Howl (Lost Moon: Unravelling Monsters Universe #2)

Chapter 20

20

WEST

I wake in a dark jail cell. Old stone slabs line the floor, cold and damp beneath my fur. It smells wet here, stinking of stale water, moss, piss, and shit. There’s also a fuck ton of shifters in this place, the smell of blood and damp fur thick in the air.

Underlying all of that is the scent of many, many werewolves. We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Where is my mate?

She’s certainly not in here. Logically, I know she’ll be fine — I assume we’re in her castle on Lykia — but logic doesn’t stop the sick feeling that I have at being separated from her.

Sam lets out a small bark, and I lift my head immediately, barking back to him, prompting some of the others in here — wolves from Anita’s pack — to growl in response. I rise, my claws clicking on the stone floor as I approach the iron bars at the front of my cell, and spot Sam across the wide aisle, a couple of cells down. Logan is with him. I don’t know how the werewolves knew to keep my pack separated from the others, but with the murderous snarls I’m getting, I’m grateful that they did.

I have no idea how we got here. The last thing I remember is that I was standing between Bronte and the werewolves coming through the portals they opened, growling in warning, wanting desperately to protect my mate as I looked into the cold eyes of the High Witch. I knew she was Bronte’s grandmother immediately. The resemblance was a dead giveaway, but more than that, it was the sense of absolute power that she exuded. I shudder, shaking my head and shoulders, trying to dispel the uncomfortable knowledge that the High Witch somehow made us all sleep with her magic alone. I can believe it; if her granddaughter can harness the power of the moon and bring people back from the brink of death, then I have no doubt that the High Witch is capable of many things.

Sometimes I hate that this is the way the world is — that there are those out there with innate power that I’ll never have. I know people say that about me — shifters, jealous of the power that I have as an alpha, humans and others jealous of the wealth I’ve amassed — but these werewolves have a level of magic that is rare and terrifying. I don’t think there’s any shifters out there that come remotely close to that level.

My children might.

I bark loudly. Muffled sounds travel through the stone ceiling above us — it’s obvious that we’re in a dungeon of some sort — and if I can hear them, they can hear me too. I don’t think anyone will come down here just because a shifter demands it, but I’m still going to make myself heard, if only to annoy the shit out of them.

They better be treating Bronte well.

She was amazing in her werewolf form. I knew she would be. Ridiculously tall and thick with muscle, she’d torn through Elliot like he was paper. I know it was the power of the stone making her stronger, but I’m so proud of her for utilising everything she had to her advantage.

The other shifters continue to snarl at me from their cells, though Anita and her mate have remained quiet. I know they’re in here somewhere; I can smell them, even if I can’t see them.

They probably think I’m a traitor to our kind. I don’t give a shit. I don’t owe them anything. I’m pissed off at Anita for what she did — why the fuck did she listen to Elliot? I meant it when I said that she doesn’t have the capabilities to protect the stone. I don’t know if we’ll ever find out the true motivation behind what those pixies were doing, but I can only assume that they were trying to cash in on both the shifter money and favour from the fae. There’s no way they’d truly trade such a valuable item for so little.

Now Anita has lost a handful of her enforcers, killed in a fight she shouldn’t have been involved in, and look where it got her: trapped in a werewolf prison. I’ll be shocked if the High Witch lets her live, but that’s not my problem.

No one has bothered to shift back into their regular forms. I doubt their wolves would allow it; I know that when the time comes I’ll likely struggle, given the fact that we’re in the heart of enemy territory. I always feel most powerful when in my wolf form, despite knowing that it doesn’t always serve me to be shifted like this.

There’s no way to know how much time passes, and I grow increasingly impatient. They haven’t supplied us with food or water, and while I assumed that these werewolves were just making a point in a fucked up power play, at least when it comes to me, I’m beginning to worry that they actually mean to keep me prisoner.

Fuckers.

I worry for Bronte. The fact that she hasn’t come for me is concerning. I know my mate, and as I watch some of the wolves begin to shift back, limping as they disappear into the shadowed corners of their cells to use the rudimentary toilets, I know she wouldn’t stand for this.

She wasn’t in a good state when the werewolves found us, and I feel sick over it. I should have stopped her from healing the others. She was using far too much energy, and I’m a bad mate for not doing anything about it.

What if she’s hurt. What if…

I tip my head back, howling for her.

I’m lying on the damp floor again, my head between my paws. “ Sulking,” my mother used to say, on the rare occasions she’d catch me like this while in my wolf form. She’d find me the next day, hands on her hips as she gently berated me for not making the most of the mere hours we had every few months to let our wolves be free. “You should be out running, Weston. When we shift, your wolf should always be moving.”

She hadn’t understood how hard it was to be the younger alpha. No one had, and at the time I didn’t dare tell them I was avoiding Frank’s wolf out of fear that I would lose control if I came too close to him. I knew I wasn’t ready to be the pack alpha yet, but my wolf disagreed. Sometimes it was just easier to sulk , as she said, at least until I was sure Frank had run a good distance away, and I could be certain that we wouldn’t cross paths in the night.

Am I sulking now? Probably. Preserving energy is what I’ll tell anyone that asks. All of the wolves have settled down; Anita has been almost completely silent since I woke up, but she barked at her pack a while ago, and they’d all grown quiet.

My ears prick as I hear something other than the steady drip of water. The sound of a door opening, feet walking confidently down a stone stairwell. I shift back into my regular form, somehow knowing who it is before she even appears.

The High Witch is alone. She stops in the centre of the dungeon, turning her gold eyes towards me. There’s very little light down here, and her pupils shine bright. She’s a beautiful woman, and the resemblance to Bronte is obvious. With my upbringing in the Second Realm and the day-to-day reality of living under glamour, I have to actively remind myself that she’s not in her mid-fifties as she appears to be by human standards, and is actually in her eighties.

I imagine she’s very wise. She’s definitely very dangerous.

Her black lace dress may look out of place here among the general filth, but the way she carries herself makes it obvious that she is in absolute control.

“ You, ” she sneers, and that single word says so much. “What’s your name?”

I smirk, knowing exactly how to answer this question. It’s going to make her mad, and she won’t be able to do a thing about it. It’s her custom, after all. I know all my kind are listening, and I’m sure they’ll have things to say about it, but I don’t care. “West Maheras.”

My grin widens as her eyes narrow, her mouth — already unhappy — turning down in a frown. “You’re a little shit , you know that?” she spits, and I can’t help but laugh. I know she’s the most powerful person in this room. I know I’m currently trapped naked in a jail cell. I know she could probably smite me on the spot with her magic. I don’t give a shit, because I also know that she’s not going to, she knows I know it, and I’m going to have my fun pissing her off.

If she’s here, personally visiting the dungeon to seek me out, she already knows who I am.

I’m right. “ Weston Livingston, ” she enunciates, saying every syllable as if my name is dirt on her tongue. “I know all about you. I cannot believe , that of all the men in the two different realms, it’s you . Undeserving. That’s what you are. Undeserving of my granddaughter! She could do a hell of a lot better than you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I say, all humour gone from my voice. “She’s a thousand times better than me, and she always will be. She’s good. Pure. Sweet.”

The High Witch remains silent. We’re at an impasse, and for once, I’m going to be the weak one that breaks the silence.

“How is she?” I ask.

There’s a flash of emotion in the High Witch’s eyes, and my stomach drops, my wolf panicking within me. He’s already desperate to be let out again.

“She’s still resting. She’ll recover. She overexerted herself, that’s all.”

I find myself nodding.

“You should let her go, Weston. She belongs here in Lykia.”

“No.”

She stares again.

“Her and I are fated . She’s mine.”

“If she leaves with you today, she will never be welcome back.”

She’s wrong. Bronte has seen us here on Lykia, but I’m not about to spill our secrets. “You would deny her the right to access her own land?” I ask instead. “I shouldn’t be surprised; it’s what you Maheras have always been known for.”

“Oh, so now you’re not a Maheras? You’re so quick to drop your wife’s name when it doesn’t suit you. Let me guess, in the Second Realm you’re not Mr Maheras at all, are you? She’s Mrs Livingston, isn’t she?” She shakes her head, her face full of disgust. “I have no idea why she wants to live in a world like that.”

“You’ve spoken to her?” I force myself to stand still, to not grip the bars of this prison and beg to be let out. I already sound desperate enough.

“No. She hasn’t woken yet.” Her lips press in a flat line, before curling back in a snarl. “You’re not the only one with a seer. Your children will be werewolves, you do know that, don’t you?”

She knows the future.

“I know what they will be,” I say. “They’ll be the best of all of us.”

The entire dungeon is silent. The High Witch turns her back to me, leaving the way she came without another word.

I was wondering just what the High Witch would do to satisfy her need for dominance over a situation outside of everyone’s control. That’s the crux of the matter; Bronte and I are fated to be together, and it gives the High Witch very little to stand on when opposing our union.

I should have known that she’d go down the public shaming route. After another long wait that feels like hours, two male guards appear in the dungeon, snarling at me in warning that I “better not shift or we’ll end you.” While my usual response would be something snarky followed by a fight, I comply for Bronte’s sake. These are her people, after all. For all I know, these guards could be some of her brothers.

My arms are bound behind my back with magic not dissimilar to the spell Bronte used on me the other day — I have to force myself not to think about that at all, because the last thing I need is a fucking boner right now — and I’m marched naked on a very long and winding route through the castle, people’s stares ranging from confused and concerned all the way through to outright derision as we pass by.

I ignore them and I focus on the fact that I’ll see Bronte soon enough. This will upset her, and that’s what I hate the most. I don’t give a fuck about these werewolves and their mind games, but they’re going to make my mate cry, and that makes me want to beat the shit out of them. The High Witch will know this, too. She knows what her granddaughter is like.

Fucking bitch.

After an endless amount of detours we finally arrive at what I assume is the Great Hall, walking past a huge open archway that leads into it from the side. I recognise it immediately from Bronte’s descriptions of the huge cavernous space, reminiscent of the big cathedrals in Europe, all marble and gold and huge stained glass panels that depict the Goddess Lykia and her moon magic. That’s the only glimpse of it I get, because I’m marched further down a corridor and out a small wooden side door, stepping onto pavers that burn my bare feet, my eyes shut against the bright sunlight, until I’m prodded in the back by my guards.

The castle stands at the top of a huge cliff, the wind from the bright blue ocean negating some of the heat. Lykia is known for being dry and hot, I know that much. It always baffles me that werewolves chose an island — albeit a big one — as their seat of power, but it’s clearly worked well enough for them.

“Ah, fuck, ” I mutter, when I realise what they’re doing with me. I’d held up hope that maybe they were taking me to some sort of outdoor gathering, or down to the beach that Bronte told me about from her vision. Instead I’m marched around to the huge wooden doors at the entrance to the Great Hall.

“You don’t just want to toss me over the cliff?” I joke, and the guard behind me laughs.

“Believe me, I’d fucking love that. I’m sick of staring at your naked ass.”

I grin. “Not the day you had planned, I take it.”

“No, definitely not. Now shut the fuck up. We’re entering a sacred space. You will be respectful, and you will keep your head bowed before the High Witch.”

No, I don’t think I will.

The doors open slowly, the guards waiting for some sort of unspoken cue before I’m prodded again and we begin moving forward.

It’s surprisingly open and light, even with an upper gallery filled to the brim with werewolves here for the show. I grit my teeth, reminding myself that this doesn’t matter. I have a feeling we won’t be coming here often. Who cares what these people think when I’m never going to see them again?

Except I do care. I care that their derision stems from the fact that I’m not the right kind of wolf for them. I care, because they’re going to hurt Bronte’s feelings by association, and I’m beginning to realise that they’ll view my children the same way. Elliot had used the word mutts . I have a feeling that these weres will say the same thing.

I think about the little girl Bronte described, and my son. She uses the word perfect and I know what she means — that they are just as they’re meant to be. Bronte’s grandmother thinks I’m going to be bothered by the fact that my pups will be werewolves. Why would I be? I hope they’re like their mother; kind and caring, honourable, all the things that I’m not.

The cumulative effect of hundreds of murmuring people in a huge building designed for the acoustics is a continuous low hum, an odd drone to walk down the long centre aisle to. There’s a throne at the other end, and upon it sits the High Witch, now wearing a golden crown that fans out from her hair in a series of sharp spines, like rays of the sun.

I’m halfway down the hall when there’s a bang, a wooden door somewhere flying open. Bronte. I see her in the far corner, her face transforming from shock to fury, a growl ripping through her throat that silences the onlookers.

“ How dare you ,” she snarls, rushing forward, and I know she’s not speaking to me but to the woman on the throne. I’m not sure if the crowd knows that yet — I think they’ve been assuming that I’m some sort of political prisoner, not the mate of their beloved princess.

“Move!” she snaps at the guards, but she’s still some distance away, and they hesitate. “ Move away!” She flicks her wrist, dissolving the bands around mine, and I suck in a deep breath, rolling my stiff shoulders. I open my arms wide as Bronte throws herself at me, burying her face in my neck as the crowd erupts in noise.

Now they understand.

“Are you alright?” I ask, ignoring the onlookers. She nods, and I press my nose to her hair, breathing in deep. Home. That’s what she smells like. My life. My future. I kiss her cheek, then press my lips to her neck. There’s something slightly different about her scent, and hidden behind her hair as I am, I dare to dart my tongue out and lick her quickly. She laughs quietly, and I squeeze her tighter. I don’t know how much time has passed since we were in New York, but I do know that I never want her out of my sight again.

“What about you?” she asks. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Please tell me you weren’t in the dungeon.” She lifts her head, staring into my eyes, seeing the answer there. “Who else?”

“Everyone is down there. Sam and Logan. Anita and her pack.”

“ Shit. ”

“I’m quite happy to leave Anita’s fate to your grandmother, but I need my men.”

She nods, her eyes darting up in the direction of the gallery.

“Ignore them.”

She shakes her head, a determined look on her face. “Here, put this on. I had a feeling you wouldn’t have clothes. I’m sorry, it’s the only thing I could find in a rush. I’d rather not make announcements with you completely nude.”

It’s a scarf, the lightweight black fabric slung over her shoulder isn’t part of her outfit as I had first assumed. I wrap it around my waist, tying a knot at the side so it forms a very short skirt. “Does it even cover my junk?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you’re fine — just .”

“Good. I’ll start.”

“Start wha —” I cut her off with a bruising kiss, growling into her mouth, my tongue sliding against hers. The volume in the hall is deafening, the outrage from our onlookers palpable.

“You naughty man,” she chastises as I smile against her lips. I kiss her again before stepping back, lifting her hand to my lips. “Make your announcements, sweetheart. I’m ready to get out of here.”

She steps beside me, keeping hold of my hand. “I ask for silence while I address the Great Hall!”

The crowd quietens, but doesn’t fully settle.

“Silence!” the High Witch snaps, and the crowd grows quiet immediately. She rises from her throne. “Bronte, you had something to share?”

I squeeze her hand reassuringly, and she takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Good.

“This is Weston,” Bronte begins, addressing her grandmother directly. Her voice carries in the now-quiet hall. “He is my fated mate , and I will be residing with him in the Second Realm for the foreseeable future.”

The High Witch stares at us for an uncomfortably long time. “I’m disappointed in how quickly you would abandon your House and coven.”

“I’m not abandoning House Maheras. I can visit —”

“You cannot!”

“I —”

“I will not have you back, Bronte. If you choose to leave today, that is your choice, and you will not be welcome here any longer.”

The quiet murmuring in the crowd is back and I can’t help but think that it would be better to have this conversation in private, but I’m not about to get in the middle of two werewolf women having an argument.

“I think you missed the part where I said he was my fated mate. Fate has brought about our union. It’s not changing, and I love him.”

“It’s not love. It’s never love when it’s fate, child.”

“I’m not a child, and I know what I’m feeling.”

“There are spells that can undo a mating such as yours, you know that. You need to leave him before you wind up pregnant.”

“That’s dark magic, and I’m not interested —”

“She’s already pregnant.”

Both women turn to stare at me, identical looks of shock on their faces. The crowd is loud once more, and I can hear multiple people saying “Shhhh!” to others in an attempt to catch our conversation.

“I can tell,” I say quietly to Bronte. “I just realised that your scent has —”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the High Witch snarls, looking between us.

“You already indicated that you were expecting this,” I remind her, and she rolls her eyes.

“I hope that shifter knot is worth it, Bronte, because it just cost you your future. I cannot believe you would make such foolish decisions. What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong with her, Lenora,” I growl. “I’m not going to let you talk to my mate that way.”

“You will address me as High Witch . You have no say in what goes on in this House. You do not dictate what I do, shifter.”

I don’t know how to deal with this fucking woman. She’s pricklier than I am, and her magic scares the shit out of me, but I’m not going to let her know that.

“You are taking the very best of our daughters, I hope you know that,” she says, and for the first time I can see not just her anger, but her hurt.

“Bronte would happily visit.”

“It does not work that way! It is one or the other!” She turns to Bronte. “Is this your final choice?”

“Yes.” Bronte pauses, tears welling in her eyes. “I wish you would be more flexible on this, Gran. You’re going to miss out on my family because of it.”

“Do you expect me to rejoice when I see twenty years of effort disappearing because my granddaughter wants to play happy families with the first shifter boy she meets? You have so much potential, and you’re throwing it away for a dog. ”

I begin to snarl — that word always feels like a physical blow — but Bronte’s growl overshadows mine, dark and menacing and loud as it is.

“Don’t you dare speak about him that way! I will not tolerate it in this Hall! I will not tolerate it in this House!” The crowd around us falls silent as Bronte’s voice grows louder. “No one, no one, has a right to speak about any wolf with that language. Take a look in the fucking mirror! We are descended from the same ancestors! I have the power of sight, and I will tell you all what I have seen! I have seen my children, full grown, they are werewolf and they are shifter, and they are perfect as they are!”

There’s a rumble of murmurs from the gallery. Bronte is fierce, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wild with fury.

“I have met my mate across time, and I know I will love him for all my life!”

More rumbling murmurs, but the voices are cut silent by Bronte’s next words.

“I have seen myself as the High Witch!”

There’s not a single movement in the hall, but I’m not paying attention to any of them. I’m looking at my wife, and seeing the truth in her words. When did she have that vision?

“You can cast me out today if you must, but I will return,” Bronte says, her voice quiet, but no less bold.

“You will never lead House Maheras.”

“Well that’s the thing, Gran,” Bronte says, tears rolling down her cheeks, strong and soft all at once. “You can declare that now, and your declaration will stand while you are here on that throne, but the dead do not speak. I love you with all my heart. I don’t want to sever my connection to House Maheras or to you, but I will not sacrifice my family, my children , for your need to control me.” She wipes at her tears, pursing her lips as more come. “I wish this wasn’t so, but one day you will be gone, and I have seen what comes next. Take that as you will, but I have no reason to lie about this. I do return. The future is set. It will happen.”

With that, Bronte turns to me, offering me her hand. “Come. Let’s get our pack members, and get out of here.”

The Maheras genes are strong. As Bronte leads me out another door and down a long, narrow corridor, a woman runs after us, yelling her name.

“Mom!” Bronte calls back, and I’m struck by how similar this new woman looks to both Lenora and Bronte. Her mother.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she says, hugging her daughter tight. “I’m sorry you’re joining the great disappointments club.”

“Yeah,” Bronte says, blinking back fresh tears. “I tried to be good for so long.”

“You are good, my darling. She’s the bad one.” Bronte’s mother kisses her daughter’s cheek, but her eyes are trained on me. “Now tell me how it is that you met this man and decided you were going to have his babies.”

“Can I tell you on the way to the dungeon? I need to get our pack members out of there.”

“That’s a good idea.”

We all turn at the sound of an elderly voice. The werewolf at the end of the corridor is old, her back hunched, shoulders curling in on herself. “ Bethyl, ” Bronte says, her voice full of relief as her face lights up with a smile. “You lied to me,” she continues teasingly as she wraps her arms around the old woman. “You told me that the future isn’t set in stone. I have very good proof that it is.”

Bethyl laughs, her eyes on me as she speaks. “I heard. But you lied to me too, my darling. You told me that you hadn’t seen anything, yet apparently you were visiting naked men in your dreams, hmm?”

“Who told you that?!”

“Oh, fate and magic.”

The blue portal spins, the patterns in the centre nausea-inducing if you spend too long looking at it.

Anita and her pack are the first to leave Lykia, stepping through in quick succession, guards holding their weapons ready until the last of that pack have gone. I have no idea what deal Anita managed to strike with the High Witch, but for some reason she’s allowed to walk free, despite being one of the parties involved in taking the stone. The portal closes behind them, leaving them at Anita’s property in New York.

Bronte lifts her hand again, hesitating. “Do we go back to the Ritz, or…”

“To the redwoods,” I say. Logan’s mate is waiting for him there, and I know with all of us missing, many of the pack will have assembled there. “I’ll call the hotel later and tell them to mail our things back to us.”

“Okay,” Bronte says, her eyes darting to the guards. Their weapons are lowered, but I know she’s upset that they’re here at all, as if she’s a criminal. She creates another portal, and I repress a shudder at the tearing sound. I understand Sam’s aversion to this kind of magic; when you think too hard about it, it’s terrifying.

Sam and Logan step through first, each carrying multiple bags filled with Bronte’s belongings, and then it’s our turn. “Hey,” I say, and Bronte turns her attention towards me. There’s so much I need to tell her — how proud I am of her, how amazingly vicious she was in her wolf form, how strong she was when she confronted her grandmother in the Great Hall. “I love you,” I say, and she grins, stretching up to kiss me.

“I love you too.”