Forevermore - Sample

Vladimir

October 16, 1625. Scotland.

Blood pooled in the mud. Bodies were strewn about, entrails spilling from them. Witches and werewolves alike were among the dead. The air was heavy, and the smell of death and decay surrounded what was left of the living.

The once-large, four-tower, dark gray castle behind him was half-standing. Hoarse screams and deathly growls sang into the chilled, dark night. Not even the stars had come out to watch the war unfold.

The moon was hidden by thick clouds as rain began to pelt down, clinking against his armor, some drops soaking into his dark green and black plaid kilt. His black hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck, the rain drenching him completely. Vladimir McKay breathed in deep. The smell of the battle stirred his senses. His bloodlust was strong and the urge to rip out more throats was heavy in his gut. His thoughts were primal.

He sneered as he watched one of the many witches who had declared war on all of his kin—all of the werewolves. The witch crept around fallen bodies, looking pleased with herself as she thought she was hidden from him. The black cloak she wore did, in fact, help her disguise—and she nearly blended into the night as she neared the high castle walls—but the heavy stench of her power came off of her in waves.

He could scent it anywhere. It raised his hackles and his nails shifted, his claws descending into a partial transition.

“I sense you as well, dog.” She turned and suddenly he could no longer move. His feet were heavy as stone and held to the ground.

With a low, chilling snarl he swiped out at her, missing by a mere inch. “Aye, your sorcery is of the devil.” His voice was guttural and unrecognizable. “What ’ave you done tae me, witch?!” His Scottish accent was thick, as his anger and bloodlust grew stronger.

She giggled and lifted her cloak, revealing onyx black hair pulled into a long braid that ran down her back. Her dangerous hazel eyes glinted wickedly. “Just a simple spell to keep you restrained while we kill off the rest of your pack.” Her small hand cupped her ear. “Do you hear that, dog? Those screams are your pack. They scream for their alpha, their king—the almighty Vladimir, king of war,” she taunted, knowing exactly who he was—yet he didn't have a clue who she was. Another treacherous giggle. The woman was no more than in her mid-twenties at best. Her pale skin showed very little aging. He zeroed in on her thinned lips and arched nose, longing to gouge them from her face.

Vladimir roared a loud, heart-wrenching sound that echoed off the deep swell of the highland cliffs. His packmates were, in fact, dying. He could feel their power slipping away.

He struggled against the magic, pulling hard, straining until he was red in the face and sweating.

Nothing.

He couldn’t even shift. He reached for the change from man to wolf but there was nothing there.

His near-black eyes shined brightly with gold flecks, a look of searing rage burning as he stared hard at the witch.

Their screams of terror and fright, mixed with territorial growls, echoed back at him. He could only stand and listen as his pack slowly died out. He wasn’t even sure how long he stood there, his captor watching him with glee and victory.

“You’re the last of the original werewolf line. My coven has seen to it.”

He snarled, spit flying. He wanted to bathe in her blood.

She giggled again. Her arm raised and she pointed a finger at him. “I’ve been given orders to kill you, just as you’ve hunted and killed so many of my kind—but I think I have a more insidious idea. . .”

The sky crackled overhead, a flash of light breaking through the gray. Rain poured harder, soaking them both and washing away the blood that stained his hands.

He silently prayed to the moon that his mate, Cecil, had done as he’d ordered and had gotten away.

The woman tilted her head, studying him intricately before clucking her tongue. “I can tell you with certainty that your Cecil is dead.” Another taunt. She said these things to stir his blood. He knew it, yet it didn’t stop the stutter of fear that pulsed through his heart.

With an icy glare, he replied slowly, “You lie, witch.”

She shook her head and stepped forward. Vladimir tried to swipe at her once more but found that he could no longer move his arms. His entire body was now frozen. The witch reached out and placed two fingers on the sides of his temples. He watched, slightly entranced, as her lashes fluttered before her eyes rolled back into her head.

He stared into the pure white ovals before his sight faded, only to be replaced by a vision of mere moments before. . . .

Their room was dark and ominous as the storm rolled in. Sounds of eerie witches’ chants could be heard through the door.

Quickly, Cecil pulled on her worn boots—the boots Vladimir often scolded her for wearing. He hated it when she went to work in the fields to bring in their harvest. She, however, enjoyed it. It kept her busy while he trained his men for battle and kept the peace between wolf packs.

Her mate was a king, a warrior, and a werewolf; one of the original ten werewolves and one of the five that still walked the earth.

Pulling a heavy and warm forest green cloak across her slim shoulders, she tied it around her neck, then hesitated as she glanced around their room one last time. Who knew if she would ever come back here. The war between the witches and werewolves was escalating and it simply was not safe anymore.

Wolves were a dying breed.

“Run, Cecil. Don’t look back. I will follow as soon as I can!” Vladimir’s parting words rang in her ears and weighed heavily in her chest. She didn’t want to leave him. She had grown to love him. He was her given mate—a union between her father’s pack and his—forged in desperation for peace between them as they had once been at war. Being at war with one of the original werewolves was not ideal.

She hadn’t thought that she could ever come to love him, as most arranged unions—especially between werewolves—didn’t last because of true mates. Finding your true mate, however, was rare. She had only ever heard of a few who actually did.

Cecil shuddered, and her dark brown eyes swept across the bed they shared—the bed in which he had made love to her countless times, the bed in which he had taken her maidenhood. She tied her brown hair back, away from her face.

“Run.”

His voice echoed once more and she startled, realizing the witches were drawing near. Her skin prickled with awareness and her wolf snarled.

So she did run.

Cecil tore from the room. Her heart thundered in her chest and bile rose to her throat as she passed many of her pack lying dead in the castle halls. The sounds of the battle were almost too much. The screams of the witches and the howls of the wolves would haunt her forever.

A young male witch stepped into her path as she neared the spiraling stairs. His dark hood covered his face and he raised a gloved hand towards her.

Her ears pulled back as the vast, incoherent words of a spell rushed from his shielded lips.

“No!” she screamed, and turned to run. A large, light brown wolf flew past her, nearly knocking her down. It snarled, baring intimating sharp teeth, before colliding with the witch.

A loud thump and the sound of ripping flesh filled the hall as Rafael, Vladimir’s beta, tore the witch apart.

Cecil was saved—for an instant.

Suddenly her throat swelled and she struggled to breath. Gasping painfully, she began to claw at her neck. She fell to her knees. A cold crippling wash of fear traveled up her spine as a figure in a deep red cloak stepped forth and revealed herself. The witch held up a closed fist before releasing and relaxing her hand.

Cecil gasped and fell forward, drawing in lungfuls of air, finally able to breath once more. Eyes watering and body trembling, she glared up at the woman who stood before her.

Long, dark caramel hair hung loose in small waves. Her cheeks were caved and her lips full and pink. Oval-shaped eyes held bright silver orbs like Cecil had never seen before. Not even wolves’ eyes could compare. Her honey-colored skin was without a blemish. “Hello, darling.” The witch’s voice rang out like a siren, pulling in the weak, to trap and ensnare.

A bone chilling snarl emitted from Rafael, who stood panting behind the intruder, his light brown fur matted with fresh blood, his hatred filled eyes narrowed on the witch with a deathly promise. In an instant Rafael lunged, teeth bared, ready to pierce and tear into her flesh.

With a swift turn of her heel the witch faced him, she raised her hand, stopping Rafael mid air and with a sudden throw of her arm, Rafael was sent hurtling backwards, rolling across the floor. She heard the hard crunch of bone and sharp thump as his head hit the ground again and again. When he stopped rolling, he lay there completely still. Cecil was not sure if he was alive or not.

Cecil knew exactly who stood in front of her.

“Aribela. . .” Cecil choked out, as she struggled to a stand. She pulled the wolf forward but came up short. The soul of her wolf was nowhere to be found. She tried to not show weakness or fear but even she could smell it rolling off of her like waves of the Celtic sea.

The witch appeared satisfied that Cecil knew who she was. “How did you know?” she asked, with a self-satisfied, vengeful grin.

“My mate has told me all about you—and you reek of powerful magic,” Cecil snarled, attempting to reach for her shift once more.

Nothing.

Aribela was the most powerful witch of her kind. There was no other like her. She had trained her entire coven, yet no one ever measured up to her power or capabilities. It was said that Aribela could do a great many untold things—including raising the dead.

“Good. Then you know your place, dog. Beneath my heel or eight feet under it. Your choice.”

Cecil clutched at the folds of her gown and raised her chin defiantly. “I will never be at your heel!” she said, even as her words trembled from her lips.

Aribela looked at Cecil from beneath her dark lashes, her lips turning up in a bloodthirsty smile. “So be it,” she said.

In one quick movement, the witch reached down to her boot, withdrew a long, curvy blade—and sliced Cecil’s throat open. Wet gurgles fell from her parted lips. Her hands reached up and were quickly coated in her own blood. She sank to the floor as the witch stepped over her fallen form. “Goodbye, my queen,” she taunted, and walked away.

Vladimir was pulled forward, the vision disappearing. He cried out, the sound hoarse. His heart split, crumbling inside and trembling on the outside. Everything within him snapped, pulling hard with tension. His body began to shift, pushing past the spell the witch had cast. Her eyes widened in disbelief. She took a step back and began chanting once more.

His home, his pack, and his mate were either already dead or slipping away. He snarled, sharp teeth descending, cutting into his lower lip as his body began to reform. Smoky, thick gray fur pushed through his skin, coating his body. His legs twisted and bent as he fell to the muddy ground. His bones broke and reshaped.

Vladimir’s ears pulled back and extended into points swiftly covered by fur. His jaw dislocated and stretched. He became a wolf.

Standing on four paws, he could see his breath in the air as he panted harshly. The rain helped to chill the October evening. It soaked his fur, and his eyes blazed with blood-curdling intent.

The witch stumbled back, abandoned her spell, and screamed. The sound was music to his ears. It suddenly became his favorite sound in the world.

A low, dangerous growl rumbled in Vladimir’s chest and he prowled forward. He could smell the wickedly sweet scent of her fear. It boiled his blood as saliva pooled in his mouth.

“Ýpnos!” The command issued from the leader of the very coven he was at war with. Aribela strode away from his castle’s entrance, her silver eyes narrowing on his form as he continued to force past her spell.

Sleep!

He recognized their language of magic now that she’d spoken it openly. It was Greek.

Aribela glanced at the witch who had conjured the vision of the death of his mate, the look she cast towards her coven member was triumph, “Narcissa you’ve done marvelous but the werewolf king is mine now.”

Narcissa returned her triumphant look with one of her own before stepping away and heading towards the entrance of his castle.

Vladimir had nothing else to lose but his life—and at this moment, it wasn’t worth living, anyway. He had been alive for over a century. His immortality had set in when he was thirty, a small gift from the moon for being chosen as one of the original ten.

He may be immortal—and werewolves were hard to kill, as they healed faster than humans—but that did not mean that he couldn’t die.

“You’re a strong one, my pet, but I am stronger. Ýpnos!” the dark witch Aribela repeated, in a harder tone, with more force. Vladimir’s body felt laden, as if slightly in his cups. He swayed before his large wolf body dropped to the ground. Mud slipped into his coat as he drifted into oblivion.

The last sounds he heard were the dying cries of his packmates.