The Luna's Bodyguard [a mature werewolf romance]

Ch 52: Dawn of a New Age

AURORA

Ignatius, the third of his name, stepped into the light. He too was caked in blood; it slathered his naked torso and matted his hair, lending the chocolate brown a ruby sheen. It seemed to spill from his arms, in which resided a woman still as death, the hilt of Fallon's other dagger still protruding from her chest. She was clothed only by the long, wine-red tresses that curled protectively around her vulnerable form.

My heart seemed to seize in my chest — even though it did not beat. It was as if it was a harp, and somebody had clenched every string of my being in a fist and squeezed until they were on the verge of snapping.

Ophelia. My sister. She lay all but dead in Nate's arms, and I hadn't seen it coming.

The Witted One trailed behind them, at a distance that betrayed her uncertainty. I could sense the guilt and confusion emanating off her in waves: nothing had gone according to the plan we'd discussed below.

But that was the whole point of this new Path, wasn't it? It was supposed to be the road less taken. An adventure for the sake of adventure itself. Discovery would breed innovation, and innovation would lead to salvation — or utter ruin.

What might mankind become, if left to govern themselves? What marvels — and atrocities — would come of free will?

Centuries of apathy threatened to overwhelm me. What was one fleeting life in the scheme of eternity? But one drop of water in a waterfall — what did it matter if it hit the rocks faster than the rest?

They all wound up in the same place eventually. In the water that had been cycling through this world for 3.8 billion years, and the Otherworld for even longer. They all collected in the underground lake below my feet, their souls to fuel prophecies for years to come.

Not that there was anyone left to divine them.

"Take him to the window," Ignatius commanded, and Fallon obeyed — of his own volition, this time. He and Mila shoved the Crown Alpha over to the window, forcing him to lay eyes on the army bleeding from the hedge maze, procured by one of the underground tunnels that connected all things.

The King paled. "I don't understand."

Ignatius leaned forward to whisper in his ear, still clutching Ophelia to his breast. "And you never will."

A sideways glance at Mila. A shared nod. A single wrench of her lovely arm.

Blood spewed from Reginald's severed artery, splattering on the window pane and blocking the advancing army from view. It was a poetic form of justice, that the usurper should have his throat slit from ear to ear, just as the Lathurna family was murdered in this very halls. By the very progeny he'd kept like pets and tormented over the years, reunited at last.

When it was over, the three of them turned to face me.

"Please," Ignatius begged, his voice hoarse form unshed tears. "I did my best to stop the bleeding, but the knife — the wound —"

"She is not dead," the Witted One said grimly; stepping forward. A growl from Ignatius made her freeze in her tracks. "Close, but not quite."

"Then heal her," Ignatius snarled. "This is your fault in the first place."

I felt a flash of anger. What had Addison done to earn the prince's blame?

"You're the reason she killed herself," the Witted One sneered. "She couldn't bear the thought of hurting you. Who's fault is that?"

"Addison Sinclair." My tone was clipped. "Explain yourself."

She stiffened under my scrutiny, a hint of true fear in the flaring of her nostrils. She'd seen what I could do, even to my own kind. How easily I could unravel all the power I'd bestowed upon her — and more.