by Lola Taylor
“Good.” Elijah walked forward, toward the bonfire, and retrieved a large stick. Flames licked its end as he marched right back to the house, punched a hole through one of the windows, and tossed the burning stick inside. Curtains caught fire first, and then furniture, the fire crackling and eating its way through the room.
Water witches and warlocks rushed forward to extinguish the flames, but Gage held out a hand. “No,” he commanded. “Bring more fire. Bring every Red Witch and Warlock we have at our disposal.”
As the highest commanding officer there, no one disputed him. They respected his command, his personal guards there to support him should anyone try otherwise. Before long, the entire house was ablaze, its glow staining the sky orange.
Verika and Elijah stared, watching years of darkness and pain burn away.
“I had a promise to keep,” Elijah said quietly. He never took his gaze off the house. “I think it’s time to leave this all behind me, in the past where it belongs.”
She went to him, and he opened his arms. “We should leave,” she murmured.
“We will. One more minute, I promise.”
They hugged each other, Verika resting her head against his chest so she could listen to his heartbeat. Elijah pressed a kiss to her head, took in her smell and the amber light of the new dawn lightening the sky on the horizon. Bloody and sweating, they held each other and watched the world burn until the sirens came, and they at last vanished into the woods.
The Night of Ash and Blood. That’s what the Underworld media had called the fight between the Order of the Sun and the wolves and their comrades.
The humans’ media merely thought some drunken heiress had thrown a lavish party and burned down her home, tragically perishing in the fire herself.
If only it were that simple, Gage thought, straightening his black tie once more and glancing outside. Storm clouds, heavy and purple with unshed rain, loomed over Castle Crescent. The private company his secretary had hired to put on the memorial service had been prepared, throwing up a sturdy canopy as soon as the forecast had turned dour.
His stomach twisted into knots, and he swallowed hard to shove spit past the lump that had lodged itself in the pit of his throat. He hadn’t felt this nervous to speak before a crowd since he’d given his first Alpha speech back in Moonstruck. Yet knowing he was about to face all the grieving families of those slain but a week ago made him want to crawl into a hole. He would have to look into the accusing eyes and know that he was the real reason they had lost someone they loved.
Why their father would never tuck them into bed again.
Why their spouse would never be there to warm their sheets.
Why their child would be missing during holiday gatherings.
Those were the harsh realities he’d struggled to come to terms with throughout the long, dreary week since so much blood had been spilled on Mistress Black’s lawn.
So much violence, so much death. He kept racking his brain, trying to come up with some way it could all have been prevented. And yet he knew that final confrontation had been inevitable.
Danica, Alara, Verika, even Elijah, despite all his faults… They had been worth the price, hadn’t they? Slaying an evil that would have likely enslaved the world had been worth so many lives.
Hadn’t it?
A soft knock came at the door.
Gage looked up. His heart swelled with joy.
Danica stood there, her belly swollen, emphasized by the elegant, empire-waisted black gown she wore. Long sleeves of inky velvet coated her arms, and the simple diamond studs he’d given to her because he’d felt like spoiling her dotted her ears. Her long golden hair had been swept up into a regal coif. A delicate crown of nickel-plated moons accented by pearly stars rested atop her head.
Her green eyes shone, a knowing smile on her pink lips. Silently, she stepped inside and closed the door before she crossed the room to her husband and mate. Her lithe pale hands, the nails of which had been painted a faint coral color that complemented her creamy skin tone well, slipped through his arms, and she rested her head against his shoulder.
They both stared at their reflection in the mirror hanging in his private study.
“You are so beautiful,” Gage murmured, taking her hand and kissing it. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. And my feet hurt. And my boobs hate bras right now.” She smiled softly. “But I’ll manage.”
He kissed her lightly on the lips, partly because he didn’t want to spoil her makeup and in part holding himself back. If he didn’t, he’d have her atop the desk, legs spread wide, pants down by his ankles. Though he knew she felt more self-conscious than ever about her appearance, the sight of her belly, heavy with his baby, made her all the more irresistible to him. He nuzzled her neck, inhaled her scent of roses. He loved that his sheets smelled like her now every time he lay down. “You’re gorgeous.”
“And you look troubled. Gonna tell me what’s going on?”
Gage sighed, methodically running his fingertips up and down her spine as he thought. “I feel so guilty.”
“Why?”
“Like all the death, all the loss…it’s my fault. I am their king. I commanded them to come to my aid, and they did. And many of them paid dearly for it.”
“First of all, I know you never would have exercised the Alpha’s Right on anyone. You’d never command someone to come and help. They made that choice of their own free will.”
“I know, but—”
“But hear me out.” She cupped his face with her hands, holding his gaze with hers. “You feel guilty because you like to take the world’s hurt and pile it on your own shoulders, as if doing so will ease the burden of loss for other people. You are kind, Gage. Too kind at times, perhaps. It’s both your greatest strength and your greatest fault. You cannot blame yourself for something you had no control over whatsoever. Those men and women, while I also feel and grieve their losses, came to your aid because they respected you as their leader and king. They thought enough of you to lay down their lives to help you. They believed in something—in someone, you—so strongly that they were willing to risk everything for it. So before you blame yourself, please give them more credit. They acted out of loyalty to their crown, and their kin. To treat their deaths as anything but a fierce act of bravery would dishonor their memories. Mourn them. Honor them. That is the only way.”
Gage stood there, dumbstruck. The clock on the wall ticked away the silent seconds as his mate searched his gaze.
“Well, say something.” She smiled slightly.
He blinked, shook his head, and kissed her. “You’re incredible, you know that? The kind of queen every king wishes he had.”
“Well, then it’s a good thing you have me.” She grinned.
“Damn straight.” He leaned in for another kiss, when a knock came at the door.
“Sire,” someone said from the other side, “it’s almost time for the ceremony to start.”
“Thank you,” he called. With a heavy-hearted sigh and a stomach that was full of butterflies, he leaned his forehead against his mate’s. His eyes fluttered closed, as did hers.
He swore in quiet moments like these their hearts beat as one. He could feel their collective pulse, hear the gentle swoosh of their breathing as it synchronized.
As one. Now and forever.
Taking her hand, he started toward the door. She held tight, not saying anything. She didn’t need to. Her grasp alone was enough.
It assured him she was there for him, and he for her, however long their lives may be.
And, because of the bravery of those fallen souls, that appeared to be for a while longer yet.
The memorial was beautiful. Gage had deviated from his speech some once he got going, his voice thick and raw with emotion. The sounds of sniffling had filled the air, breaking up the din of the light rain showering the countryside.
Mist rose off the ground. Everything had a bluish tint thanks to the relentless cloud
cover, which made the trees and hills look sleepy and somber.
As people started to file out of the tent and into the castle for the banquet prepared to honor the fallen heroes, Gage swung by his office to check his appearance and scan over his next speech.
A soft knock came at the open door. Verika stood there, dressed in a simple black dress. Elijah wasn’t with her, though Gage could sense his presence lingering in the hallway.
“Eli,” Gage called tiredly, “you can come in, too. Don’t be afraid.”
Gage heard the sharp intake of breath. A moment later, Elijah joined them, donning a black button-down and black slacks. His hair had been slicked back with a bit of gel, and he’d shaved. The hollows of his face still looked too steep, the blue under his eyes a bit too pronounced. But it had only been one week since they fought Mistress Black. It would take time for him to heal. It would take time for all of them to heal.
Gage smiled at them. “Glad you could make it today.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Elijah said gruffly, slinging a protective arm around Verika’s shoulders as she shivered and hugged herself.
Gage’s eyes softened in sympathy. He knew that grave look, saw the deep slope of her shoulders—Eli’s too.
They both felt guilty.
What broke his heart the most was the fact he knew he couldn’t help them. That was something they would have to work out for themselves. Someday they would realize the Night of Blood and Ash was not because of them but because of one selfish woman’s insatiable greed for power. Her quest—to create a world where paranormals could live free from fear of persecution—might have started out with a nobler purpose once upon a time. When Mistress Black still had a soul, if she ever had one. He wondered from time to time whether the spell she’d used to gain power, whether her leaching off the souls of the innocent, had somehow warped her mind and heart. Whether, perhaps, deep, deep down, there had been some pure part of her worth saving.
He shook his head. Useless thoughts that didn’t hold any meaning other than making him question their choices. And if there was one thing he hated, it was negative what-ifs. As a king, he couldn’t afford to let himself get down in the dumps with dark thoughts. There was simply too much to do. Sometimes he jokingly said he was married to every Alpha, queen, Beta, Omega, pup, and everyone in between within the werewolf nation. Only it wasn’t a joke. He wasn’t just an Alpha anymore—he was the Alpha, the leader they all looked up to.
For protection, for guidance. He had an example to set.
Starting with righting some very epic wrongs.
He swiped a manila folder off his desk, handed it to Verika. “Your official pardons.”
“I could kiss you right now.” Verika stared reverently at the folder. “Only, I won’t. That would be awkward,” she quickly amended, glancing between the two brothers.
Elijah suppressed a smile, though gold briefly flashed through his eyes.
They each carefully removed their documents. His signature had barely had time to dry before he’d stuffed them into the folders. “So the High Council wiped our slates clean? No treason, no obstructing evidence, not even a Class A misdemeanor for practicing illegal magic?” Verika asked, her voice a bit high pitched from nerves.
“Nope. In exchange for your services in helping bring down one of the most dangerous witches to have ever lived, and basically saving the Underworld in doing so, the Council has decided to drop everything against you.”
“Everything?” Elijah held his brother’s gaze in question.
Gage smiled. “Yes, Eli. Everything. You’re officially free.”
The air left Elijah’s massive frame in such a whoosh that it made several of the papers on Gage’s desk take flight. Much to his disgruntlement—sorting papers was one of his least favorite things to do, but another necessary evil of being king—but he wasn’t angry for long.
Elijah swayed, stumbled, his face heavy with emotion. Tears slicked his eyes, and he desperately clung to Verika as she steadied him. “I’m free,” Elijah breathed, as if still unable to believe it. “I’m free.” His knees buckled, and down to the floor he went. Verika went with him, rubbing his back in soothing strokes as tears streamed silently down his face. The paper shook in his hand, and he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off it.
Gage went over to him and knelt, placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Yes, brother. You’re free. We all are. No more running, no more looking over your shoulder. The Council destroyed your criminal record. You can start over now.”
“Thank you,” he at last blubbered, the words barely intelligible because his voice was so raw.
“No thanks needed. I’m glad to help.” Gage stood, offered his hand. “Speaking of starting over…how about we do too? Starting with you—and Verika, of course—staying for dinner tonight?”
Elijah tore his eyes off the paper to stare at Gage’s hand. He grasped it. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Two months later on Thanksgiving Day
Verika didn’t realize how quiet the tiny, secluded graveyard was until Elijah killed the engine. The silence of the surrounding woods immediately enveloped them. Not even the wind stirred on this chilly November morning.
Verika sat in the passenger seat, watching her breath fog the glass. Her body felt heavy, and she wasn’t entirely sure why. There was the sting of grief, the ache of longing, the stab of loss.
And yet, underneath it all, she felt truly, deeply thankful.
Thankful she now knew what had happened to her parents, where they were. It had taken awhile to track down their graves, but she’d wanted to come to Florida to visit them as soon as she’d found out where they were buried.
Finally, she could lay to rest all the hurt she’d carried all these years over them supposedly abandoning her. They had wanted her, had loved her with all their hearts. Her mother’s journal had proved that much.
So why did she still feel so guilty? Why was it suddenly impossible to get out of the car?
Rough, callused fingers rubbed her arm through her sweater. “You okay?” Elijah murmured, brows stooped in concern.
Verika took a deep breath, let it out. Turned her head to face her mate. “Yeah.” She nodded. “Let’s do this. It’s not going to get any easier just sitting here.”
A gentle squeeze was his response before they both silently got out of the car. Verika never heard the car doors lock as they trekked up the hill. Out here, in the boondocks of the deep South, there wasn’t a soul for miles. The last farmhouse she’d seen had been over five miles back. She was kind of surprised no one else was out here. Holidays tended to pull people to graveyards, to remind them of people loved and lost. People who they weren’t able to enjoy the holidays with anymore. Even the grass looked gray, though a few green patches remained here and there. Stubbornly clinging to life despite winter’s approach.
Some of the heaviness in Verika’s footsteps faded the farther they climbed. She kept her hands clasped in front of her because she didn’t know what else to do with them. They felt sweaty inside her leather gloves, but she didn’t dare pull them off. It was far too cold out for that. She’d have to wait until they got back into the car.
Elijah kept a hand on the small of her back the whole way. Not so much pushing her toward the large headstone beneath the barren, grand oak tree so much as to silently remind her he was there, ready to catch her should her knees give out.
Curiously, the closer they drew to the gravestone, the stronger, surer she felt.
Her eyes read over the names etched into the gunmetal gray marble as soon as she was close enough to read them.
Moira Elizabeth Stone
Loving Mother and Wife
Michael Jason Stone
Doting Husband and Father
She didn’t remember stopping before the grave, only vaguely registered how her heart skipped a beat, how her breath caught.
Her eyes slowly raked over the names again.
Elijah had let go of her, standin
g but two feet behind her, hands stuffed in his pressed black pants pockets. She could feel his concern, his strength through their bond. But he also knew she needed to do this on her own. Needed space to process the gamut of emotions tumbling through her.
Verika reached out, reverently ran her palm over the crown of the cold headstone. Her parents’ final resting place seemed so plain, so ordinary, considering the life they’d lived. Especially her mother.
Verika’s hero. A woman who’d done everything she could, sacrificed everything she had, so that her daughter might grow up in a normal world.
Or, well, as normal as being a witch could get. If anything, her mother’s binding spell had made life more difficult for Verika in the witching community. Affinity-less witches tended to stick out like sore thumbs. The binding had made her a freak anyway. She’d been shunned regardless of her mother’s good intentions. And they had been good. That much Verika was certain of.
So, despite the flawed logic in her plan, her mother’s heart had been in the right place. And for that, Verika couldn’t fault her.
For that reason alone, Verika could forgive her for not being there. For missing every birthday, every heartache, every triumph. Because, in a way, deep, deep, deep down inside, Verika knew her mother was still with her. That she’d never left, that she’d simply bottled her love in the form of the crystal Verika wore around her neck now.
A symbol of everlasting love that death could never take away.
Verika knelt in the soft, dew-damp grass. The sun had broken the horizon only fifteen minutes ago, its golden rays streaking the lightening indigo sky and cascading over the graves, trees, and rolling grasses of the surrounding meadow.
The grass tickled her stockinged legs as she nestled a bouquet of white roses at the base of the gravestone.
Her voice shook when she spoke; her heart fluttered in her chest. “Hi, Mom, Dad,” she whispered after a pause heavy with unspoken words. Though she’d been saying Mom and Dad to her foster family, she’d always known in the back of her mind that it was a lie. A good one, because it meant she was lucky enough to have found a family to call her own. But a lie all the same.