many things you will never know.”
“About my mother?” he asked quietly.
“About us all!” He sighed raggedly and carried Regana to her grave. As the dirt covered her over, his course became clear. He had to find Veriel.
The beast came so suddenly and quietly, that his hand was on Gawen’s shoulder before the master trainer scanned anything. His weapon came up and caught Veriel on the shoulder as the beast backed away.
“Taking my life will not be so easy,” Gawen growled.
Veriel hung his head sadly. “Taking hers wasn’t easy either. I wanted to die with her, Gawen.”
“Why?” he thundered. “Why did you take her from me?”
“She wanted to join Pauwel. She begged me. She demanded it of me. Regana tried to kill me to force me to take her life. Finally, she threatened to find another beast if I refused her, one that would not be so kind,” he whispered.
“You fed! You let her bleed to death. That’s kind?”
“No pain. I assure you that she felt no pain. It was the only way I could guarantee that. Regana didn’t care, really, but I made her that promise anyway.”
Gawen looked at him in horror. How could Veriel so calmly describe taking the light of his days from him? “It’s over,” he warned. “Whatever strange truce Pauwel struck with you before he died that made you leave us in peace for so many years — whatever deal he struck is over. Any hopes you had of hunting with us as Pauwel did to end this are gone. You will be the most hunted beast of all time.”
Veriel nodded. “Living with what I’ve done damns me. Death is my only wish, now.”
“Then, I hope you live forever with your guilt,” he spat.
“Not forever. Only until a warrior Jäger born comes for me, the warrior who is to free me, to kill me.”
“Then, I hope he isn’t born for a very long time. For centuries!”
“After the things I’ve done, I deserve no better,” he whispered.
Epilogue
June 27th, 2002
Jörg smiled in understanding. Freedom. He said the word, tasting the sweet flavor of it on his tongue. He had given up hope of tasting death long ago. Jörg embraced it happily, as it stole the pain from him.
His eyes fell on his angel, his royal pardon from the new König line, his salvation, his murderer. As always, she was the woman he loved, Regana! For once, Jörg bought his own redemption with his misdeeds. By separating Erin/Jayde from her family, he had created the one warrior who could bring him peace.
His list of sins was formidable. Usually, they caused Jörg nothing but more pain. Who would have guessed that the most concerted effort he ever made to be selfish would bring the opposite result of what he had come to expect?
True to Gawen’s word, any mention of the fact that Jörg was anything but a beast elder like any other — except in his cunning and brutality, which was reported to far surpass that of his peers — destroyer of lives, mad deceiver, murderer and traitor was omitted from the written records and oral stories passed down by the houses. His former brother painted him as a fiend who, unprovoked, sentenced Pauwel to his glorious half-life as a beast killer beast.
He couldn’t begrudge Pauwel the notoriety that Gawen granted him, and he understood why the old goat refused to share the tale with the younger warriors until after Andris’ death at Lorian’s hands. Jörg winced in the memory of his son’s loss.
Andris left behind two sons and a daughter, his oldest barely trained. Jörg had repaid Lorian’s misdeed with a battle that sent the other beast to ground for five days with no explanation forthcoming as to why he chose to strike out at his old adversary after so many years of ignoring his actions. Lorian had given Jörg a wide berth for centuries after that, almost enough time for Jörg’s fury at the loss to dim.
The knowledge that Andris had killed his “father” was blessedly absent from the tale, even after his death. Only those who buried Pauwel the night he died would ever know of that fact. So, Pauwel was the hero all aspired to be, elder killer in life and great beast killer, if any elder ever again dared turn a warrior.
Meanwhile, Veriel was the most hated and feared, the most hunted of all beasts. Being hunted was tedious, but it gave him ample chance to test each warrior of Jäger he encountered with the hopes of finding that one warrior who would set him free. As time went on, Jörg had given up hope in frustration.
It was well over a century before he found himself drawn to Marie. At first, he had been confused by what he saw. Then, Jörg thought himself mad. One touch told him all he needed to know. She was — Regana.
The young woman bore no resemblance to his lost love. Her dark blond curls and shining blue eyes almost hid whatever resemblance there was to his chosen wife and mate. The true connection was in her soul, a soul that glowed with Regana’s essence. He lost Marie before he even learned his purpose, to protect and cherish her as he should have protected and cherished Regana. Jörg had failed her again and was left with nothing but those damnable dreams of holding her in the mid-day sun to sustain him through time.
Six more times, he’d felt himself called to a woman who shared Regana’s soul, a woman who needed his protection and love. He had limited success, but in the end, he lost them all: Andaswintha, Syrith, Ilona, Caitrina, Yzabeau, and Anna. The women seemed cursed to draw possessive human men, beasts and warriors alike to her, and the outcome had always been explosive. Every one had as fiery a spirit as her soul mothers before her did.
After Jörg lost Marie to a brutal human attack, he fell into a deep apathy while the warriors scattered to follow the beasts, spreading like a plague over Europe. The village had been overrun, the pact broken, as he knew it would someday be. Jörg knew the pact with the village had long since crumbled, and whatever lord was destined as stone lord carried it with him until he built a stone room in a home to hold it. The destruction of the village went largely unmourned.
Jörg’s only quest at that t
ime was tracing Marie’s past. He discovered that she was indeed a descendent of Andris, of his freed daughter who had married a human and moved on to produce her children far from the doomed village. He’d been too late in his discovery. The many descendents were too numerous, too scattered and intermarried, to search for another like her.
Andaswintha drew him west as far as the islands in the sea off the mainland. Determined not to lose her, Jörg had recruited humans in need of protection to guard her during the day and sold himself into their service for her sake. In the end, he’d lost her when a sizable force of turned beasts kept him busy while another took her from him.
In his fury, Jörg had refined his approach in preparation for the next of Regana’s souls to reach for him. There would be another. He’d been sure of the fact, even then.
By the time Syrith drew him east to what later became known as the Ukraine, Jörg had hand-chosen men that he turned and trained for this task.
Unlike the other elders, he didn’t horde his power from his turned brothers or turn those who did not wish to be turned. Jörg didn’t fear his turned, and he didn’t strand them as a distraction for the warriors with no defenses, living or dying by their intelligence, speed, and cunning alone.
His loyal turned had kept the beasts at bay while Jörg gave his protection to those he had pledged in trade. Until a warrior took her life when a turned dematerialized, leaving her in the path of his blade, Jörg had believed that he would succeed with this woman. The warrior and the turned that cost him Syrith dead by his own hand, he sank into despair again.
Ilona called him to the far northeast next. Jörg had decided that only his personal protection would do for her. His turned beasts had handled other beasts and protected the bought humans while he stayed by her side, leaving only to feed in the moments just before sunrise or just after nightfall.
His undoing had been his close proximity to her. Jörg had reasoned to himself that it had been six hundred years since Regana. The woman, even if she were of the same line, could not even be of blood close enough to consider her a distant relative anymore. So, when Ilona approached him eagerly, Jörg had responded to her with all the passion he wished that he could have given Regana in those years after he lost her love.
He’d been so intent on her that the fact that one of his bought humans saw the exchange escaped him. She was dead by the next nightfall, his small force overwhelmed by larger numbers and undone by the traitor who spied them together. The swift, bloody retribution Jörg and his turned beasts took on the traitor, his family, and the attacking force was the stuff of legends and nightmares, even his own. Finding his beloved taken from him so brutally when he had only just discovered peace in her arms sent Jörg into a dark rage that lasted centuries.
Caitrina had dragged him to France after a suitable time of mourning. She had accepted him utterly, and she remembered her soul’s past. Of all of them, perhaps even including Regana, losing Caitrina hurt the worst.
That time, he had been betrayed by one of his turned. The beast, knowing him distracted by his new love, made a deal with that incarnation of the Lord Kaufmann. By the time Jörg killed the beast and the lord, Caitrina had been at the brink of death, and he had been desperate not to allow another of Regana’s souls to die in his arms.
When he turned her, Jörg thought he had found peace at last. The other elders tried the same with the thought of having a true mate, though not one that could bear them children. They waited a year before they attempted it, but when Caitrina was still the same woman Jörg loved after that time, they attempted it for themselves. Theirs turned feral first, almost immediately. The other elders killed them in a fury, believing Jörg was hiding another secret from them that brought him happiness and them disaster. He had prayed it was his printing saving her, one of the few prayers he’d uttered since he went to the stone, but it was the hunt.
Jörg had always hunted for Caitrina to keep her from harm. After five years, she snuck away to prove she could protect herself. She went feral immediately, and a warrior killed her before Jörg could find a way to repair the damage done.
For two centuries after that night, he was alone and miserably glad of it. When Yzabeau appeared in his life, Jörg almost abandoned her rather than face losing her again. He went grudgingly, cursing the printing that drove him to her. Jörg went to her angry and frustrated, and he’d been brutal in his first kiss.
To his surprise, Yzabeau responded passionately, as if she had been the one waiting the long centuries for him to come love her. The firestorm that came at her touch seared them both even as it consumed them utterly, over and over. He took her endlessly that night, with her always ready and always responsive to his every touch. Jörg could not seem to deny her any pleasure, and he left her for the day, sure that he had found peace at last.
But, his power over her had frightened Yzabeau, and when he left her to go to ground, she sought aid from a priest who took her life, believing her damned for her sins with such a beast. The retribution Jörg took on the priest and his church was the most vicious he had ever taken.
He’d argued with himself for centuries. As much as Jörg knew he couldn’t ignore the pull when it came again, he’d wished he could do exactly that. Instead, he made a plan that should have been foolproof. Jörg would use all his power to shield the next one, to make her invisible to his enemies. His turned beasts would keep their distance, only acting when it was absolutely necessary. There would be no bought humans. His shield would do their job for him. That and the coercion that he could still manage if he felt her in distress during his resting hours. He had perfected a way of linking himself to a certain few with only a touch and no feeding. Jörg could recognize their minds and read strong emotion, even from a distance. Any warrior who troubled her would be executed for his trouble as Jörg ghosted away back to his lady. Every ounce of his power would be spent on her. Every kill and feed would be undertaken for the sole purpose of protecting her.
As for the physical relationship, Jörg could not make the mistake of using any force or pushing her too far too fast. The woman, whoever she was, had to come to him willingly and accept his advances passionately without fear of what was happening between them. But each time he touched Regana’s soul, the fire burned hotter and letting her go was more painful. How could Jörg take her slowly? Of course, if he fed, he could print whatever memories of the encounters suited him, but the memory of feeding on Regana herself made him reject the idea in shame and distaste. No, she had to be in a firestorm for him before he laid hands on her or he’d not lay hands on her at all.
The answer had come to him slowly as he’d experimented with his power to read human minds. Over time, Jörg found that he could place a portion of his disembodied mind into a dream, if the dreamer was amenable and he had sensed them actively — touched them beforehand. A happy dream was all he needed to slip in unnoticed and lead the dreaming. But, how would he explain it?
Jörg had wrestled with that idea for more than a decade, until the resurgence of mysticism in the 1960s and 1970s. Suddenly, his problem was solved — if the woman was born while the craze for such things lasted. They could formulate any number of reasons for her dreams, ranging from precognition or telepathy to past life insurgence and reincarnation to soulmates, any one of which was close to a portion of the truth.
When Anna pulled him all the way to middle America in the mid-1970s, Jörg had been bubbling over in anticipation. He’d touched her on a crowded street, scanning her quickly before ghosting away, as she turned to investigate the instant connection that simple touch foretold.
She was Regana. She was closer to Regana than any other woman Jörg had met since his beloved wife. Save her red hair and leaf green eyes, she could have been Regana in the flesh. He’d started his long, slow seduction of her that very night. Accepting that it was all a dream, Anna had given herself up fully to him each night, and Jörg had learned how to excite her most readily. While his experimentation left him painfu
lly aroused and in desperate need of release before almost every dawn, the lack of physical contact meant his control didn’t slip while he patiently worked her into a frenzy for him.
Jörg would have taken her when she visited Texas. She was more than ready for him, and away from home would be the perfect place to start a torrid affair. Jonas Lord Jäger had plagued him until he sent the man to his gods in frustration. Worse, the damage Calvin and Kord of Maher did kept Jörg from doing more than sustaining Anna’s heat for him over the next few days while he healed, but the wait was too much. Anna tried to turn to another man for the release that was his.
Dealing with Matt Collins had been a simple affair, and he took a little too much pleasure in hurting him before he bled the man dry. His feeding had been brutal. Jörg couldn’t seem to help himself when he read the other man’s plans for Anna in his mind. Sated on his blood hunt and secure in his protection of his mate, he had returned to her to quench the other fire in his blood.
There was no choice but to take Anna then. Her heat was uncontrolled, and the short interaction with her in the dance club had left Jörg walking the edges of madness again. He cringed later at the choices he made that night. He had been the beast again. Jörg had to have her, and despite his careful planning, no strategy was out of the question as long as he took her. When Corwyn Lord Jäger stole her from his arms, Jörg could have easily skinned the young man alive for his interference, and the months he kept her hidden were pure torture.
Finding her carrying Jäger’s child was a shock, but not for long. If Pauwel could play father to Jörg’s son while setting aside his prior claim, Jörg could play father to Corwyn’s while taking back what was rightfully his. In fact, had he not earned as much, watching his son raised by another man and trained to hate his true father, denied the knowledge of his true parentage and the father who would have done anything to hold him just once?