Black Werewolves: Books 1–4

by Gaja J. Kos

  “The lord of the underworld, whoever he is, has the ability to take lives,” she continued, walking a thin line between truth and lie. A thin line of what knowledge she may share with Serafina, even with the Koldunya’s high-ranking status taken into account. There were more secrets in existence than simply those of the higher-ups.

  But Ileana was aware that her daughter had already confided the specifics of her power to the witch. At least, when it came to Rose, her words wouldn’t reveal anything new. “My daughter, on the other hand, feels lives that have not crossed fully into the underworld, as well as those who are, essentially, tethered to both worlds.”

  “Vampires.” Serafina nodded from behind her coffee cup. “I understand now that that’s why she was able to take vampiric lives. It was because of that dash of foreign energy embedded into her own. Underworldly energy. Vampires come from the latter, but Rose is the one that reigns over them all. Hopefully soon, without even a hint of foreign power left in her system—as it should have been from the start.”

  Rose flinched in her chair, and a pang of hurt rushed through Ileana’s chest in response. Her daughter might have come to love her power, to accept it as a fundamental part of her—but she still hadn’t accepted herself, who she was. Not fully.

  Understandable, under the circumstances. Under the shadow of Damir’s death.

  But to Ileana, Rose was perfect. And she was strong.

  The realm of Earth-tethered souls couldn’t wish for a better ruler or a gentler caretaker. It was on Rose to accept that, as well.

  “If the vampires fear her,” Serafina continued, casting an apologetic glance in Rose’s direction, “shouldn’t they all fear her? Country, distance… It shouldn’t matter. Because none of that does matter in the ethereal pouch Rose reigns over. They are her subjects. Every one of them, regardless of their geographical location.”

  Ileana ran a hand through her thick, dark blonde curls, the slight red tint they carried shimmering in the sunlight. Finally, she exhaled, turning to the witch and willing her features to soften. Sometimes, a person’s own past could make them blind. “Because, unlike your kin—though I believe, as sorry as I am to say this, that the Kolduny more than anybody else know the perils, the consequences of this development—many have forgotten their true origin. They have forgotten or had never even been told about their Slavic ancestors. About their true gods.

  “And perhaps, this time, instead of bringing upon destruction, it just might be ignorance that will save innocent lives.”

  Shielded by the shadows, he watched Rose walk down the bristling avenue, chatting away with the attractive redhead. They seemed serious in their discussion, yet relaxed at the same time. None of the tension he had seen riddling Rose’s body on all those occasions before was there any longer.

  He strained, but her voice failed to reach him, rather becoming part of the endless hum that was New York.

  The impulse to follow thrummed in his veins.

  Once, only once, he had made the mistake of coming too close. She hadn’t seen him then. But she had certainly felt him.

  And the experience was lesson enough on the importance of distance. As frustrating and hard as said distance might’ve been.

  He exhaled.

  Her lean yet curvy form disappeared behind a group of Japanese tourists, one final glimmer of the Koldunya’s flamboyant hair and a wave of Rose’s arm alerting him of the direction.

  He should’ve followed.

  He should’ve walked down the avenue and blended with the crowd.

  But instead, he found himself unable to move.

  His shoulder brushed against the surface of the building kept cool by the shade, and he leaned against it, craving for a cigarette between his lips. Not for the first time, either.

  This was his creation.

  The path he had chosen out of the need to protect—though one can never protect everybody. Or, perhaps, it had been out of fear.

  Actions that could never be taken back weighed on his consciousness, restricting his own freedom. He had done so much in the past months, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Not even close to what he could if there were no limitations, except for those even the chosen must follow.

  Fuck his conscience. For her, he would do it all.

  He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of New York wash over him. Lost in the swirl of the teeming city, he failed to notice the silent approach until a voice snapped him from the dazed state.

  There was no mistaking the caged hostility that prickled at his skin, the cold voice lined with fury. Ileana.

  “How long have you been monitoring my daughter, Veles?”

  Chapter 15

  Veles didn’t move. He figured someone was bound to sniff him out sooner or later. He just hadn’t thought it would be the seasoned, lethal, too-well-connected-and-knowledgeable-for-her-own-good were. The god spun around on his heels, taking in the New Yorker.

  “Good to see you, Ileana.”

  The werewolf smirked, crossing her toned arms across her chest. “Sorry that I can’t say the same.”

  Though Veles expected as much, the words still stung. The god slipped into his old self, into the one state that became oddly reassuring throughout the centuries. “Ah, you have never been too keen on seeing me, Ileana. Though I can’t imagine why…” He motioned to his body, matching the were’s smirk.

  “How long have you been monitoring my daughter, lord of the underworld?”

  Her unrelenting gaze pinned him to the spot, but Veles didn’t let his face fall. With predatory eyes, brimming with power, he took in the mortal woman, forcing himself to look past the similarities, the subtle lines in her features that threatened to bring him down.

  He wasn’t finished.

  And he wasn’t going to let anybody keep him from fulfilling the silent oath. Ileana might mean well, but after everything, he had no need for her assistance. Or sympathy.

  Though the latter was questionable on its own.

  After all, Veles didn’t feel any sympathy for himself, either.

  Winter brushed against his skin, the touch far from the soft breaths of January in Trentino. Although Veles was not phased by the transitions of nature, this frost was not the same one humankind knew.

  Created from power, it crept into his flesh, reminding him that if he didn’t move, he would end up buried beneath the crust of snow, god or not.

  Some deities continued to walk the earth in near-perfect anonymity, some had ceased to exist, and some retreated to a place of power where their environment continued to sustain them—yet trap them at the same time. To Veles, the latter seemed the worst outcome of them all. What value was there in life if it had to be restrained in order to be preserved?

  He shuddered, not entirely because of the weather. The path was unmarked, but his feet knew where to carry him. There was only one direction in this secluded ruin of a realm, one path that led to death—though Veles had another kind in mind. Something of an empowering nature, despite its darkness.

  In the distance, shielded by the thick snowfall, were the outlines of a castle. Veles observed the run-down turrets of the two flanking towers, the white wall that stretched between them still carrying the hint of its previous glory.

  Despite its state, the castle was impressive. But as the god kept his eyes on the structure, a different sentiment nestled inside him. He wanted to push away the lethal tendrils of sadness, the memories he had kept even as centuries passed… But he was alone in the snow. Alone in a land where every step was a painful reminder of the loss the chaos of change could bring.

  He had lost enough himself.

  Willing his feet to move, Veles’ eyes never left the white castle. He allowed the sorrow pooling inside his core to empower him and clear his mind of everything but the sole thought that had driven him to visit this land.

  The trip hadn’t been an easy one. His muscles burned from entering a realm that wasn’t his own, a realm that wasn’t truly tethered to Earth any lon
ger except by a faint vine of belief that had survived the ages. The amount of strength he had been forced to use was as daunting as the realm of eternal snow itself.

  If he were met by any hostile resistance, Veles wasn’t certain of what the outcome would be.

  Still, he pushed forward, the thick white walls of the castle growing larger in front of his eyes.

  The landscape around him was devoid of trees, devoid of anything but the thick blanket of snow that covered the ground. Winds intensified as he neared the premises, the god’s dark strands of hair stiff with the chill.

  He crossed a sloped bridge that led across the frozen moat, finding the portcullis lifted. There were no signs of security, no lingering traces of magic or signatures of power, testifying to the protection of the white structure. Only the portcullis, leaving the entrance open in silent invitation.

  An entertained huff left the god’s lips. The warm breath materialized in front of his face for a few seconds before the wind tore it apart. Nobody was foolish enough to venture here.

  Except the desperate.

  And old friends.

  Though, at the moment, there wasn’t much of a difference between the two.

  He strode across the courtyard into the castle proper, finding shelter in an arched hallway to give himself a moment’s rest. Undoubtedly, his presence has already been noticed.

  Even a weak, banished deity could sense when someone had entered their lands. It came almost as naturally as breathing.

  Yet the castle remained quiet.

  He followed the half-shielded hallway as it veered deeper into the very heart of the structure, leaving the courtyard behind.

  The god’s footsteps echoed across the white marble floors, the temperature inside barely warmer than what he had experienced beyond the walls. Veles closed his eyes, shaking off a memory.

  It hadn’t always been like this.

  Centuries ago, when these walls were teeming with life that was now reduced to nothing but phantom whispers, the winters had still been harsh, but the castle had represented something of a safe harbor. A home for so many subjects who had willingly served in these halls. Not for payment or food or any other kind of commodity. But out of respect. Perhaps even love.

  Seeing it now, experiencing the deafening quiet… The realm lived up to the name people had given it.

  He continued up a spiral staircase, gracefully easing around the wide cracks in the marble and avoiding the shattered edges that promised to plummet him down to the lower levels if he failed to spot even a single one. By now, the chill had nestled itself firmly in the god’s bones. But there was a more profound kind of cold pressing on his chest as he reached the landing.

  To his right, the great hall was buried beneath icy rubble, snowflakes drifting through the fractures that riddled the roof like a malformed spider’s web. No sign of the arrogant laughter bouncing off the shimmering walls, no traces of the endless dishes of food and mulled wine. Although deities preferred not to be gathered in a single space or even in a single realm, they had all been invited to each other’s residences in quieter times, sharing experiences and letting their egos blossom in an environment where they wouldn’t be judged.

  He had always been the outsider among the elder gods and his father’s peers. A child still, in the eyes of many. But perhaps that had been more a reflection of his own regard towards himself than of those the rest had harbored. In truth, the members of the pantheon had never treated him as anything less than their equal.

  The wider population may have grouped them into major and minor deities. However, among the gods, no such division existed. If you accepted your responsibility and upheld it with valor, nothing else was of importance.

  He, on the other hand, still carried the weight of that village on his shoulders when he had been accepted into their ranks. That small, idyllic village in Istria, which had filled up with screams as his power lashed out, ripping through flesh and bone and transforming the very genetics of its inhabitants.

  But none of that mattered to the others. The souls that had been passed on to him from his father were receiving the care they needed and were given a gentle home after their time on Earth had ended.

  Those were his actions. Not some long-ago indiscretion of a deity in the making.

  But the god had never been able to take his “youthful misstep” as lightly.

  He sighed, pressing his forehead against the cold marble of the hallway right beside the entrance to the great hall, a tired laugh spilling from his lips.

  What he intended to do now was so much worse.

  And this time, every action would be premeditated.

  He wondered just how accepting the pantheon would be of this if they were all still present. Although he was certain that at least the dragon god Zirnitra would have slapped him on the back, congratulating him for finally owning the skills he should never have pushed away in the first place. But that was one fire-breathing, shapeshifting oddball of a god. The others, however…

  The others weren’t around, their voices long since vanished from the breezes of Earth, except for the very, very few who had enough strength to remain.

  No, the old ones weren’t relevant. But there was someone else who was…

  Veles pushed himself off the wall and continued down the hallway. He ignored the endless doors—some ajar, some broken—his footsteps getting softer as he reached the bend that would take him to the throne room.

  At least this part of the castle seemed fairly intact, even if the chill remained the same. He wrapped his long coat tighter around his body, the collar nearly brushing his cheekbones.

  Jaw tense, he stepped over the threshold.

  It was one thing to see a fallen goddess. Quite another to visit a former lover, a friend after ages had passed.

  “Hello, Morana,” Veles said to the figure casually sprawled across the throne as if she hadn’t noticed his presence. Or didn’t care.

  The willowy woman turned her head, following the sound of his voice. She was draped in a burgundy velvet cloak; her white hair, streaked with narrow strands of obsidian black, was disheveled as it fell across her shoulders and nearly down to her waist. A crown of crystal spikes rested atop her head, the one thing that still spoke of her former glorious status.

  The goddess of death.

  “Veles,” the woman replied, a ghost of a smile gracing her lips. Her pale blue eyes traveled across his features until they finally focused on the god’s own gaze. She waved her thin hand through the air, motioning the lord of the underworld to approach. “How did you find me?”

  The question was innocent, yet it sent a pang of pain shooting through his chest.

  Morana had been here since the beginning of the end. Locked in the decaying cage of ice. Alone.

  Gradually, his pain turned into fury—directed as much at himself as it was at others.

  Nobody had even tried to reach their lost comrade. Nobody had truly cared what Morana’s banishment had meant. Focused on their own growing issues, the goddess’ new position had been brought up merely as an example, a warning of something that may come to pass regardless of the pantheon’s actions.

  Flashes of the werewolves he had come to know erupted in his mind. They would never cast a member—even a former member—of the pack aside. Unless the individual had chosen the path of their own free will, the pack would never cease fighting for them.

  Yet the gods, as few and as rare as they were, were willing to accept Morana’s fate so easily.

  Because it was fate. A fate decided by the masses who feared death so much, they honed their minds into letting go of the belief that an embodiment of her existed. The fools had failed to realize that even without Morana present in their world, death was not something one could escape.

  Yes, it may have been fate that had forced the goddess to retreat in the remains of her realm that was slowly severed from the land of mortals. But she hadn’t been cast into oblivion by its design.

  The s
mall plain hadn’t been lost, only harder to find. And Morana, unless she wished to bring upon herself what her title promised, became its prisoner.

  But it had been the members of the broken-up pantheon that had truly failed. Even Veles himself had come only once he needed aid Morana alone could provide. Before, he had let her wither away for centuries, just like the rest of them. There were no excuses for his actions.

  “It’s been…tasking,” the god admitted as he came to stand before the white throne and found himself speaking the truth. “I had to conserve energy for days beforehand, travel to the location where your realm still faintly overlaps the earth, and funnel every last drop of power to teleport myself across the boundary.”

  To his surprise, Morana chuckled, and traces of who she had been before the pantheon collapsed began to resurface. “Veles, son of Velin, the mighty ruler and condemner of many, many hearts, walked to the castle?”

  The god bowed his head, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. “I do admit, I could have brought better footwear.” He tipped his head towards his leather boots, the material coated with glistening snow that slowly started to melt as the heat radiating from his body seeped into the leather’s structure.

  “Oh, come on, Vee, you weren’t bothered by ruining your boots the last time we had a party here.” Morana smiled, a warmer tone now coloring her eyes.

  Veles huffed, returning the expression. He certainly hadn’t been thinking about his attire that night, not when his mind had been filled with the sensations of the goddess’ body pressed so closely against his, when the softness of her lips was all that mattered.

  “True,” he agreed, remembering just how good it felt to be with someone who hadn’t expected anything in return. Only a single good night’s entertainment.

  But much had changed since then. And as much as he had frowned upon the weight of others’ desires, upon the commitment they implied, Veles was now the one who found himself yearning for more.