The Vampire's Enemy Bride
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Warren was on a mission to sabotage the werewolf's plan to retrieve Morana's blade, a mythical weapon capable of killing a multitude of immortals with a single strike. His life is tied to the success of the mission, if he succeeds, he lives and if he does not, the Vampire Lord would take his life instead. On his quest, Warren stumbles upon his fated bride, Freya, who was with the werewolves and who hated him for murdering her father coldbloodedly on their first encounter. He wanted nothing than to succeed in his mission, preserve his life, and also win the heart of his bride, but the mission makes him the bad guy which makes things rather impossible for him.
The Witch's Place
A cottage in the woods
Warren realized he was losing time. The werewolves would be here soon. He had to be in before they came.
He tried to trace into the house again, and like always he was thrown back by a strong magical force, and he landed hard once again on the snow-laden forest floor. Snow beat down fiercely on him as angry winds whizzed and lashed about. Thanks to the wind and snow, no one in the house had any idea, he was trying fervently to break into their home.
The witch had fortified the house with a hex that made it impossible to trace into. He wouldn’t give up. He had to find his way in somehow. Not only was his pride at stake but also was his life.
“This mission is important, you have to be successful, no failure” Dmitri Romanov, the Vampire lord had said to him, in his usual Russian accent, which as always made him sound sterner than he was.
Though he hadn’t been explicit, Warren knew well that Dmitri wouldn’t fail to pull the plug on his immortal existence if he failed in his mission, and trying to escape Dmitri’s wrath was just futile. Nowhere in the world was beyond Dmitri’s reach, not even the past.
But why him?
He still couldn’t find the answer to that one question that kept ringing in his head, he hurried to his feet again after another failed attempt.
He was far down the hierarchy of Vampire warriors, Dmitri had more fierce, skilled, and dangerous men under his command than to choose him. There was a special reason why Dmitri had chosen him for this important mission, a reason he still couldn’t wrap his head around.
He turned as his ears picked on approaching footsteps and the noises of a loud conversation. He spied the werewolves some yards away. Like most werewolves, they were huge and incredibly handsome. Tyrone was brown, a black American, and Ivar was probably of Slavic descent. Though they looked like some random Hollywood models in their thirties, who have spent half their life in the gym, they were over a century old, and they were strong, dangerous, and deadly. He was just as deadly, if not more.
Warren half-traced to hide behind one of the pine trees close by and watched carefully as the werewolves made their way to the door. Werewolves senses were sharp but he was sure they do not know yet of his presence. The windows of the house were locked against the wind and thus, let no light out and the moonlight was just enough to see five feet away and nothing else, and also with him half-tracing, he was undetectable. They won’t be able to smell him.
The door opened the instant they arrived on the porch, with the witch hastily ushering them in and shutting the door immediately after.
Ever since the Lycae clan lost their allies to the Vampire horde, Lachlain, the Lycae king had been on a desperate search for a solution to balance things up before the incoming ascension, a war amongst immortals that happens every thousand years, and was some months away. The Vampire horde found out via their spy in the Lycae’s inner circle, that the best solution he has reached so far was going to the past to retrieve Morena’s blade, an ancient and mythical sword, rumoured to be able to slay a multitude of immortals in a single strike, and they plan to find a witch to portal them to the past to find it. The plan was thought to be impossible since all the witches' covens were now allies of the Vampire horde, but miraculously, the Lycae clan stumbled upon luck and found a lone witch in London, after what must have been an exhausting search in the States.
That still doesn’t change the fact that the sword was only a myth and as such, doesn’t exist. Still, Dmitri couldn’t stand the Lycae clan having some hope, no matter how little it could be. So he'd put him in charge of sabotaging their plans.
The witch must have removed the hex on the house, after receiving her visitors, as the next time Warren tried tracing into the house, he entered with ease.
A wad of printed papers scattered to the air, as he traced into a room, startling an old grandfather who looked up from a writing desk at him, stunned at his sudden presence.
The grandfather quickly recovered from his shock as he made a rush for a shotgun resting on the wall. Warren traced to him before he could. Grabbing him by the neck, he pinned him to the wall.
The grandfather coughed hard as he clawed at Warren’s arm, struggling to get Warren chocking fingers off his neck, but there was no way he could beat the Vampiric strength.
Warren looked straight into his eyes, and gradually the grandfather seized his struggle for freedom and quietened. Their eyeballs locked and he forced compulsion. The eyes were the mirror into the soul, and Vampires could glimpse a person's soul through this mirror and force compulsion.
Warren released the grandfather and handed him the shotgun. He led the way to the witch's room.
“You invited another” he heard the witch ask the werewolves when he got close to her room. Her voice was sharp and demanding. She had sensed him.
“No.....” one of the werewolves said. Then a pause. Then the werewolves growled in fury, readying their claws and fangs for combat as he traced into the room. The grandfather came in after him, training the shotgun on the werewolves.
“Never told us you would be inviting your boyfriend and his dad over for the party” Ivar growled at the witch.
“That’s my grandfather dimwit, and I have no idea who that leech is, I don’t roll with his kind” she shot back.
Though she was thick, the witch looked small and fragile. At a glance, one wouldn’t know she was capable of anything as diabolical and complex as magic.
Warren had nothing to say to them. He traced to Tyrone and fists began connecting from both sides as they pushed each other further into the room, while the grandfather kept Ivar busy with steady pumps from the shotgun.
Warren was ambidextrous, attacking with both his fist skilfully, but he couldn’t match Tyrone’s speed and strength and had to keep tracing to evade his deadly blows.
Warren traced away from another of Tyrone’s deadly blows and tried to counter with a right. The attack exposed his left, and the werewolf seized the opportunity. He lunged murderously for his throat. The werewolf sliced his neck, drawing blood, before he could successfully trace away to behind him.
He was about to attack Tyrone from behind when he caught Ivar, through his peripheral vision coming for him wildly after he had disarmed the grandfather. Warren traced out of the way and Ivar barrelled into the bedroom sofa, picking himself up immediately.
The old man charged madly into the room again, screaming “Leave my granddaughter alone” at the top of his lungs, a hunting knife in his hands. Warren realized he was now free of his compulsion as he attacked him first with the knife. He caught the grandfather, and a large beam of what looked like fire, shot out of the witch's hand toward him, which he managed to dodge. He grinned at the witch with triumph as he dug his fangs into the grandfather’s neck.
It should rattle the witch a little. Young witches who hadn’t come to the realization of the extent of their powers are more like a sitting keg of gunpowder, ready to explode at the slightest irritation. He wanted her to explode. He wanted her to lose her rationality.
Ivar came for his neck again and Warren let go of the old man and pushed him in the way of Ivar’s claws. If his fangs had torn open an artery or two. Ivar’s claws shredded them. The grandfather fell on the floor, dead.
The witch left the wormhole she had been tending and ran to her grandfather, crying and yelling with grief.
Ivar became angrier at the death of the grandfather, and charged at him, more murderous than before. As he attempted to trace away, an unknown power, a magical force froze him in that position, as it did everyone else in the room.
The wormhole was trying to suck them in. He tried to fight it but couldn’t and the wormhole swallowed them all in one single magical gulp.
Freya landed roughly on a cliff. The bright moon cast light on a carpet of steep solid rocks and tall trees and she tried to make sense of her immediate environment.
She must be in the past...
Suddenly, a powerful wind swept her feet, throwing her down the rocky mountainous slope. The wind at this altitude was strong and fierce.
She didn’t try to save herself from the wind and allowed it to carry her. Images of the Vampire pushing her grandfather in the way of the werewolf’s claws were rushing down on her in hurting strings. She felt helpless, and angry at herself. She wanted to die, just as her grandfather had died. Like she had killed him with her greed.
Her grandparent was the only family she had known since she was little. Her parents had died when she was a baby. Grandpa Tom, and Grandma Rebecca, had raised her, cared for her, and loved her unconditionally with their aging hearts, and she had loved them so much in return. Grandma Rebecca didn’t
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