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An Alpha's Rebel Mate

An Alpha's Rebel Mate

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Only Morana's blade could save the Lycan clan from annihilation, and Ivar was to travel back to sometime in the past with Tyrone to retrieve this sword in its last known location. The search for the sword went bad when a Vampire attacked them and followed them to the past. He was met with more than he bargained for in the past. and it all began with him stumbling upon his fated mate, Urzula, a rebel, who was also of strange interest to the Vampire on their tail. Things fell apart between them when she was turned into the thing he dreaded and hated the most.


Snow was pouring more fiercely than ever before and by now. The woods was a large cke of snow overwhelmed with barren trees.

Ivar quickened his paces to cross the icy rivulet before Tyrone, just as waves of wind screamed past them, bounced off, and echoed further down the dense forest. The wind was strong and fierce, Ivar suspected this was about to become a terrible blizzard. Why in hell did Lachlain have to buy into Tyrone’s ideas?

The Lycae clan needed a miracle to keep up with the strength of their enemies, against the coming ‘Ascension', a war among immortals that happens every 1000 years. But Tyrone’s ideas were beyond ridiculous.

After studying the Baltic texts for a while, Tyrone had come across a myth, regarding an Immortal blade forged by a Baltic god, Morena. The mythical sword was claimed to be able to slay a multitude of immortals in a single strike. Tyrone believed the weapon existed, even after they had thoroughly searched the predicted cave, and had found no blade. He had expected Tyrone to accept the inevitable. He was wrong, as Tyrone put up an argument on how the blade must have been destroyed in this era by volcanic eruptions and they would need to go to the past to retrieve it. He had been so convincing that even the practical Lachlain, the Lycae king had succumbed to his argument and ordered that the blade be found at all cost.

Lachlain was bound to accept anyway, his ego wouldn’t let him take the practical option of trying to win back their allies, especially the Witches. All the witches' covens are now allies of the Vampires.

As they made their way further down the forest, the snow-laden plain began to reveal an isolated house, which appeared at one time to be there, and at another time, wasn’t. Its features were also shifting. At first, it was a two-fronted bungalow, then it became a log house. They got nearer, and it became a modern-styled cottage, with a small garden, now enveloped in snow. The house must be under some sort of hex.

“The young thing was really a witchling” He said, thinking about the witch and trying to start up a conversation with Tyrone who pretended he hadn’t heard him.

They had met the witch a week ago when she'd approached them at the National Portrait Gallery’s Restaurant. She had overheard their discussion on the sword and claimed she was a lone witch. She offered to help portal them to the past for the sum of half a million dollars, after casting some convincing magic spells before them to prove her capabilities.

Ivar had hoped Lachlain would call off the search for the sword at the witch’s outrageous request, instead, he had readily agreed. Lachlain was desperate for anything that would help him win the war.

Ivar was about to ring the bell, when the door popped open, and the witch appeared before them in a large fur coat, buttoned all through.

Ivar feasted his eyes on her. She didn’t look anything like a witch, she looked fragile, young, and small. Her blond hair was cut low, which gave her young beautiful face a childish glow. Her eyes were rich entrancing blue.

“Hello mademoiselle” Ivar said, throwing her a smile.

“This is London my dear, not France” She replied impatiently, hurrying them in. “And besides, don’t try. I am immune to werewolves’ charms. I wasn’t born to be a werewolf’s mate”

She might be young and fragile, but the witchling was bold and knows how to attack with her mouth.

“Don’t tempt fate, you might be destined for my bed one day” Ivar Joked. Trying to lighten the mood.

“Fate wouldn’t be that cruel, but I’ll keep that in mind” She smirked as she collected their coats and hung them behind the door. She relieved herself of hers too, revealing a thick but sensationally sculpted body as she guided them to her bedroom.

Paperbacks were strewn about a small bed and the walls were chocked with her pictures. The hearth warmed the room more than nice. Ivar didn’t give a passing thought to the change in temperature. He was sure Tyrell shared his nonchalance.

“Where’s my money,” She asked, her gaze traveling from him to Tyrone questioningly, before moving beyond, to rest on the Duffel bag Tyrone had been carrying behind him all the while.

Tyrone handed her the bag. “Here it is”

She took the bag and unzip it to confirm its content, her expression didn’t suffer any change at finding the bag stuffed full of roll after roll of dollar bills. She zipped up the bag and returned her face to them.

“I guess it’s complete then”

“Don’t hurt our pride witchling, go ahead and count it, if you have trust issues” Ivar growled. His irritation was clear as he watched her closely. He still couldn’t believe there were paying her half a million dollars to ferry them to the past. The witch was out to swindle them. “But don’t you think we are overpaying you for such little service”

“Little service you say” She scoffed, raising her chin aggressively “I’ll have to portal us all to the past, wait for you guys to find whatever it is you are looking for, which I don’t know might even take months, and then portal us back”

“Never mind him, just get on with ya stuff” Tyrone said to her, irritation in his voice. Ivar suspected that was for him. If he didn't know Tyrone better, he would have thought this was a conniving ploy between Tyrone and the Witch to swindle the desperate Lycae clan.

The Witch hissed and dragged close what must be her book of spells. She began whispering some words, moving her hands as if maneuvering a large steering wheel, her blue eyes rolling about in their sockets in a trance-like manner. Gradually, a wormhole took form before her.

She suddenly stopped after some time and turned to them, Her eyes had seized rolling but now, wariness was taking over them “You invited another” she asked.

“No...” Then he sensed it, his instincts, his werewolf guide, it whispered VAMPIRE. He growled and shot out his claws, his fangs grew larger and sharper. Tyrone joined him in an attacking stance as a Vampire traced into the room.

The lock of hair cloaking the Vampire's right eye and his long black overcoat that went very well past his knees made him appear less sinister than he was.

An old man came into the room after the Vampire, training a shotgun threateningly on them. He said nothing and made no noise, as stiff as a statue, except he was with a shotgun. A loaded shotgun. He was no doubt under the Vampire’s compulsion.

“Never told us you would be inviting your boyfriend and his dad over for the party” Ivar growled at the Witch, his breath raspy. He was tensed with the feeling of betrayal.

“That’s my grandfather dimwit, and I have no idea who that leech is, I don’t roll with his kind” The Witch shot back fierily.

The Vampire traced immediately to Tyrone and fists began flying from both sides as they pushed each other further into the room.

Before Ivar could think to join his brother and fight off the Vampire, the shotgun pumped a hole into the wall, just so dangerously near him.

He grunted furiously. Dammit, Granny nearly dug a hole through my stomach. His aim was near perfect. He must be of military stock, obviously retired.

Further angry blasts from the shotgun forced him to duck behind anything for cover, as he moved carefully for the old man. He knocked the rifle from the old man and shove him towards the door.

“Don’t play with such toys granny, you might hurt yourself”

He turned to find Tyrone handling it well with the Vampire. Tyrone wasn’t as skilled as the Vampire, but he was fast and deadly, and he held his ground against the Vampire’s skilfully thrown blows. Tyrone lunged for the Vampire’s throat with his claws with a good burst of speed. He drew blood before the Vampire could trace away to behind him.

Ivar charged for the Vampire wildly, but the Vampire traced out of the way and he couldn’t save himself from barreling into the bedroom sofa. He picked himself up immediately.

The old man ran madly into the room again, screaming “Leave my granddaughter alone” he had a hunting knife with him this time. He looked to be free of the Vampire’s compulsion as he attacked the Vampire first with the knife. A large beam of what looked like fire shot out of the witch's hand at the Vampire. He easily dodged. He gave the witch a triumphant grin as he caught the old man’s frail hand, steered his neck towards his fangs, and dug them into the old man’s neck.

Ivar ran for the Vampire’s neck, seeing him a little distracted with the old man. The Vampire let go of the old man and pushed him in the way of Ivar's claws. If the Vampire’s fangs had torn open an artery or two. Ivar’s claws shredded them. The old man dropped to the floor, dead.

The witch left the wormhole she had been tending and ran to her grandfather, crying and yelling with grief.

Dammit, he hadn’t meant to hurt the old man. The old man’s death and the witch’s grief overwhelmed him with a strange coldness and anger, and he charged again for the Vampire. He was stopped on his assault by an unknown force, pulling him, and dragging him against his will. He tried to fight the force but he couldn’t. It was powerful and magical. His eyes darted around in search of the source and he found that it was the wormhole trying to suck them in. The force was from that direction.

“Do something witchling” he managed to grit out before the wormhole swallowed them all in a single magical gulp.

Chapter 1

Ivar crashed head-first into a bed of snow. He tried fervently to control his fall with both hands but was unable and he couldn’t stop himself from tumbling down the root-strewn path. The fall carried him roughly down a slope, till a large birch tree halted his tumbling. Its sharp branches and pointed roots bit into the flesh of his back and made him wild with pain.

Ivar groaned as he struggled from the tree, and sat up, dusting packets of snow from his coat. His brain was spinning in his head at first, and a mist had clouded his eyes. Gradually it cleared, and he began to get his senses back in form. He began to heal, and his pain eased. Where was he? Where had the portal taken him?

The moon lit up a forest of lively birch trees, seeming to stick out of a carpet of fresh undisturbed snow. This isn’t the Witch's place... There are so many trees.

The portal must have taken him to the past. Where was everyone? Where were the others? He


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