The Luna's Bodyguard [a mature werewolf romance]

Ch 35: The Loom

AURORA'S POV

Chrome threads whispered through my hands, over the tracks of the spinning wheel. Ignoring the lives playing out across the oily finish, I compressed the wooden paddle with my foot again and again, my bare foot slipping dangerously on the worn surface.

"More," the young Fate sang, greedily plucking at the strings on the Loom. Her name was Twyla, and she took after the dusk for which she was named, with deep, orange hair, moon-white teeth and lilac skin that sparkled with tiny silver stars. Her demeanour was caught somewhere between kind and cruel, as if all of her glittering compliments were edged by black, selfish humour.

I hated her.

It wasn't often I hated anything — Ophelia used to say I was painfully determined to find the good in everyone and everything — but Twyla set my teeth on edge. It was hard to articulate, but she seemed to me like a horse chomping at the bit, desperate to run free after being steered by my predecessor for so long. She clearly took great satisfaction from lording her newfound control over me, the newest member of this toxic trio.

"Quickly," Twyla snapped, daring to glance over her shoulder. I caught a glimpse of the tapestry taking form behind her, a fleeting vision of a girl with raven hair and ultramarine eyes passing a grey-eyed rogue a cup of tea. Golden lines marred the ravens on the finish, suggesting it had been broken and put back together in the Japanese style of mending.

Then the vision flowed into the underground lake, becoming it by some feat of insanity or magic. I shook my head, using the crook of my elbow to sponge sweat from my forehead.

I was already working dangerously fast. My hands and feet were raw from scraping stone and working the wool, which I could miraculously pluck from thin air. I'd learned how in one of the grimoires.

My grimoires. Sent by the old hag standing over my shoulder, who only breached the humid silence with the occasional soft-spoken instruction. There was a quiet authority to her that Twyla would never be able to grasp, but I feared she would not be with us much longer.

I was glad not to have to look at her withered face, or what was left of her tired eyes behind those veiny, drooping lids. Apparently the old woman was an exact copy of me, only eighty years my senior; we were not born, as other mortals were. We were made, by each other and from each other. The old remained only until the new were ready to take the reins of their full power.

We did not sleep. We did not need to; once the glamour had been lifted from my mind, so too was the spell that prompted me to mimic the habits of creatures all around me. I realised that all those naps were an excuse to consolidate what I'd been reading in the grimoires. All that sacred, secret knowledge, paired with the befuddling glamours, made for one hell of a headache.

The crowned imposter was right about one thing; I was a cuckoo chick, placed in the nest of an unsuspecting family to wean myself on their strength. For years, I had siphoned Ophelia's reputation, her mental and physical strength, making it difficult to shift. Every touch of these cursed hands was designed to take, so that one day they might be strong enough to shape.

Through fate, people's lives. Through lives, the very world.

Every single encounter that people chalked up to coincidence started here, in this very place. Every single mate bond was carefully crafted to manipulate lycans towards their doom and ensure the restoration of witch-kind to its former glory.

It was an enormous responsibility, and the woman standing behind me had clearly been struggling under its crushing weight her whole life. Guilt flickered through her eyes whenever they met mine, but it was always washed away by relief. Her life's work was almost through.

"No," Twyla hissed abruptly. My head snapped up as the scene forming beneath her hands warped and shimmered.

The raven-haired beauty yanked her hand away from his, her face contorting with shock and pain, which then smoothed away as an icy contempt stole through her expression...

Twyla hissed with displeasure. "What the fuck is Minuit doing? I need these two to make it."

"Which is probably why she's tampering with your work," Rora — the woman behind me —said wryly. "The Crown Alpha's goals often run against yours."

"But we need the firstborn we were promised," Twyla whined. "Minuit knows the prophecies. Elara's child is supposed to —"

"You can still mend this," Rora interjected. "Take a deep breath and focus, Twyla. You need to start leading by example."

"Don't patronise me," Twyla snapped. "I'm working at half the speed because of your selfish grasp on life. Just shut up and give me a hand."

I turned my head in silent question, but Rora's silence was stony. When I turned back towards Twyla, the usually calm waters around the island had started to froth and swirl, forming a deadly whirlpool as two clashing currents of fate competed with each other for dominion. I had no idea who Elara was or why she was so important for the Fates' plans, but her life just got a hell of a lot more complicated.

While the others bickered, I slowed my work on the spinning wheel, studying the new thread that had emerged. It was gold instead of silver, and a scene was emerging, clearer than all the others I'd seen before it.

This future was almost certain.

Ophelia's face was wrought from anger and grief as she raised the dagger above her head. Tears poured down her cheeks as she plunged it down, burying it all the way to the hilt in the Crown Prince's chest.

Thank you for your patience over the last month! Work has been really crazy but my holidays are coming up soon, which means we will be able to finish this book in the next couple of weeks. If you're still here, that honestly means the world and I can't thank you enough.

In other news, I've also been working on a pitch for a Wattpad Originals novel, which will explore Elara's story. Stay tuned for more news!

Love,
Lyraxxx