Blood moon, p.2
Blood Moon, page 2
A thousand wolves is a gross exaggeration, it’s a couple hundred, at best, but the image she renders forces me to sit up and brace myself on my hands, arms flexed, shoulders squared. My instincts battle between shielding the truth and embracing my emergence after two years of hiding.
I knew the time was approaching, with the recent attacks on alpha wolves escalating and the island hideout we’ve used to shelter exiled wolves almost to capacity. They are my readied army, simmering with rage over how the vampyre king conspired and commanded a group of rogue wolves to murder their alphas and cast out those they deemed too weak or contentious—too hard to control—to stay in their pack.
Mavis snaps out of her reverie and side-eyes me as she retreats toward my bedroom door. “The batling gave you extra blood.”
“Do I have a mission tonight?”
“There was another wolf attack last night. The Jewel River Pack. Their alpha was slain like the others and a group of them banished. They most likely sheltered somewhere on communal grounds. They wouldn’t have sought refuge from the humans’ isles, not with the separation treaties, even with them so close to their land. I want you to find these exiled wolves, assess them, and deliver them to the Silver Blood Pack.”
The wolves we rescue separate into two categories: those who are willing and able to train with us, readying for the day we engage the vampyre king, and those who are better served joining another pack.
My thoughts snag on her last task. “The Silver Blood Pack, at the western coast right here?” I gesture out my window and suppress the image of their young alpha, Reeve Rimeara—a male I’ve glimpsed from hidden distances while traveling along the borders of their pack land. The turbulent gray of his eyes reminding me of the constant cloud-cover of my coven. If ever there was a creature whose blood I wanted to taste, it’s his.
“Yes. They are powerful and their alpha is generous. I want these wolves kept as far from King Frederick as possible, especially since one of them is a sacred omega.”
“An omega.” No wonder my uncle had targeted their pack, the allure of possessing such a blessed wolf would be too great a temptation for someone so ruthlessly corrupt.
“Peter will escort any wolves willing to join our warriors to the northern beach caves. You will escort the rest, including the omega, to their new pack.”
I push up from my bed and stretch, reclaiming my space and recentering my thoughts.
“Wake Peter and send him to me straight away,” I say, rolling my shoulders back and expanding my broad chest with a breath of fresh air.
“As you wish, Prince Heroux.”
“Save my title for when I arrive at the coven to kill the king. Until then, I am the same humble master warder that you continue to train every day.”
The irony of me excelling at such a role has never been lost on me. A vampyre prince possessing the natural inclinations of a warder—a vampyre trained in the arts of specialized healing and protection. Warders are an ancient role, cultivated through strict tutelage and demanding a level of commitment few vampyres desire to give, especially to a lycan. We are nurtured to be bridges between our kind and theirs, a unifier and builder of trust. We commit to a chosen alpha and bolster their reign, protecting them fully with body and mind. In turn, they provide goods from their land: herbs for tinctures, food and wares from their markets, and allied support should the coven need it.
Forged under the instruction of the priestesses—the goddess Satu’s earthly vessels—I am torn between worlds. Born to serve as ruler to my coven, yet raised to serve as a guardian to an alpha. The contrast of my duties couldn’t be greater, yet both appeal. Both pull at me and command my attention. Both bind me to others, but it’s my coven that needs me now, and there’s no pack or alpha that could tempt me from what needs to be done.
Mavis bows before leaving, always a mischievous curl to her lips. “No one has ever called you humble.”
I grin and relish the blood injected by the batling pulsing through me, making my muscles feel stronger, my feet itch to sprint, my legs to leap into the treetops, and my hands to claw into flesh. My fangs ache to pierce skin and flood my mouth with fresh blood, sucking and savoring the very essence of life from a living source.
My gut twists with hunger, a driving need that has never gotten easier to master these past two years without a ready supply of those willing to share a vein with me.
Within minutes, Peter knocks on the heavy wood of my door and slips in, locking it behind him. His thick brown hair is bed-mussed and there’s a pillow crease across his stubbled cheek softening his attempt to always appear apathetic, making the hard planes of his chest and the cool evergreen of his gaze seem almost approachable. He’s four years older, seven inches taller, and as lethally trained as a male vampyre can be.
When I turned twelve, he was assigned by the coven trainers as my combat partner. For five years we hunted rogue vampyres, battled enemy wolves at our coven’s borders, and honed our skills in weekly stadium bouts—‘the warrior prince and his reaper’ the coven crowds used to chant. At seventeen, I trusted him enough to air my suspicions of our king.
Only once we arrived here two years later, after absconding in the dead of night, did I understand the fuller picture of my king’s misdeeds and the priestesses’ deep involvement. For I’m not the only secret being kept.
I smile at my closest friend. “We have a mission tonight.”
“Excellent. And I see you’ve already had a batling visit you. Either that or my overwhelming attractiveness is suddenly making you blush,” he says with the smallest hint of amusement.
“Not in a million years.” I lift my wrist toward his mouth, grinning as his fangs lengthen. “Drink from me and then we’ll plan our best route for another hunt and recovery.”
“My favorite,” he says, gleaming at the thought of action as he places gentle fingers to my forearm and presses his mouth to my skin. The plunge of his fangs thunders through me. My lids grow heavy and I can feel the slip of my hazel eyes into the sharper focus and flaring gold of my species—the glow of an active predator.
I buzz from the familiar give and take, lighting up every one of my vampyre instincts. Ready to find these exiled wolves and perhaps poach one or two of their attackers.
∞ ∞ ∞
With my weapons pack stuffed with clothes between poisons, herbs, tonics, and knives, we travel from the coast of the Bantagion Sea inland toward the southern deltas of the Jewel River. We unleash our vampyre speed to cross distances it would take other species and animals days to traverse.
The journey through the wild is freeing as we navigate mountains that melt into the river plains of middle-Demeria, a brief respite after facing the harsher peaks of the western wilderness. Out here, I am neither prince nor warder nor willing captive, I am a vampyre living on impulse and delivering justice against my uncle’s relentless tirade of violence.
After a full night, the distant scent of a pack forces us to reroute, sticking to communal lands—the razed trails and wooded hills not controlled by any one species. We avoid the Jewel River tributaries, typically flooded with merchant vessels shipping goods across Demeria and wolves securing items for nearby packs and markets.
In the first stretches of sunrise, we skirt the borders of the Jewel River Pack land and slow our pace. Those wolves exiled by the new alpha would’ve most likely needed to find shelter near here, if they weren’t already picked off by bears coming out of hibernation and humans illegally hunting us “unsavory creatures” from these volatile lands.
I hear their heartbeats long before I see them and track the thumping rhythm toward a small, obscured den. I expect the strongest of the castoffs to confront us as we approach, knowing they can smell us as we slink between leaves and other vegetation for cover. Instead, a shock of pure white streaks into the night. The sacred omega. Revered for their abilities to reach into pack bonds to soothe tension and calm nerves—she’s like a living sedative.
Peter pulls his good-luck stone from his pocket and kisses it before leaping up into the trees, concealed by leaves and branches, and securing a watchful position from above.
I advance toward the den and the omega circles, pawing closer and piercing me with glacial blue-white eyes. Omegas are the only lycan-pack wolves who can’t shift into human form. They don’t grow beyond knee-height to me, and they are the only wolves with pure white fur. It’s strange to see one outside of a picture in a book, this godly vessel, preserved in the state of the first lycan Satu made.
I step forth into the moonlight, compelled by some foreign and unnerving connection between us to trust her and offer a palm in greeting.
She noses at my extended hand, laps it with her tongue, then leads me into the den where a small pack of wolves in human form greet me with cautioned stares and the scent of distrust. I quickly examine each of them for obvious signs of injury, glad to not see anything critical.
Presenting my wrist, I show the round tattoo of the priestesses’ mark coloring my skin. “I’m here in peace, sent by the priestesses of Mt. Elant. You all are from the Jewel River Pack?” I ask in a gentle tone, scanning the sullen, lined faces of mostly elders and infirm.
“We were,” one frail, grisled male shoots back.
“I am a master warder, and my companion and I are to take you to the Silver Blood Pack. Do you know of them?”
An elder leans forward on his rustic cane as if simply speaking might turn him into a husk. “We do. Their alpha had visited ours. Their pack is in the far west on the mountain coast.”
I nod. It’s good that they know of them; it will lessen the trauma. “Is there anyone who either won’t be able to make it that far or doesn’t wish to go?”
I look over the expectant faces, regarding me as if I’m a phantasm and they aren’t sure whether to pounce or pray.
The omega rubs against my shin, nosing at my hand until I pet her soft fur from head to tail, and I can feel her; feel her fullness, her contentment. Feel a tight-fisted part of me unclench.
In truth, it’s disconcerting.
I’ve never been around an omega, few vampyres have—or wolves for that matter, because omegas are rarer than master warders. I have only surface knowledge of what they’re capable of. Beyond the bond shared between a vampyre warder and their chosen alpha, I’ve never heard of a wolf affecting my kind.
I’m about to address the pack when my ears prick to a distant sound, alerting me to an approaching stranger. “Everyone, stay here.”
I lurk forward, palm one of my blades from my weapons belt, and peer out into the blackened forest, scrutinizing each shadow until I catch a familiar scent of earth and blood, a single spiked heart rate, and a subtle huff in the air.
The lycan nears, prowling around the perimeter of the den. Everything around us stills, as if all of Demeria braces for the clash to come.
I block the entrance and track the faintest movement to my left. With a tight grip on my blade, I can’t hold back the grin of anticipation. “Come out, pup. I know you’re there.”
A giant tawny wolf emerges from the brush, large paws slapping the ground. Its lips curl, baring fangs and grumbling out a throaty growl.
“You have two options,” I warn as it edges nearer. “You can shift now and answer my questions and I might let you leave here with all of your limbs, or I will subdue you and force your shift and torture the information I want out of you. Your choice.”
The wolf snaps its jaws and braces to lunge.
I ready my knife and meet its flinty eyes. “Don’t do it, wolf.” I don’t know who taught wolves that they stand a chance against vampyres in a fight, but they really did a disservice to their species.
The wolf bears down before leaping at me, mouth aimed for my neck.
I pounce with the full extent of my speed and strength, knocking him back with such force that he lands with a whimper and doesn’t get up.
Peter drops down from a perch above, pinning the wolf to the ground with his claws. He straddles the prone male, and whispers a taunt into the wolf’s ear that causes him to fight against Peter’s firm hold.
I inch in. “Do you know what a master warder can do?” I see my words hit home as he fights harder to buck Peter off. “So, you are familiar with our tonic that can force a wolf to shift?”
I ease back enough so that even the wolves in the den can overhear. “It isn’t pretty. It attacks your nervous system first, rendering you immobile. Then it spreads to your heart, making it feel as though it’s about to burst as your blood pressure rises. Then comes the pain in your head as your mind is ripped from one reality to the other. Next, your body succumbs, cracking bone by bone, as your human side is dragged to the surface against its will. The trauma to the wolf form can take months to heal. And all of that is before the interrogation begins. And as you must be familiar with my intended role in a pack, you’re surely aware that a master warder is well versed in interrogations. I myself have overseen,” I look up in thought, “at least twenty,” I exaggerate and grin when Peter further embellishes. “More like forty and all of them were tougher than you.”
I round my face down to meet the wolf’s dark eyes. It growls low, and I dig my fingers into its scruff. “Shift, wolf, I’m running out of patience.”
I grab a dark blue oilcloth from my weapons pack, soaked in reyth extract—which holds a potent, stomach-turning odor—and wave it under its nose. “It only takes a few seconds…”
The wolf splits the quiet with a howl, its body quaking, tremors marking the early signs of the shift. Peter stands and shares a smile with me, confident it doesn’t suspect my bluff about the tonic, none of them do. The ancient myths and mystique of master warders are just another tool in my toolbox, able to be plucked and applied at will. If wolves knew my secrets, I’d have a difficult time properly defending the alpha I commit to.
The lycan’s human form emerges with a rough groan that smooths into the hefty wail of a man. He stays down on all fours, head hung low, neck dripping with blood. His eyes claw over my body until fixing onto my face. “Ask your questions, Warder,” he spits out, voice gravelly from the remnants of his wolf.
“Who is your alpha?”
“Ellan, of the Jewel River Pack.”
“Ellan,” I say, committing it to memory. “From what I hear, your alpha exiled these wolves from his new pack. So, why are you here?”
He doesn’t answer but his eyes betray him as he glances toward the den.
“Let me guess...the fool found out that the omega had hidden herself among those he cast out.”
The male rises to his feet and hardens his jaw, tracking my knife as I twirl it in my hand. I let the moonlight catch on its sharpened edge in warning, and ask, “Are you a beta guard for your new alpha?”
“Yes.”
“Why did Ellan target the Jewel River Pack?”
The beta doesn’t answer. He pins me with a defiant stare, and I allow him the illusion that he has any power here.
I step close to him, humoring him before I dart forward and score his cheek with my blade, dipping in and out of his space so fast he barely registers the assault.
He flinches and pushes his hand against the dribbling wound.
“Why did Ella—”
“It was the pack that the vampyre led us to. He said they were strong but that the alpha was aged and easily overcome.”
“What vampyre?”
He hesitates, and I move faster than he’s able to track. His head swivels trying to find me as I strike my knife across his right ribs and speed away from him—a blur of movement that he can’t defend himself against.
“My alpha called him Wren,” he rushes out, pressing one hand to his latest wound and throwing the other up to ward off another attack.
Wren? I meet Peter’s hard glare. There’s no vampyre in the coven with that name.
I examine the beta for telltale signs of deceit but there aren’t any.
His head whirls, heart pounds, and he struggles to keep me in view as I flash around him and swipe at his back. “How did he kill the alpha?” I want to hear him say it.
His hands move to the fresh cut. “They fought. My alpha won.”
“Wrong. Six wolves!” I get in his face, spitting with fury. “Six wolves and a vampyre attacked and murdered Alpha Kells while his alpha mate was held down and forced to watch.”
His chest heaves, body shaking with adrenaline.
“And where is Wren now?”
“I don’t know,” he confesses in a rush of warm air.
I mold myself to his back and grab a fistful of hair, pressing my knife under his jaw.
He stiffens with a gasp. “I don’t know, I swear. A batling flew in before sundown and gave him a message. He said he’d be back and then he took off.”
“And what will be done to you when you return home empty-handed?” I ask, my breath coasting over his cheek.
He laughs with an unbalanced sort of delirium. “We’ll track the omega wherever she goes. And maybe bring you in as an added treat. My alpha has been disgraced enough in this life. It’s time he had the glory he deserves.”
“Yes, his methods reek of honor,” I say, drawing a bead of blood from his neck. “You tell your alpha that he can look for his glory soon enough in Satu’s Great Realm. Her reapers are coming for him, and we’ll be with them.”
He lifts his chin in angry defiance, and I almost laugh. But nothing about this is funny. I take my time examining him: his too-lean body, chipped or missing teeth, greasy hair, and savagely scarred hands. This is not a wolf who is well taken care of.
Seeing as we have no further use of him, I cold-cock him and drag him into the den. “Everybody out,” I call to the wolves, all scurrying past me with fear-drawn expressions, stopping short when they see Peter. I drop the beta against the back wall, pull a length of thin rope from my pack, and secure his hands and ankles. The tablet I pull from my pack and place under his tongue will delay his shift once he wakes and leave his limbs immobile for several hours.
