by N. D. Jones
That pissed her off. She spun on Kalinda—angry and hurt because even now she loved her mother and wanted to wish this all way. But she couldn’t.
Oriana wouldn’t.
“When I was recuperating, I had a lot of time to think. I no longer care that I don’t know all the details because I’m done making excuses for you. That includes lying to myself.”
“You’re not making any sense. Why don’t you sit down? I can get you a glass of water, although wine would better settle your nerves.” Kalinda glanced from Oriana to the open glass doors. “Give me a minute to get you—”
“No, Mother. If either of us will leave this balcony, it’ll be me. But not until I’ve had my say.”
Inclining her head, as regal as ever, Kalinda appeared no more disconcerted by their emotional talk than she would be while taking in a firework display.
“I don’t know how you found out or when, probably from a spy you installed in Steelburgh, but you learned of the Crimson Guards’ plan to release the muracos.”
Nothing in her mother’s countenance changed with the accusation. Her stomach plummeted to her feet, when Kalinda returned her bold statement with impassivity, and something shattered deep inside Oriana. Perhaps it was the pedestal she’d placed Kalinda on. Or maybe it was the bond they shared, not made of steel or iron but, apparently, forged from the same block of ice as Kalinda’s heart.
“Unless Solange and I missed a dozen witch conspirators, the missing Dr. Bhavari and Misae aren’t strong enough to conceal thirteen hundred muraco. I only know four witches powerful enough to cast an obstruction spell combined with a camouflage spell. Solange. Her mother. Me.” Oriana lifted a finger and leveled it at Kalinda. “And you.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“You don’t have to like it. Why haven’t you denied anything I’ve said?”
“Why should I? You’re clearly convinced you’re right. Why waste my breath?” Crossing her arms over her chest, Kalinda had a way of looking down on Oriana, despite them being the same height. “None of what you’ve said alters the fact that we need to discuss how we’ll handle the muracos.”
“It changes everything,” Oriana spat, yelling at a person unfazed by emotional outbursts. “You’re using your magic to shield muracos from your own fucking Crimson Hunter.”
“Watch your language.”
“Really? Out of everything I’ve said that’s what you decide to take issue with? Well, too fucking bad, Mother.” Whatever disgust and nausea Oriana had felt vanished under the weight of her fury. “Every decision I’ve made since becoming Matriarch of Steelcross got nothing more than a token acceptance from you while you waited for me to fuck up and for my dreams to crumble.”
“Oriana.”
“But Janus Nether didn’t fail. And neither did Steelburgh.”
“Your own guards plotted against you. How is that not a failure?”
“They were nineteen prison guards out of thousands. I don’t expect everyone on this planet to agree with me, not even my own mother. But I do … did expect you to trust me, to have faith in me, to not fucking lie to me and go behind my back.”
“Oriana.”
“I killed our sisters. I hear their screams in my nightmares, feel the spell I used to kill them surge through my body like a fucking poisonous viper.”
“Oriana.” Kalinda’s voice rose, but Oriana was done listening to her.
“Stop saying my name. I hate the way it sounds coming from your mouth—with disapproval and sufferance. You sent me to execute them, knowing you were just as fucking culpable. At least they stood their ground, took their punishment like women, like witches. But not you. You hid behind lies and rules. Your legitimate authority is a shield you use to beat everyone into submission, including me. They died with honor, while you stayed on your iron throne. A fucking coward.”
Smack.
Kalinda’s slap came as an exclamation point at the end of Oriana’s sentence. The shock, more than the power of the blow, had Oriana stumbling backward and against the chair behind her.
For all of Kalinda’s sharpness, she had never raised a hand to Oriana, much less struck her.
“Oriana, I’m so sorry. I’m—”
Oriana ran from the balcony, through Kalinda’s tidy office, out the door, and straight into Solange, nearly knocking the flustered witch over.
“Good. I was coming to get you. You need to return home.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“No time to explain, but Marrok and Keira need you.”
With those heart-splitting words, Oriana’s world turned crimson. She jumped away from Iron Spire and her mother’s lies to Steel Rise where her night went from bad to worse.
Chapter 13: Love Hurts
April 25, 2243
Steelcross Realm
Steel Rise
Marrok rolled over in bed, his hand instinctively going to the spot to his left—Oriana’s side of the bed. She had said she wanted to have sex with him in his bleddyn form. Did that also mean she was ready for them to try having a second child—a werewolf baby?
He wanted to have more children. Marrok assumed they would. But they were new parents and a part of Marrok was like Kalinda. He shared his mate with so many people already, he wasn’t ready to broaden that circle to include a second child. In another two or three years he hoped he wouldn’t feel so jealous of his mate’s time. Since the death of Oriana’s brother, she had grown up as an only child, a lonely existence he didn’t want for Keira.
Sitting up, Marrok contemplated what he could do, other than reading, to stay awake. He had taken care of his hard-on in the shower, tossing on boxers and a T-shirt afterward. He supposed he could watch a movie. Maybe even exercise, but that option would leave him sweaty and in need of another shower. Marrok could also call one of his brothers. It was after midnight Steelcross time but nearly dawn in Wild Moor.
Yeah, that idea was a no go. His brothers would curse him to the moon and back, if he called them at the break of dawn for no other reason than boredom. Alarick would call him an asshole for waking him and Zev would … Was his oldest brother even at home?
Marrok reached for the phone on the bedside table. His last conversation with Zev had felt wrong. Off. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what had unsettled him about their talk, but something had. With a guy like Zev, face-to-face conversations were better than virtual ones. When they’d last spoken, Zev had given him some bullshit reason about the video feature of his phone not working by way of explaining why he hadn’t accepted Marrok’s video chat request.
For all of Zev’s self-professed “werewolf of the world” talk, his brother couldn’t lie for shit. He hadn’t even traveled beyond Irongarde Realm. How in the hell could he be a “werewolf of the world” when he didn’t know what the other side of the planet looked like? Until Marrok had married Oriana, he hadn’t ever set foot in the Northern Hemisphere either.
Finger poised to hit the audio/video button on the phone’s display, Marrok stopped, listened, and sniffed the air. He heard nothing, except for Keira’s soft breathing coming from her room. But his intuition had the hairs on his nape rising. He jumped to his feet, legs tangling in the comforter in his rush. Kicking the material out of his way, he marched to his daughter’s room. Keira slept in her bed, an adorable pea atop a mattress fit for a princess. As always, Oriana had left Keira’s nightlight on, a white glow that showed the way from her bedroom into theirs.
His daughter was safe, an odd thought to have, but it had come to him the moment he had seen her peacefully sleeping form. Of course, she’s safe. Why wouldn’t she be?
Marrok backed away from the adjoining door, pulling it forward but not closing it, something he and Oriana only did before having sex.
Hand on the doorknob, his werewolf instinct growled at him to close and lock the door, to keep his young safe, to defend her to the death.
Marrok spun around, heart racing, hackles rising. What in the hell was wrong
with him? He was alone in the suite. Oriana wouldn’t return for another thirty minutes or more, depending on how long Kalinda chose to drag out their meeting.
So, yeah, Marrok was alone. But he would have sworn he sensed something. Magic? Having spent so much time with witches since marrying Oriana, Marrok had become adept at catching wisps of their magic. It hung in the air like scented perfume—invisible to the eye, but there. Yet this felt different. The hairs on his arms and nape rose, triggering the elongation of his fingernails into claws and eyeteeth into fangs. Marrok readied himself.
For what, he did not know.
Io had raised three werewolves. Werewolves may not have the best track record with their witch daughters, but they were great fathers to their sons. Trusting his instincts was one of many lessons Marrok had learned from his father.
Planting himself in front of his daughter’s door, Marrok waited. Eyes keen, ears sharp, he positioned himself in a fighting stance—feet staggered and placed wider than his hips, abdominal muscles tight, right arm in front of his body, the first line of defense or offense, depending on the enemy. Keeping his chin down, as if an opponent stood before him primed to strike, Marrok bared his teeth.
If Oriana found him like this, more animal than man, body shivering and blood boiling, she might reconsider the prudence of having sex with his bleddyn. More likely, though, she would take one look at Marrok, shake her head at his dramatics, and wrap herself around him until her touch and scent calmed him.
But Oriana wasn’t there, and calm had abandoned him.
The scent of magic tickled his nose, the smell stronger than his sense of foreboding. Marrok shifted, not giving himself time to question what his werewolf instincts knew to be true.
Bones snapped.
Clothes ripped.
Muscles lengthened, skin expanded, hair grew and thickened, covering his body in smooth, black fur. Senses became enhanced and he went on full alert.
Marrok heard and smelled what approached. Not from the hallway or from Keira’s room but from a supernatural highway created by witches that didn’t adhere to the physics of space.
He knew the signs well. Only Oriana had ever magically jumped directly into their suite. The magic signature he detected in the air, however, did not belong to his mate.
A pink cloud of mist and magic formed in his bedroom near the door leading to the sitting area. One, two, three muracos emerged from the magic mist.
Io had been correct. Muraco did smell like overcooked rock doe.
Flanked by the white werewolves, a slender woman with long, black hair stared at Marrok, dark eyes wide, mouth slightly parted.
Her gaze cut to the empty, rumpled bed, and her mouth fell open even more.
Her scent betrayed the balls it had taken to jump, even with three muracos at her back, into the Crimson Hunter’s bedroom.
Marrok growled.
The witch thought she could catch Oriana unawares—asleep and vulnerable to an attack by three salivating big-ass muracos. Instead, she had gotten Marrok—a pissed-off black werewolf who wouldn’t tolerate the invasion of his territory nor the planned attack on his family.
Marrok closed his daughter’s door, shoving a heavy armoire in front of it.
The witch disappeared.
The muracos charged.
The first muraco slammed into him, jaws snapping. Evading his teeth, Marrok countered, slashing out with a hard paw hand across the muraco’s face. The blow landed, slicing snout and left eye. Marrok struck again, going for the same side. Claws dug into the muraco’s face, gouging his left eye from the socket.
The muraco howled, countered with a slash to Marrok’s midsection, cutting him open and drawing blood.
Marrok lunged at the half-blind muraco. If he could disable one of them, his odds of surviving the battle would increase. He had to go the distance. Marrok had to keep the werewolves’ focus on himself and not the little witch in the room next door.
Keira will not become a meal for these white werewolf bastards.
He ripped into a second muraco, going straight for his throat and clamping down. His silver snare, which hummed with magic the moment Marrok had locked gazes with the black-haired witch, pulsated with the power of its magic emission.
Marrok had never enjoyed wearing his collar, but he had submitted to the requirement without much complaint. On any other day he could ignore its limitations, pretend the restrictions weren’t a physical and psychological form of external control.
Blood flooded Marrok’s mouth, and he fought the werewolf under him as much as he did the rage disrupter. The other two muracos crashed into him, their claws scoring his back and hindlegs.
Marrok bellowed on the inside but refused to release the muraco’s throat. Burying his claws deep in the muraco’s chest, Marrok used the bastard’s body for leverage, yanking at his throat and ripping it out.
One of the other two muracos bit into him, and Marrok scrambled away. He bled, jagged cuts open and spilling blood. Marrok’s silver snare pumped even more magic into him, working hard to dull the razor-sharp edge of his anger.
He shook his head, ears alert and muzzle wet from blood. He could hear Keira moving around in the other room, the fight having awoken her. If he could hear her, smell her, so too could the muracos.
Marrok went on the attack, driving his body into the nearest muraco. They fell over a nightstand, breaking the wood and knocking into the bed as they fought.
The muraco clamped on his shoulder, biting into bones, ligaments, and veins. Marrok grunted but countered. Arm wedged between their bodies, Marrok opened his hand wide, curled his fingers, and grabbed the muraco’s muscular stomach. Twisting his wrist, he yanked with all his might.
The mouth on Marrok’s shoulder loosened but didn’t release him, so he stabbed the open wound, shoving his hand into the hole he’d made. That got the piece-of-shit white werewolf the hell off him.
Keira began to cry.
Marrok fought harder. His daughter was tall enough to reach the doorknob. More, she had a habit of leaving her bed and room and entering Marrok and Oriana’s. That was how she had come to be in their bed before Oriana had left for Iron Spire.
Marrok felt weak, his adrenalin and strength abandoning him the longer the rage disrupter’s magic assaulted his central nervous system. How in the hell did black werewolves push past the magic attack to become a white werewolf?
They must’ve been damned determined, must’ve craved the kill and the blood more than they’d valued their mind and heart.
He shoved the muraco off him, only to be slammed back to the floor by the third one. Claws raked down his back. A waterfall of blood followed.
Keira’s cries grew louder, intensifying into screams and, no, no, no, he could hear her at the door, jiggling the doorknob.
As if controlled by a puppeteer, the muracos left Marrok, their strings pulling them away from him and toward his daughter. The armoire, a temporary stop gap, wouldn’t do much to keep the muracos on this side of the door.
Seconds. That’s all Marrok had.
He wouldn’t make it out of this fight alive. He had been bitten too many times by the muracos, tasted their blood, swallowed it.
It’s all gone. My life. My future with Oriana and Keira. No more playful banter and magic-laced kisses. No more declarations of love and conversations at midnight. No more tight hugs and gentle caresses. Gone.
Marrok struggled to his feet, woozy, muddleheaded. He felt too hot, too heavy, too …
He rushed the muracos, tackling one but missing the other. With a strength and rage he’d never known, Marrok ripped into the downed muraco, slashing over and again. Claws arced and blood spurted, splashing his fur in gooey spots of crimson and flesh.
Wood crunched behind him. Pieces of the armoire flew across the room. For blinding seconds, Marrok cared about nothing but the kill.
You came into my motherfuckin’ bedroom to murder my mate. You deserve to die. You all deserve to die, and I’m go
ing to send your asses to hell.
Marrok ravaged the muraco’s throat, gnashing his teeth together and pulling until the fucker stopped mewling and twitching underneath him.
He reveled in the kill, ignoring the rage disrupter’s muted chatter. The silver snare’s magic ebbed, retreating like a defeated tide, the shore of Marrok’s werewolf body the undisputed winner.
Raw power surged through Marrok like lightning breaking from the clouds, sharp cracks heralding its arrival and might. He roared and roared, the sound savage in its depth of intensity.
Free. I’m finally free.
Marrok roared again, smashing his hand into the dead werewolf’s face. Ripping the lower jaw, he hurled it against a wall.
Freedom had never tasted so good. Tasted so—
Keira screamed. It wasn’t the scream of frustration or one following a fall or scrape.
Marrok bolted to his feet. He knew all his daughter’s screams. Every. Single. One. He had never heard the sounds coming from her.
Abject terror.
I must protect her.
The last muraco had removed the single barrier to Keira’s room. Bits and pieces of the armoire were everywhere, as was the adjoining door—pointy shards of a father’s devolution into madness.
Keep it together a little longer.
The muraco stalked forward.
Keira shrieked.
Marrok ran as fast as he could. Leaping for the muraco but knowing he was too far away to stop the inevitable, Marrok put all his power and strength behind the jump, his trajectory true but his reaction far too late.
Keira didn’t so much screech as gag on her fear. She choked, trembled, eyes wide with a comprehension no toddler should ever know.
The muraco’s blood-glistened claws reached for Keira, her bobbing throat his target.
Bam. Bam.
Marrok ducked, dove, and landed beside Keira. Covering her suddenly quiet body with his, he shielded her from the gunfire above him.
Bam.
“He’s down. Cornered but not dead yet.”
Marrok recognized the voice, the scent of magic. Not Oriana’s but … Solange’s.