by N. D. Jones
With two hands, Oriana took Marrok’s face, holding him in place so she could look into his gorgeous eyes—light-brown with red around his irises. When in werewolf form, Marrok’s entire iris was the most luscious shade of scarlet she’d ever seen. “It’ll take a couple of years to turn this ward into a haven for werewolves. Once we do, though, it’ll be a model.”
“We?”
Sliding her lips against his, she smiled. “Yes, we. You agreed to be my consort, remember?”
His eyes drifted close and he murmured, “Hmm, yes. Consort …”
Oriana hadn’t asked to co-rule Earth Rift with Kalinda, but dual matriarchs weren’t unprecedented. Twins Elaine and Elidi, during the eighteenth century, were the first siblings to rule together. Thea and Marisol, cousins, co-ruled for two hundred years during the early part of the twenty-first century.
But there had never been a mother-daughter rulership. The power dynamics were an issue Oriana and Kalinda were still working through. In truth, it was a constant struggle. Each gain—a dedicated werewolf region, a collar-free Janus Nether, rebuilding of Bronze Ward, and opening of Steelburgh—was a battle that left Oriana feeling as if she hadn’t won, even though her mother had eventually consented.
Hands still on his cheeks, she pulled him in for a deeper kiss. He tasted of refreshing mint and smelled of woodsy earth. Marrok felt even better. His tall, muscular body wrapped around hers as he deepened the kiss. Oriana moaned into his mouth, the sun high in the sky, feeding her magic and desire.
Breathless and with great reluctance, she stepped away from him.
Marrok’s heavy-lidded eyes lifted, irises redder than they’d been a minute ago. His hand rose, fingering the silver snare around his neck. Silver snares were crafted of pure silver—soft, reflective, and shiny. Bordered with reddish-brown copper, the silver snare resembled a woman’s high neck collar necklace more than it did a dog’s collar with buckles and straps. Silver snares weren’t adorned or engraved. No werewolf tried to pretty them up or pretend they were something other than what they were—a means of control and protection. “I’m fine. I’d never hurt you.”
“I know.” Hands on her hips, she took in the street, trying to envision it as it had been so many years ago. “Bronze Ward was a failed experiment. Did I ever tell you that?”
“I don’t believe you did.” Retaking her hand, they resumed walking, her shoulder-length hair blowing in the sudden breeze.
“Matriarch Helen thought if werewolves wore the silver snares at night when they were the strongest, they and witches could live together full-time as a mated pair, like humans. Grandmother speculated that if pups from the union had the opportunity to imprint on their witch mothers, their blood-and-magic lust wouldn’t be so strong. She theorized it was the absence of the maternal bond that made them so vulnerable to our magic when they reached puberty. Grandfather Tuncay—”
“Tuncay means bronze moon. That explains the name of the ward.”
He led her around a corner. The condition of this street was worse than the others they’d walked down. More trees populated the area, roots having bulged up, forcing their way through the cement, reclaiming the earth the way nature was wont to do.
“Right. I like the name Tuncay. We should add the name to our list.” Oriana smiled up at her future consort and father of her children.
“I bet you do like the name. Tuncay was your grandfather. By the time we have our son, our list will be as long as my arm. But I thought you wanted to have a girl first.”
Oriana shrugged. “The gender doesn’t matter to me but, as matriarch, it’s my duty to add to the witch population, not to mention provide an heir to the matriarchy, before I birth a son of the Black Moon.”
They stopped again, coincidentally, in front of a hospital.
“That’s why you’re trying to bring Bronze Ward back to life, isn’t it?”
“Grandmother failed, as Mother has taken to reminding me. But she may have been correct about pups and imprinting. There is some evidence to support that perspective.”
“What about the rest of her ideas?”
“I don’t know. Mother closed Bronze Ward after my grandparents died. She refuses to discuss any of it.”
Marrok stepped closer, and she thought he’d kiss her again. Hell, she wanted him to kiss her … and more. The way his eyes lowered to her lips, licking his own, his mind ran along the same lines as hers.
“Except for wearing the silver snares only part-time, your plan for Bronze Ward doesn’t seem much different from Matriarch Helen’s.”
“That’s because it isn’t. Not really. Like her, I believe it’s important for pups, as well as witches, to be co-parented. When we aren’t, when so much of our lives are kept separate from each other, it leads to greater misunderstandings. We are as we are, Marrok. Greater minds than ours have pondered our biological compatibility yet ultimate incompatibility. Neither magic nor technology has solved the fundamental issue between us.”
Placing her hand to his chest she felt his heartbeat—his werewolf strength a primal call to her witch magic.
“From my research, Grandmother, like too many matriarchs, limited werewolves to urban areas. Part of the reason our cities are so overpopulated is that two of the four realms are reserved for human residents. Mother won’t agree to me building werewolf settlements in those territories, but I’ve been able to convince her to permit me to bring this ward into the current century and to grant those who live here access to Moonvale Forest and Blackridge Mountains.”
Two years of arguing and one year of negotiating had resulted in a huge win—not for Oriana, or even for werewolves, but for all of Earth Rift. Witches and werewolves couldn’t continue this way, coming together to procreate but little else for fear of hurting the other.
“You’re right, I’m also doing this for both of us and our future. You hardly know your mother, and my father refuses to visit me at Iron Spire. I want us to be mother and father to all of our children.”
“I want that too.” Tugging her to him, he hugged her with the same fierceness she felt. “I want that more than anything. For us to be a family, the way humans are.”
Oriana laughed. “You make their relationships sound idyllic. They aren’t. They’re complicated too.”
Marrok kissed her cheek. “No relationship is more complicated than that of a witch and werewolf. So, you’re giving werewolves a place to run, hunt, and play.”
“Grandmother had this ward built with bricks for a reason. It’s the opposite reason why we have Steelcross, Irongarde, Ironmere, and every other region with a type of metal in its name. Bricks aren’t as werewolf friendly as forests and mountains, but they also aren’t a constant reminder of the beast that dwells within us all.”
“Witches don’t have beasts inside them.”
“You’re wrong.” Oriana lifted her hands, palms out to him. “We can wield our power like a firestorm. Witches have used the threat of werewolf attacks to stop learning and growing. We’ve turned over our lives to the metals we put into our bodies, using those same metals to build fortresses around our hearts, which can’t cope with not having their other half. We are a doomed people, Marrok, whether we admit it or not.”
“Don’t say that. You sound too much like Zev.”
Oriana arched an eyebrow, and he chuckled.
“Okay, you’re nothing like my brother. But he used the same word—doomed—about our relationship.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course Zev did. That explains why only Alarick had dinner with us the other night.”
She hadn’t been surprised. At thirty-two, Zev challenged every rule. To her knowledge, he hadn’t broken any, although she wouldn’t be surprised to find out he had. He was the kind of werewolf, overly aggressive and purposefully intimidating, Kalinda used to justify keeping werewolves on the proverbial short leash. Kalinda had relented some only because Oriana had asked it of her. Kalinda, despite her stubborn nature, wasn’t immune to the rare moment
of sentimentality. After all, she’d cared enough about Oriana’s father, Bader, to give him a daughter and a son. Unfortunately, Oriana’s younger brother had died at four when he’d fallen from a tall tree and broken his neck while in Bader’s care. Heartbroken, Kalinda blamed Bader. Her father blamed himself more.
“Our relationship will grow on him. Zev just needs time to get used to the change. After that, he’ll be fine.”
Oriana doubted that, but she kept her own counsel. The last thing she wanted to do was cause any more conflict between the brothers than taking Marrok as her consort would create.
“I also don’t believe you truly think we’re doomed.” He tapped the temple of her head. “The wheels in there are always turning. You don’t want to admit you’ve been trying to find a solution to a problem everyone has deemed unsolvable. You’re afraid.”
“I’m not.”
He tapped her nose. “Liar.”
She waved his hand away from her face. “Fine, I am. I’ve scoured the matriarchal archives, going back as far as I can. But …”
“But?”
“We know there was patriarchal rule long before the brutal and life-changing war between witches and werewolves. From patriarchy and patrilineal descent to matriarchy and matrilineal descent in a single generation.”
“I’m surprised any of our ancestors survived the War of Eternal Hunger. The hunger to keep power or not to be consumed by the power lust of others, I guess, is as bloody and violent as the hunger to claim it for yourself.”
Very true. The War of Eternal Hunger was taught in school, although not as thoroughly as other major historical events. But few events were as significant as a war that had toppled one cultural regime only to replace it with another. Did it matter whether werewolves or witches ruled if the other wasn’t elevated to equal status in society?
“There are chunks of our history that are gone. No records. Nothing. It’s as if Earth Rift didn’t exist until after the war.”
“I know. I’m a student of history, remember?”
“Who said ‘history is always written by the winners’?”
“I have no idea, but I follow your point.”
Oriana didn’t know if he did. For whatever reason, Matriarch Alba, the first Matriarch of Earth Rift, had all but wiped werewolves from the history of Earth Rift before her reign. Little remained to hint at what life was like for witches, werewolves, and humans before the War of Eternal Hunger. The effort to destroy over a thousand years of history would’ve been a massive undertaking and had to have taken years. All of which begged the question … what did Matriarch Alba want to hide from future generations of witches and werewolves? Or perhaps her motivations had less to do with hiding truths and more to do with the overwhelming desire to forget them.
“ ‘History is always written by the winners.’ I read that line in one of Matriarch Helen’s journals. Of all my ancestors, Helen was the most prolific writer. I’ve only read a third of what she wrote.”
“Since we’re in Bronze Ward, it isn’t hard to figure out what part of her reign you’ve already studied.”
“Would you like to see Silentdrift Lake?” she asked, changing the topic and, based on his response, Marrok didn’t seem to mind. Although, as he’d said, he was a student of history. They would revisit this topic. Perhaps, with his help, they would solve the mystery.
“Umm, yeah, I would but, well, it’s kind of far away.”
“It is.” Oriana crossed arms over her chest. “Your point?”
Rubbing the nape of his neck, he looked away from Oriana, kicking a piece of displaced cement before lifting his eyes again to meet hers. “Shit, you’re still frowning. Your extraction magic makes me, well, umm, kind of nauseous. The jump is jarring. I don’t think my stomach could take it if you had to use your magic longer to get us from here all the way to the lake.”
Marrok pointed down the street, not at all in the direction of Silentdrift Lake.
With the back of her hand, she moved his arm until it pointed to the west. “That way.”
“There’s no need to glower, Matriarch Oriana. I still don’t want you to jump us there, even if you know the direction and I don’t.”
“You just said I make you sick. Of course, I’m going to glower.” When she went to fold her arms across her chest again, Marrok yanked her flush against him.
“Your magic, not you. Nothing about you repels me.”
“First nauseous and now repels. Whoever said that werewolves weren’t charming sure knew what they were talking about. You’re quite handsome, though, so I think I’ll keep you.”
“How magnanimous of you, Matriarch.”
“I am, aren’t I?”
“And humble.”
“Yes, let’s not forget humble.”
They laughed, hugging each other. Breathing in his scent, smelling the werewolf beneath the human veneer, Oriana opened herself to Marrok. Magic warmed her body, melding with the steel in her hands and arms.
“Oriana, I—”
“Trust me. I’ll do better this time. I promise.”
Marrok held her tighter, his head in the crook of her neck, arms around her waist.
She wound her magic around him, letting it flow from her into the midday air, a whip of magic that could, if she were in battle, be used to slice the skin and fur from a werewolf. This close, she could kill him with her magic. This close, he could sink his fangs into her, killing her before the rage disrupter registered his oxytriton spike, releasing a neurotransmitter.
When werewolves were angry, scared, or about to strike, the silver snare emitted soothing pulses sent through the werewolf’s skin to his central nervous center—resulting in a calming effect. Despite witches’ desire to mitigate the vicious impulses of werewolves, they had no desire to hurt them in the process. Perhaps, in the beginning when silver snares were mandated by Matriarch Alba, pain and revenge had been the goal after so many werewolves had eaten countless witches. Alba’s reign had been marked by blood and broken trust.
But trust could be reformed. Time had a way of turning the inconceivable into the possible.
They held each other, Oriana trusting Marrok not to lose control, and he not moving out of her embrace, trusting himself not to hurt her and trusting her to jump them safely to Silentdrift Lake.
They disappeared into the magical ether of space. Oriana made sure to keep Marrok in the bubble of her magic, her whip around them both. She envisioned where she wanted them to land, her magic her eyes, her steel her faithful guide.
She took it slow so as not to make Marrok nauseous, his complaint valid despite Oriana’s indignant protestations. She slowed her breathing, held her magic whip with one hand, and lifted Marrok’s face with the other. His eyes were closed, his lips were near, and she wanted to taste him again.
She planted soft pecks to his lips, chin, and neck. Letting her lips rest against the top of his silver snare, she kissed along the rim. He sucked in a breath, so she did it again. Playing with fire, her mother would chastise, and Kalinda wouldn’t be wrong.
They fell.
Splash.
Oriana spurted out water. Wet and cold, she glanced to her right and caught Marrok’s equally wet face staring at her. They were sitting chest deep in Silentdrift Lake, the right bank several feet behind them, heavily blooming red mahogany trees across the lake in front of them.
She bit her bottom lip then offered what she hoped was an apologetic smile.
“You’re terrible at this.”
“I got distracted.”
“Whose fault is that?” Jeans soaked and weighing him down, Marrok pushed to his feet, his T-shirt clinging to every scrumptious, ripped muscle.
With a steady hand, he helped her to her feet. Oriana’s own jeans hadn’t fared any better, making slogging to the shore difficult.
Marrok’s gaze slipped from her face to her chest, no doubt taking full visual advantage of a white blouse and bra that had to be damn near transparent.
&nbs
p; When they reached dry land Oriana stopped. As if she hadn’t lost control of her magic, dumping them in a lake instead of on the shore, she settled her hands on her hips, held her head high, and asked, “Do you feel nauseous?”
Marrok narrowed his gaze. “That’s what you’re going with?”
She shrugged. “That was your only complaint.”
He threw his hands up. “Oh, I didn’t know I had to ask you not to drown me. I thought not killing your future consort was a given.”
“You’re so dramatic. You’re a werewolf, which makes you more like a floatie for your matriarch.”
That earned her a snarl. “I got your floatie right here …”
Marrok lunged, and Oriana took off, running away from him as fast as her wet jeans and soggy shoes would allow. Giggling, she bolted around tall ancient trees, making sure to keep a tree between herself and the swifter Marrok.
Her strategy didn’t help, especially when she tripped over her own feet, falling to the ground in a heap of wet giggling witch.
Marrok pounced, sliding into her and wrapping her in his arms, rolling them over until he lay atop her. “Got you.”
“I let you catch me.”
“Yeah, right. Did you say hello to the forest floor when your face met it?” Wiping leaves and dirt from her hair, Marrok smiled down at her.
Oriana’s heart clenched with how much she loved this werewolf. Leaning up, she kissed the grin from his face. Kissed him until he kissed her back. Kissed him until she couldn’t breathe … then she kissed him some more.
Straddling her hips, Marrok yanked off their shirts.
Reaching up, she ran her hands across his defined abs, over his hard nipples, and down his sinewy arms. Yum—dark chocolate skin and muscles had never blended together so perfectly.
“You’re magnificent.”
“So are you. Shit, Oriana, I want to rip that bra off you and kiss you everywhere.”
She wanted the same. Oriana opened her arms to Marrok.