by N. D. Jones
“You’re delusional.”
“I’m tired is what I am, and I have work in the morning. So do you. Take your ass home, and forget we had this conversation. I’ll do the same. See you next Saturday at Moonvale Forest for our run. Marrok said Oriana will send someone to pick us up.”
From the way Alarick said that, his brother had a specific witch in mind he hoped Oriana would send. Maybe it was the same witch he’d gone down on before Zev had interrupted his evening by inviting him for a quick drink at their favorite bar.
First Marrok and now Alarick. I’m losing my brothers to witches. Something must give, and it won’t be my relationship with my brothers.
Zev relaxed against the booth, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m going to have another drink then I’ll be off too. Forget I said anything.”
“It’s already forgotten. Goodnight, bro.”
Before Alarick reached the double doors that would take him into the hot summer night, he had his phone out and pressed to his ear.
Zev growled low in his throat, yanked out his own phone and checked his savings account balance. Shit. Not enough. The rage disrupter removal procedure was expensive, borderline robbery, but it would be worth it to have his freedom.
He slid from the booth, mentally calculating how many overtime hours he’d have to work and how long it would take him to raise the money he needed. Too many and too long.
But Zev left the bar, committed to a plan that would be well worth the wait.
Chapter 7: The Future
December 31, 2240
Steelcross Realm
Steel Rise
With a swipe to the left, Marrok turned the page on his handheld mage tablet, continuing to read Matriarch Helen’s diary entries. Not even Oriana had read these historic documents, although only she and Kalinda were privy to the matriarchal archives.
It’s taken years to build Bronze Ward, but Tuncay and I have worked hard to turn our dream into a reality. Few thought we could do it. Even fewer believe it will be a success. But Bronze Ward is just brick and mortar. Its physical construction is only the first step in our much bigger dream. The opening of Bronze Ward tomorrow will be an important first step along what will be a lengthy journey.
I must admit, I’m frightened of what will come next. While I am responsible for every life on this planet, I feel a greater responsibility to the new residents of Bronze Ward. Friends have taken to calling the project a “grand experiment.” I dislike the skepticism in the name, but my feelings don’t make the not-so-subtle judgment any less true. Bronze Ward is an experiment. There’s nothing inherently wrong with experiments. Except this one involves people’s lives. If I’m wrong, witches and werewolves could die.
I don’t share my fears with Tuncay. As matriarch I must have the right answers, even when I’m uncertain. Rulership is a weighty burden. Too heavy, some days. I’m grateful for Tuncay, but even he cannot help me carry the load of being a matriarch. He battles his own demons. Our individual burdens are why we’ve decided to postpone parenthood. For now, Bronze Ward is the newborn we must raise and nurture into a well-adjusted, fully functioning adult. For that to happen, we need to survive its infancy and toddler years.
Fireworks blasted. Marrok smiled, looking up from the tablet to the windows across from their bed. A rainbow of color lit up the night sky and their bedroom. Sparkling lights and loud revelers on the street below heralded the new year.
“So loud,” Oriana complained from beside him, covering her sleepy head with a pillow. “Why must they be so loud? Until werewolves migrated here, Steelcross was a quiet city.”
“Steelcross hasn’t been a quiet city since you became its matriarch.”
Oriana grumbled something he couldn’t hear, likely a curse.
He slid down the bed, curling himself around his grumpy witch. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. A little nauseous.”
“So basically, the same as when you crashed, face-down, two hours ago.”
“It’s your fault.”
“I know. My fault.” Marrok snatched the pillow off Oriana’s head. This time, there was no doubt his witch cursed him—in two languages, no less.
“You and your determined sperm.”
“The morning sickness will pass. You could always take something or use magic to alleviate your discomfort.”
“No magic. Blunt force weapons. That’s all witches are.”
Marrok wouldn’t argue with her. He never did when she got like this. Until living with Oriana, he’d never known how much witches struggled with controlling their powers even after going through the rite of endometal fusion. Daily, he witnessed the physical and emotional toll on his mate. Carrying their child added to the demand for self-control.
“What can I do to help?”
Shifting in his embrace, she faced him. The red streaks in her hair seemed even brighter every time a firework crackled outside their bedroom windows.
“Have you learned anything new from the archives?”
“Not much. There’s a lot to go through.”
“I know. We need to devise a plan of attack. Twelve years, remember?”
“I know I’m the one who mentioned twelve years to find a solution, starting once you gave birth to our daughter, but we shouldn’t put a ticking time bomb on our child.”
“I don’t mean to, but that’s how I feel.”
“If you think like that, it’s going to take all the joy out of becoming and being a mother.”
Burrowing against his bare chest, she didn’t speak, so he didn’t either. His father hadn’t prepared him for this kind of life, for living with a witch who, most days, glowed like the sun but other days was quiet and pensive. He was learning about her, as much as she was learning how to live with him.
Marrok inhaled her scent. Always lemon, even after she showered.
“When are you leaving?” Oriana asked, her lips grazing his chest.
“I’ll return to Dad’s house in two days.”
Blindly, she reached for his silver snare, finding it easily. “I hate that you feel a need to put distance between us.”
“So do I. You know I don’t want to leave, especially when you’re expecting. But we agreed. Short breaks from each other, the way Matriarch Helen suggested.”
“Screw my grandparents and their short breaks. That’s not a viable long-term solution.”
“It’s all we have. You smell too good, Oriana. I’m drawn to you more every day.”
“It’s the sex.”
He swatted her ass, and she smiled up at him. “I won’t lie, sex is part of it. Alarick warned me.”
He’d told her his brother’s story, which she waved away with, “He was a boy just coming into his full werewolf powers. Between a fifteen-year-old Alarick and the eleven-year-old girl, she was the more dangerous of the two. We aren’t prey but predators. He’s lucky she didn’t kill him.”
Oriana’s way of viewing werewolves and witches never ceased to amaze and confuse Marrok.
“The temptation is greatest when we make love. There’s more than sexual hunger inside me.”
“Does your hunger make you want to kill me?”
“How can you say that without fear? You act as if my confession isn’t like that ticking time bomb we just talked about.”
Rising onto her knees, she shoved his right shoulder. Obligingly, he moved onto his back, watching as she straddled his waist, as naked as he was. For a minute, he only noticed the gorgeous breasts before letting his gaze drift down to the small baby bump. Despite his own worries, he couldn’t wait to become a father.
Lita had told him to love “fully yet fairly.” It hadn’t been fair of Io only to give Lita werewolves. Until their talk, Marrok hadn’t considered how selfish his father had been. He’d viewed Lita’s leaving their family from a narrow perspective, one born of limited knowledge and unconscious bias.
“Now that I’m pregnant, you can have sex with me in
your bleddyn form, if you want.”
His witch had a frightening knack for seeing into his mind. Not that he’d been expressly thinking about them having sex in his in-between form, but that his parents had either only had sex while Io was in his bleddyn form or his father had made certain he and Lita used a contraceptive when they had sex while he was in his human form.
“We’ve never done it like that before. It’s a new year. I think we should.” She sat more firmly on him. “At least one part of you is interested, so stop looking at me as if I suggested we have public sex. Sometimes, I think you’re a prude.”
“You say shit like that to get under my skin. You know I’m not a prude, and you damn well know you would never have sex in public. I don’t know why we’re having this conversation when we’re supposed to be outside celebrating the new year with residents of Steel Rise, which you seemed to have forgotten. You must’ve also forgotten that you’re the one who organized the party you’ve complained is too loud.”
“Yes, I did, so we could have a party for two in here. No one wants anything from their matriarch when music, food, and alcohol are free and plentiful. Besides,” she licked her lips, “I want to see your bleddyn.”
“See or feel?”
“Both.”
He laughed at the lust in her eyes, moaning as she stroked him. Marrok could shift right there in their marital bed, giving them both what they wanted. But the energy Oriana displayed came from her exhausted reserve not from hours of rejuvenated rest.
“Another time.”
“Are you sure?”
The fact that she wasn’t persisting, using flirtations or jokes to get her way, was proof enough he’d made the right decision. Bleddyns were demanding lovers. It would be much more rigorous than having sex in human form, although far less than mating with a fully shifted werewolf, which no sane female willingly did. Witches weren’t animals. Their bodies were structured, however, to be able to mate with the half-human, half-wolf bleddyn form.
The first trimester of his mate’s pregnancy, however, wasn’t an ideal time to have that kind of sex. Bleddyns didn’t make love, they fucked—hard and with the intent of getting his mate with a channon, a werewolf baby.
Sitting up, he adjusted her on his lap, giving her a taste of what she wanted.
Eyes closed, her forehead fell against his as she languidly rode him.
“As a bleddyn, I’m bigger.” He pushed into her. “Longer.” Another deep thrust. “Thicker.”
Oriana’s eyes popped open, and he thrust into her again.
“No matter my form, I can make you scream and come for me. But yeah, my bleddyn will more than feed your witch hunger.”
Oriana’s magic sparked to life, strong sizzles from her hands onto the shoulders she gripped.
He winced in pain, the shock a burn to his senses and skin.
She stopped. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. I burned you again.”
“It was a mistake, and I’ll heal. Ignore it, Oriana, and make love to me.”
“I can’t ignore—”
Marrok kissed her, silencing her fears and building tension. He kept kissing her, unwilling to release his witch until she understood he’d take a hundred magic burns from her, if she found pleasure in his arms.
He had a theory, though, because he didn’t think her burns were simply a byproduct of her strong sun magic. He kept hoping to find evidence to support his theory in the matriarchal archives. To date, he hadn’t.
Marrok wanted to try something with Oriana but now wasn’t the time for experiments, not when she was pregnant, tired, and emotional. Not that Oriana would agree anyway to a half-baked scheme that could leave him hurt or dead.
More fireworks exploded, and so did Marrok.
“Happy New Year, Oriana. I love you.”
Chapter 8: Ticking Time Bomb
February 29, 2241
Steelcross Realm
Copper Vale City
Abelone sipped from her glass of red wine. The bottle had been an early anniversary gift from Bhavari who sat opposite her at their small dining room table. Beginning tomorrow they’d have two weeks leave to look forward to, so tonight was a perfect time to sit back, relax, and enjoy the light-bodied flavor of her drink. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste of cherry on her tongue.
“Someone’s ready for vacation,” Bhavari said.
“How right you are.”
Abelone peeked at her wife through a barely opened eye slit. As always, Bhavari was lovely—her black hair glossy and straight, her dress form-fitting and sexy. Bhavari liked to dress up, no special occasion required. Abelone knew she hadn’t seen Bhavari in the emerald green dress before, a cool color that complemented her fair skin and dark hair. Like the red wine, the new dress was an early anniversary gift.
“We should talk about last week’s meeting.”
“Don’t ruin my good mood with talk of work. For once, let’s have one meal without Steelburgh creeping into the conversation.” When Bhavari didn’t reply, Abelone sighed, opened her eyes, and sat up straight, her wine glass joining her dinner plate on the table. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“It’s been a week.”
“I know. You just reminded me.” Not that Abelone needed the reminder. They’d taken the most dangerous step in their plan. They couldn’t act alone. “I’ve already heard from a few of them, if that’s what you want to know.”
Bhavari poked at the remnants of food on her dinner plate. She’d eaten most of the green goddess cobb salad with chicken Abelone had prepared, attacking her dinner the way she did when she skipped lunch. Forgetting meals was a bad habit Bhavari had adopted long before she and Abelone met. Neither their marriage nor Abelone’s admonishments had altered Bhavari’s behavior. The best Abelone could do was cook, keep to a regular dinner hour, and make sure she kept the fridge stocked with Bhavari’s favorite foods.
“What about Misae?”
“Your little assistant confirmed.”
“Good. It would’ve been awkward working with her if she hadn’t.”
Bhavari stopped toying with her salad, exchanging her fork for her glass of water. She might have fine taste in wine, but two years of dating a college student who was a high-functioning alcoholic had left the proverbial bad taste in her mouth.
“What about the data technicians?”
“Not yet.”
“We need them onboard. We can’t do anything without the techs.”
“I know. Calm down.”
“I am calm.” Bhavari reached for Abelone’s wine glass, lifted it to her mouth, then visibly shuddered at what she’d been about to do. She handed the glass to Abelone, shaky hands making for a delicate transfer. “Okay, I’m not calm.”
“I can see that. It’ll be fine.” Abelone drained the last of the wine, in case Bhavari had another moment of weakness.
Bhavari hesitated then said quickly, “It’s not too late for us to back out of this. We haven’t done anything wrong. Not really. Talking about a crime isn’t the same as actually committing a crime, is it?”
“We can alter our course, if that’s what you really want.”
Eyes that had been staring at the wall across from the dinner table turned to Abelone. “She’ll have the baby soon.”
“I know.”
“Her consort is everywhere. In everything.”
“I know that too.”
“I thought when she became pregnant so soon after marrying it meant she finally understood the role of a matriarch. But, from what I hear, she involves him in most of her government affairs. Where she goes, so does he. She even gave him a sun title.”
Abelone was tempted to repeat the same two words. She knew everything Bhavari had mentioned. The entire planet knew because Cyrus of Steelcross was more than soundbite news. The populous seemed to be split over how they felt about Matriarch Oriana’s relationship with her conso
rt. Or rather, Matriarch Oriana’s unspoken insistence on upgrading her consort’s status in the government above that of any werewolf, including her father, the Aku of Irongarde.
“She doesn’t understand what she’s doing.”
Abelone reached for Bhavari’s trembling hand, pleased when her touch seemed to have the desired effect of calming her. “Matriarch Oriana is blinded by sex, love, and her own naivete. It could take her years to finally see the true werewolf she married. By then, it may be too late for Earth Rift. We need to rip the blinders off for her.”
“Are you sure we’re on the right path?”
Abelone was positive of two facts. One, Matriarch Oriana, if left to her own devices, would destroy everything witches had built since the time of Matriarch Alba. Two, anyone involved in the plot would die. She hadn’t been that explicit during last week’s meeting, but she could see the understanding in everyone’s eyes. Well, everyone except for Bhavari, who foolishly clung to the belief that they could go against the matriarchy and survive.
If Abelone were more concerned with growing old with Bhavari than protecting the witch way of life, she would tell her wife the truth and retreat from her decision. But she could do neither. Someone had to show the young matriarch the error in her thinking. She despised the stench of betrayal that clung to her, but she loved witches and Earth Rift more.
“I’m positive we’re doing the right thing.”
Bhavari smiled, relieved, and Abelone felt the smallest pang of guilt.
The doorbell rang, a perfect distractor from the unwanted emotion. They weren’t expecting a visitor, and Abelone jumped, literally, at the interruption.
“I’ll get the door,” she said, already out of her seat and moving away from the table. Abelone wasn’t surprised Bhavari followed her to the front door, but her mouth fell open when she saw the person outside. If she stumbled backward, gasping, and stammering out, “G-good evening,” well, no one could blame her.