by C. D. Gorri
“The Sect is the one true creed, the Supreme our only leader,” they all said in unison.
“As you are aware, your sacrifice is great. When the earth has been rid of magic, you, as magical beings, will be destroyed. Is this sacrifice done willingly?”
“Yes, Supreme.” Adrenaline coursed through Alrick’s veins. The ultimate sacrifice for the ultimate act of faith.
“Proceed.” The Supreme nodded to a Sect member who wore thick leather gloves and a mask. The man used a chisel to break off five pieces of the red stone. With each hit of the hammer, a thunderous boom echoed in the chamber and sparks ignited, illuminating the dimly lit room as if lightning had struck.
“Who shall be the first to accept his initiation?”
Without hesitation, Alrick stepped forward. “I will, Supreme.”
The Supreme inclined his chin. “Very well.”
Two men took Alrick by the arms and escorted him to a circle carved into the stone floor. A five-pointed star occupied the diameter, and they positioned him in the center of the shape before forcing him to his knees. Alrick obeyed willingly, for he was about to become the first gargoyle warrior for the Sect, an honor he not only deserved, but one he would treasure for the rest of his existence.
The Supreme drew his hood onto his head and read from a leather-bound book. He spoke Latin, a language the warriors did not understand, but as the atmosphere in the room thickened, the intent behind his words was clear.
Holding a dagger horizontally in both hands, the Supreme chanted and then kissed the blade. He handed it to a Sect member, who entered the circle and pressed the tip to Alrick’s sternum. Alrick clenched his jaw as the blade pierced his skin. A burning sensation spread through his chest, and the Sect member dragged the tip downward, opening his flesh.
Alrick held in his groan. He had sustained far worse injuries on the battlefield, yet the pain from this small incision ricocheted through his body, making him want to scream in agony. He gritted his teeth, for a true warrior never showed weakness.
The Sect member placed the shard of Thropynite into the wound, and the pain intensified threefold. A traitorous moan escaped Alrick’s lips, and the Sect member squeezed his shoulder.
“It will be over soon, my friend.”
The Supreme resumed his chant, filling the room again with the energy of lightning. Blood dripped down the center of Alrick’s chest, the stone sizzling inside the lesion. A low vibration filled the air, increasing in volume until all he heard was the hum throbbing in his ears.
Alrick’s heart raced, and as he peered at his torso, the trail of blood reversed direction, flowing upward and returning to his wound. The circle and star ignited, a wall of fire surrounding him, licking upward to the ceiling. His blood ran cold as the heat, hot as the fires of hell itself, consumed him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to bear the pain of being burned alive, when a guttural roar filled his ears. He opened his eyes to find a demonic spirit floating in front of him. Black smoke swirled, taking the shape of a gargoyle, its grotesque mouth, much too big for its face, curling upward into a menacing smile.
Alrick’s body tensed in fear. He wanted to run, for even a celebrated warrior like himself was no match for a creature without a physical body. But he was frozen to the spot. The demon snarled, and Alrick swallowed the sensation of a lump of burning coal from his throat.
The Supreme’s chanting rose above the noise, and the demon shot toward Alrick, the impact knocking him onto his back. He lay prone, unable to move as the fiend invaded his body, battling with his psyche.
Alrick felt hands on his arms, though his vision had tunneled to mere pinpricks of light. The sensation of being dragged registered in his mind. His arm was lifted, his hand placed against a smooth stone. Another flash of agonizing pain. His chest tightened, the wound healing instantly, the shard of stone embedding in his skin.
As the demon fused with his soul, his hatred of the forsaken grew tenfold. Burning anger seethed in his veins, and he rose, bowing his head to the one true leader. “On my life and my honor, I vow not to stop until every last trace of magic has been vanquished from this earth.”
The Supreme bowed in return. “Take your place by my side, brother, as we initiate the others. Your faith has earned you the title of general in our army.”
The gargoyle warriors began their crusade that very night. Alrick could never have dreamed the satisfaction he’d feel as he tore the forsaken limb from limb. The taste of their blood on his tongue. The sensation of their bones snapping beneath his fingers. The pleasure almost masked the ache in his heart for the one he’d left behind.
Chapter One
With the magic of the full moon humming in his veins, Noah L’Eveque paused on the corner of Royal and St. Philip, across the street from O’Malley’s Pub. Tilting his head toward the sky, he inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and focusing on the low vibration in his muscles, the faintest hint of the nearly imperceptible shifter magic flowing through his soul.
Sticky summer air clung to his skin, and as a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, he flicked it away with a finger. He could almost feel the blast of chilly air that would greet him in the doorway of O’Malley’s as he stepped inside, and the draw of his pack’s headquarters had his legs moving toward the building involuntarily.
He stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and peered through the window at the activity inside. While the shifters of the pack followed the call of their wolves to the forest to hunt, the rest of them—Noah included—felt little more than an extra burst of energy in their magic this time of the month. A dozen people—all second-borns or non-shifting mates—gathered around the bar, talking and imbibing the free drinks offered monthly, every full moon.
Who said shifters had all the fun?
Normally, Noah would have been inside with them, enjoying the comradery of his fellow second-born weres. He hadn’t missed a full moon gathering in as long as he could remember, but tonight, he couldn’t bring himself to step inside.
And it was no mystery why.
Amber, the alpha’s sister, stood behind the bar, laughing with the others, her blue eyes sparkling with her smile. She’d swept her light golden-brown hair into a ponytail, revealing the delicate curve of her neck, and as she glanced at her watch and bit her bottom lip, an ache expanded in Noah’s chest.
Her shift would be ending soon, and if he went in now, she’d join him at the bar, stay there with him ’til closing time, long after the others called it a night, and make him feel things he shouldn’t for a woman in the alpha line.
His feelings had intensified so much over the past few months, he could hardly look at her without the crushing need to sweep her into his arms and make her his. But Amber deserved better. She’d made that clear. With alpha blood flowing through her veins, she should be with a shifting wolf.
Fuck. His hands curled into fists. Noah should have been a shifting wolf, goddammit, and if fate hadn’t played games with his future, Amber would be his mate by now.
Only first-born werewolves gained the ability to shift…around the age of thirteen…except in a case like Noah’s. His older sister was his twin, and if they’d been born closer together, they both would have become shifters. But Noah was breech, and the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck, complicating his birth. He didn’t make his appearance into the world until half an hour later…too late for his magic to activate his wolf gene, leaving him no better than any other second-born werewolf.
Gritting his teeth, he strode past the entrance and made a left on Bourbon Street, heading into the heart of the French Quarter. He needed to get the woman off his mind, and with his friends out hunting, the excitement of New Orleans’ most famous street was the next best distraction.
He wiped the scowl from his face, straightening his spine as he strolled into the throng of people and pushing the what-ifs from his mind. It is what it is. Focusing on what was, rather than wallowing in what should have been, had se
rved him well enough. Being angry at fate didn’t do anyone any good. Besides…things might be changing for him soon.
Laughter and chatter drifted on the air, and the brassy sounds of a jazz band blasted from the open door of a club on the corner. He stopped at the to-go window and bought a beer. Chilled air seeped out from the inside, taming the Louisiana heat as the bartender filled a plastic cup with frothy goodness. Noah took a long sip, savoring the cool, bubbly liquid as it slid down his throat, and he continued on his way.
There was no better place than Bourbon Street for people-watching. College-age partiers all the way up through the occasional couple in their seventies came here to forget their worries and indulge in a bit of sin before heading back to the monotony of real life. The energy of the city called to people, enticing them to tear down their walls and let the good times roll.
“Laissez le bons temps rouler.” Noah chugged his beer and tossed the cup in a trash can before stepping inside a club. A cover band blasted an early 2000s pop hit from a small stage near the entrance, and three women in their forties laughed as they danced, trying to entice their husbands to join them on the floor.
Noah made his way toward the bar, but he stopped short when a brunette backed against a wall caught his eye. She gripped her beer bottle, her nails digging into the label as her gaze darted about the room, looking at anything but the hulking man who had her cornered. She swallowed hard, and a nervous giggle bubbled from her throat. The asshole took it as an invitation, reaching toward her and running his fingers down her cheek.
Without a second thought, Noah moved toward them. If he were a shifter, his mere presence would be enough to intimidate the man into backing off, but he wasn’t. He’d have to get creative.
“Hey, sis, sorry I’m late.” He held out his arms in an invitation for a hug.
The woman furrowed her brow at first, but as the asshole crossed his arms and puffed out his chest, she recognized Noah’s attempt and stepped into his embrace. “I thought you’d never get here.”
She hugged him quickly and stayed by his side, forcing a smile. “What took you so long?”
“Got hung up on the jobsite.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Who’s your friend?”
The man grunted, took a swig of his beer, and, as he stomped away, Noah couldn’t help himself. He called on his magic, gathering the energy into his hand until he could feel the atoms in the atmosphere. With a flick of his fingers, he nudged the man’s foot with his power, causing it to catch on his other ankle and making him stumble.
The man caught himself, inflating his chest and looking around as if to be sure no one was laughing at him. Noah held in a chuckle. Served the bastard right. He should’ve sent him flat on his face.
All second-born weres possessed a psychic ability. Some were empaths, while others could talk to the dead or get glimpses of the future. Noah’s telekinesis was a power many envied, but he would give it up in a heartbeat to awaken his inner wolf. Maybe someday…
As the man disappeared into the crowd, the woman’s breath came out in a rush. “Thank you for that.”
Noah released her shoulder. “You looked like you needed a little help. Are you here alone?”
“My friend is in the restroom.” She held out her hand to shake, and a flirtatious smile curved her lips. “I’m Tiffany.”
He accepted. “Noah.” Her skin was warm, but no magical energy sparked from it. Like ninety percent of the people in New Orleans, she was pure human. Her wavy hair brushed her shoulders, and as he released her hand, she tucked one side behind her ear.
“Jeez, Tiff. I leave for five minutes, and you’ve already picked up a guy. I hope he has a friend,” a blonde with dark brown eyes said as she approached them.
Tiffany laughed and clinked the neck of her beer bottle against her friend’s. “This is Noah. He saved me from a drunk. Noah, this is Caitlyn.”
“Hey.” She nodded at him and turned to Tiffany. “This place is lame. Let’s get out of here.”
“Okay.” Tiffany tossed her bottle in the trash and tilted her head at Noah. “Do you want to come with us?”
“Do you have a friend?” Caitlyn batted her lashes.
“It’s just me tonight, I’m afraid.”
Tiffany bit her bottom lip and swept her gaze down his body. This could be just the distraction he needed.
“Hmm…” Caitlyn shrugged. “I suppose we can share. Come on.” She linked her arm through his and tugged him toward the door. Tiffany clutched his other bicep and followed.
Noah instinctively glanced over his shoulder and found the drunk from earlier glaring at them as they made their way toward the exit. With a flick of his hand behind his back, Noah knocked the bottom of the guy’s glass, spilling his drink down the front of his shirt.
It’s not parlor magic. His buddy James’s words echoed in his mind. It’s a unique werewolf gift.
Not the gift Noah was meant to have…
But he made do with the magic he was given.
He chuckled as they exited the club and turned toward the next one, but his chest tightened, giving him pause. He had an attractive woman on each arm, and a few months ago, he would have been so down for this. Now, he couldn’t stop imagining Amber’s disappointed expression as she chewed her lip and glanced at her watch earlier this evening.
He was supposed to be there with her. He was always there for her. What the hell was his problem now?
He tugged his arms from the women’s grasp. “It was nice meeting you ladies, but I think I’m going to call it a night.”
“But it’s early…” Tiffany said, disappointment evident in her eyes.
“I have somewhere to be. Y’all stay safe tonight. Stay together.” He nodded and strode to the other side of the street before they could argue more.
Tugging his phone from his pocket, he glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. He needed to march his sorry ass back to O’Malley’s and spend the evening with Amber like he had every full moon since gods-knew-when. He should wad up his emotions, shove them into the darkest corner of his mind, and be the best friend he was supposed to be. That was all she wanted from him.
He, Amber, and his twin sister, Nylah, had been inseparable since they were kids. Nylah going rogue shouldn’t have changed things between Amber and him. He’d always had feelings for her, from the time he was old enough to understand what feelings were.
They weren’t reciprocated, and he understood why. A telekinetic second-born had no place in the alpha line. Amber should mate with a dominant shifter, someone who would pass on the genes a true leader needed.
He’d hinted at his feelings for her once, and she’d shut him down quickly. “I’m so glad we’re friends,” she’d said. “It’s nice not having to worry that you’re after me for my pack status.” That was when things had gotten awkward, and he’d needed to put an end to that. He could never be the werewolf she needed, but he could be her friend.
“Where is she?” A woman’s frantic voice drew his attention down the street. “Goddammit, Mitch, where did she go?”
The woman, in her fifties or sixties, with platinum hair and a thick coating of blue eyeshadow, clutched a bouncer’s shoulder outside a strip club and gave him a shake. “You’re supposed to take care of my girls.”
Mitch shrugged off her grasp and stalked to the end of the building, peering at the closed gate blocking the alley before marching back. “A guy dropped his wallet. I stepped inside for half a minute to return it, and when I came out, she was gone.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Angel. She probably got a good offer from a tourist.”
Angel shook her finger in his face. “My girls are not prostitutes. They’re dancers.”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Noah shuffled toward the gate and nudged it with his shoulder. It swung freely, so he slipped inside the alley, freezing as the coppery scent of fresh blood assaulted his senses. Though his night vision wasn’t nearly as sharp as a shifter’s, there was no mista
king the heap of flesh lying crumpled at the end of the passageway.
Pulse thrumming, he moved toward it, his gaze darting about the darkened corridor, searching for the culprit. Muffled music from Bourbon Street filtered in through the gate, masking any sounds of retreat, and a trash can overflowing with three-day-old garbage made it impossible for him to catch a scent. He focused his magic into his skin, feeling the hum of the atmosphere around him. No living energy interrupted the flow. Whoever did this was long gone.
He crept toward the body, covering his mouth as he took in the gory scene. The woman lay on her back, her right leg bent at an unnatural angle. Blood soaked her once-blue satin bra, and in her chest, a jagged, gaping hole was all that remained where her heart used to be.
His stomach turned, and his hand trembled as he dialed the alpha’s mate and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Detective Mason speaking.”
He swallowed the lump from his throat. “Macey, it’s Noah. I found a body in the Quarter. It looks supernatural.” He described the scene and the events leading up to it.
“Have you contacted Luke?”
“I will. I don’t think her boss has even called the police yet. The killer is long gone, so I thought you should know.”
“Who’s on patrol with you? Cade or James?”
He hesitated to tell her the real reason he hadn’t called the alpha first. “I’m…alone.”
She missed a beat in her response. “You’re patrolling by yourself?” The wariness in her voice was a knife to his heart. Non-shifters weren’t allowed to patrol alone. Macey was the only exception, and that was because she’d been a detective for longer than she’d known she was a second-born werewolf.
“I was at a bar across the street, saw the commotion, and came to check it out.” The last thing he needed was to get into trouble with the alpha. His position on the hunting team was fragile as it was.