Her father she could follow only from his voice.
There were other people in the structure—she hadn’t quite decided what the cavernous building was: probably a barn, given the dirt floor and faint odor of cow—but she couldn’t pinpoint them, either. She knew where Molly was, though. And Molly was the important one, Kouros’s right hand.
“Someone paid you to go up against me?” Her father’s voice was faintly incredulous. “Against us?”
Then he did something, made some gesture. She wouldn’t have known except for Molly’s sigh of relief. So she didn’t feel too bad when she tied Molly’s essence, through the gum she still held, into her shield.
When the coven’s magic hit the shield, it was Molly who took the damage. Who died. Molly, her little sister, whose presence she could no longer feel.
Someone, a young man, screamed Molly’s coven name—Wintergreen. And there was a flurry of movement where Moira had last sensed her.
Moira dropped the now-useless bit of gum on the ground.
“Oh, you’ll pay for that,” breathed her father. “Pay in pain and power until there is nothing left of you.”
Someone sent power her way, but it wasn’t a concerted spell from the coven, and it slid off her protections without harm. Unlike the fist that struck her in the face, driving her glasses into her nose and knocking her to the ground—her father’s fist. She’d recognize the weight of it anywhere.
Unsure of where her enemies were, she stayed where she was, listening. But she didn’t hear Tom; he was just suddenly there. And the circle of growing terror that spread around him—of all the emotions possible, it was fear that she could sense most often—told her he was in his lupine form. It must have been impressive.
“Your victim has a brother,” she told her father again, knowing he’d hear the smugness in her tone. “And you’ve made him very angry.”
The beast beside her roared. Someone screamed . . . Even witches are afraid of monsters.
The coven broke. Children most of them, they broke and ran. Molly’s death followed by a beast out of their worst nightmares was more than they could face, partially trained, deliberately crippled fodder for her father that they were.
Tom growled, the sound finding a silent echo in her own chest as if he were a bass drum. He moved, a swift, silent predator, and someone who hadn’t run died. Tom’s brother, she noticed, had fallen entirely silent.
“A werewolf,” breathed Kouros. “Oh, now there is a worthy kill.” She felt his terror and knew he’d attack Tom before he took care of her.
The werewolf came to her side, probably to protect her. She reached out with her left hand, intending to spread her own defenses to the wolf—though that would leave them too thin to be very effective—but she hadn’t counted on the odd effect he had on her magic. On her.
Her father’s spell—a vile thing that would have induced terrible pain and permanently damaged Tom had it hit—connected just after she touched the wolf. And for a moment, maybe a whole breath, nothing happened.
Then she felt every hair under her hand stand to attention, and Tom made an odd sound and power swept through her from him—all the magic Kouros had sent—and it filled her well to overflowing.
And she could see. For the first time since she’d been thirteen, she could see.
She stood up, shedding broken pieces of sunglasses to the ground. The wolf beside her was huge, chocolate-brown, and easily tall enough to leave her hand on his shoulder as she came to her feet. A silvery scar curled around his snarling muzzle. His eyes were yellow-brown and cold. A sweeping glance showed her two dead bodies—one burnt, the other savaged—and a very dirty, hairy man tied to a post with his hands behind his back, who could only be Tom’s brother Jon.
And her father, looking much younger than she remembered him. No wonder he went for teens to populate his coven—he was stealing their youth as well as their magic. A coven should be a meeting of equals, not a feeding trough for a single greedy witch.
She looked at him and saw that he was afraid. He should be. He’d used all his magic to power his spell—he’d left himself defenseless. And now he was afraid of her.
Just as she had dreamed. She pulled the stone out of her pocket—and it seemed to her that she had all the time in the world to use it to cut her right hand open. Then she pointed it, her bloody hand of power at him.
“By the blood we share,” she whispered, and felt the magic gather.
“You’ll die, too,” Kouros said frantically, as if she didn’t know.
“Blood follows blood.” Before she spoke the last word, she lifted her other hand from Tom’s soft fur that none of this magic should fall to him. And as soon as she did so, she could no longer see. But she wouldn’t be blind for long.
Tom started moving before her fingers left him, knocking into her with his hip and spoiling her aim. Her magic flooded through him, hitting him instead of the one she’d aimed all that power at. The wolf let it sizzle through his bones and returned it to her, clean.
Pleasant as that was, he didn’t let it distract him from his goal. He was moving so fast that the man was still looking at Moira when the wolf landed on him.
Die, he thought as he buried his fangs in Kouros’s throat, drinking his blood and his death in one delicious mouthful of flesh. This one had moved against the wolf’s family, against the wolf’s witch. Satisfaction made the meat even sweeter.
“Tom?” Moira sounded lost.
“Tom’s fine,” answered his brother’s rusty voice. He’d talked himself hoarse. “You just sit there until he calms down a little. You all right, lady?”
Tom lifted his head and looked at his witch. She was huddled on the ground, looking small and lost, her scarred face bared for all the world to see. She looked fragile, but Tom knew better, and Jon would learn.
As the dead man under his claws had learned. Kouros died knowing she would have killed him.
Tom had been willing to give her that kill—but not if it meant her death. So Tom had the double satisfaction of saving her and killing the man. He went back to his meal.
“Tom, stop that,” Jon said. “Ick. I know you aren’t hungry. Stop it now.”
“Is Kouros dead?” His witch sounded shaken up.
“As dead as anyone I’ve seen,” said Jon. “Look, Tom. I appreciate the sentiment, I’ve wanted to do that anytime this last day. But I’d like to get out of here before some of those kids decide to come back while I’m still tied up.” He paused. “Your lady needs to get out of here.”
Tom hesitated, but Jon was right. He wasn’t hungry anymore, and it was time to take his family home.
ALPHA AND OMEGA
Charles appeared in my life three-dimensional and in possession of an entire history. He stalked onto the pages of Moon Called, Bran Cornick’s younger son, and he told me who he was. He didn’t care that there were already far too many characters in the book—and that major characters needed to be introduced earlier. There he was.
So I sketched in a bare-bones appearance and promised him his own story. When my editor asked me to write a novella for an anthology of four novellas (two from paranormal-romance writers, two from urban-fantasy writers), I told her I’d write her a story about Charles, Samuel’s younger brother. She read the story and asked if I thought I could write a series based on these characters—and the rest is history.
The events in “Alpha and Omega” take place during the events in Moon Called.
ONE
The wind was chill and the cold froze the ends of her toes. One of these days she was going to break down and buy boots—if only she didn’t need to eat.