An Alpha's Maiden Mate
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In the quest for Morana's blade, Tyrone stumbles on his fated mate and was faced with the protection of his love from a Vampire intent on her life and the search for the blade to rescue the Lycan clan from future annihilation in the coming war. The Ascension, a war among immortals drew near and the Lycan clan needed a miracle to survive the war, considering their closest allies had now allied with their immortal enemies, the Vampire Horde. The search for Morana's blade, a sword with extraordinary abilities capable of bringing the Lycan clan to equal footing with their enemies, had brought Tyrone to the past.
The Witch's Place
A cottage in the woods (Early 2002)
Tyrone crossed the icy rivulet after Ivar and waves of wind screamed past them, bounced off, and echoed further down the dense forest. Snow rained wildly on them. Tyrone suspected they were probably half an hour from a terrible blizzard.
Is she capable of such magic?
For probably the millionth time that night, the question once again crawled into Tyrone’s mind. So much rested on the witch’s capacity. She has to get them to the past to retrieve the Immortal Blade, an ancient mythical and magical weapon, crafted by the goddess Morena herself, and capable of slaying a multitude of immortals in a single strike.
The blade had been lost to a volcanic reaction in this era and they had to visit the past to retrieve it. The blade could give the Lycae clan an edge over their enemies in the next Ascension; a war among immortals that happens every thousand years and was just some months away.
Should the witch should fail, then doom it is for the Lycan clan. Finding another witch in time for the job would be almost impossible. The witches are now allies of the Vampires, their immortal enemies. It had been a miracle finding her in the first instance. Finding a lone witch.
Finding her. She had found them. She had approached them a week ago at the National Portrait Gallery’s Restaurants, which as usual was packed full of excited tourists at the time. She had overheard Ivar’s endless narration on how this mission was a complete waste of time.
Tyrone had come about the blade studying the Baltic texts extensively for weeks, he could care less of Ivar’s thoughts. Other than Ivar being a great warrior, he was as dumb as they come. Since Lachlain, the Lycae king had bought the idea of the existence of the blade and the plan to retrieve it and also had agreed to it, his job of convincing anyone about the blade was done. The only cog in the wheel now was that Lachlain had spared only Ivar to assist him. The number was okay, but Tyrone could only wish for a better partner. Ivar was going to be nothing but a huge pain in his hide.
“I am Freya and I can help you guys out with traveling to the past” the witch had said “I know you are werewolves, as you must now suspect what I am. Bring half a million dollars to this address in a week, and you are as good as visiting the past” she had pushed a neatly scribbled paper onto the table, with her little finger. She was thick, small, and considerably pretty. Her main features were her blue eyes, they looked like the colour of the sea.
She had cast some magic spells to prove she was what she claimed, a witch, then turned quietly for the exit.
The address she gave them, led them deep into the woods of North Pennies. And for the past hour, all they had seen was an endless canvas of snow and huge pine trees. As they journeyed further, the snowy plain began to reveal an isolated house.
The house seemed on some sort of hex. At one time it was there, another time, it wasn’t. Even its features were shifting. At first, it was a two-fronted bungalow, then it became a log house. As they got nearer, it became a modern-styled cottage, with a small garden, now enveloped in snow.
“The young thing was a witchling” Ivar said excitedly.
Tyrone ignored him, pretending not to have heard him. He was in no mood for a conversation, which he was sure Ivar was trying to pursue.
Is she capable of such magic? It takes more than magically controlling a coffee mug and shifting the form of a house to open a portal to the past.
Ivar attempted to ring the bell, the door popped open just before he could.
“Hello mademoiselle” He said, throwing her a smile, and a bow.
“This is London my dear, not France” She replied with impatience, hurrying them in. “And besides, don’t try. I am immune to werewolves’ charms. I wasn’t born to be a werewolf’s mate”
“Don’t tempt fate, you might be destined for my bed one day”
“Fate wouldn’t be that cruel, but I’ll keep that in mind” She smirked anxiously as she collected their coats, hanged them behind the door, and guided them to her bedroom.
Paperbacks were strewn about a small bed in a room that was chocked with her pictures. The hearth warmed the room more than nice. Tyrone was less bothered about the warmth of the room, he was sure Ivar felt so too.
“Where’s my money” She asked, her gaze traveling from him to Ivar, and back questioningly, before moving beyond, to rest on the Duffel bag he had been carrying behind him all the while.
Tyrone handed her the bag. “Here it is” he said.
She took the bag and unzipped it to confirm its content, her expression didn’t suffer any change at finding the bag stuffed full of rolls after rolls of dollars. She zipped up the bag and returned her face to them.
“I guess it’s complete then” Her serious tone only made her words more sarcastic.
“Don’t hurt our pride witchling, go ahead and count it if you have trust issues” Ivar growled with obvious irritation, watching her closely. “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 somewhere for you guys to find whatever it is you are looking for, which for all I 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. Not to her, but to Ivar, he saw no reason why Ivar should bring that up. He saw no reason for an argument on it either since it had been prearranged already.
The Witch hissed and dragged close her book of spells. She began whispering some words, moving her hands as if maneuvering a large wheel, her blue eyes rolling about in their sockets in a trance-like manner. Gradually, a wormhole took form before her.
She paused and turned to them. Her eyes had seized rolling, now wariness was taking over. “You invited another” she asked.
“No...” Ivar paused, moving his eyes and nose about the room. He seemed to have sensed something as he growled and shot out his claws. His fangs were also out and sharp and ready for attack.
Then he sensed it as well. A strange and sudden presence. His instinct screamed VAMPIRE. His instinct was his werewolf guide, an inner voice that guides every werewolf. He shot out his claws as well and a wolf-like howl escaped his lips. He kept watch on the entrance to the room with his fangs and claws readied for attack. A Vampire traced into the room.
With a lock of hair cloaking his right eye and dressed in a long black overcoat, that went very well past his knees, the Vampire was as sinister as any Vampire could be.
An old man came into the room after the Vampire, training a shotgun threateningly on them. His expression and poise said he was under the Vampire’s compulsion.
“Never told us you would be inviting your boyfriend and his dad over for the party” Ivar growled at Freya, his breath raspy.
“That’s my grandfather dimwit, and I have no idea who that leech is, I don’t roll with his kind”
The Vampire traced to Tyrone and fists began flying from both sides. Tyrone wasn’t an expert in combat, which he feared the Vampire was, but like every other werewolf, he was faster and stronger, and deadlier. His speed and strength made up for his lack of skills, as he held his ground against the Vampire's skillfully thrown blows, prepping for an opportunity to seize the Vampire’s throat.
The Vampire threw a punch that briefly left his right exposed. Tyrone seized on the opportunity and quickly made a try for the Vampire’s throat. He was too late as the Vampire traced away, he only succeeded in drawing some blood. Dammit, if only the bloody things cannot trace.
He sensed the Vampire behind him, and before he could swing his fist for an attack, he saw Ivar come for the Vampire with great speed, after having disarmed the grandfather. The Vampire traced out of the way and Ivar barreled into the bedroom sofa. He picked himself up immediately.
The old man ran madly into the room again, screaming “Leave my granddaughter alone” This time, he was welding a hunting knife. He seemed to be free from the Vampire’s compulsion as he attacked the Vampire first with the knife.
The Vampire caught the grandfather easily and disarmed him, then he steered his neck for his fangs. The witch shot a beam of fire from her hand at the Vampire, to save her grandfather from his claws. He dodged it easily. He made her a triumphant grin then he dug his fangs into the old man’s neck.
Ivar ran wildly again for the Vampire’s throat. 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 grandfather dropped to the floor, dead. The witch left the wormhole, she had been tending and ran to her grandfather, full of grief.
Dammit, Tyrone growled. Ivar has just made a mess of everything. Ivar’s irrationality and aggressiveness was bound to mess things up, sooner or later. He never could fathom it happening this way and of this magnitude.
Even with the damage he'd caused, Ivar was relentless as he charged for the Vampire again, deadlier than before, before an unknown force stopped him on his way. Tyrone tried to step in and realized the force was pulling him also, pulling everyone in the room towards the wormhole. The force was powerful, extraordinary, and magical. The wormhole is unstable.
“Do something witchling” Ivar gritted at the witch, as the wormhole swallowed them all in a single gulp, with a burst of magical force.
The crash was inevitable. Tyrone tried to control the momentum and couldn’t. He doubled over as he landed roughly on the bed of snow, and somehow that kept him from sliding down the sloppy and rocky forest floor as roughly as he had landed. He rested on his back, staring lazily at the moonless sky, dead tired and sore.
He was tempted not to move even as much as a muscle as he lay half-dead on the ground. But he has to. He had to find Ivar and Freya and also the blade, as quickly as possible.
Slowly, with great force of will, he brought himself to his feet. Then, suddenly, the noise of an explosion shook the forest and the ground vibrated in solidarity with it, then came an endless echo of screams and wails, interspersed by the noise of sporadic gunshots. A glow of fire and blood lit up a part of the forest. What the hell is happening? There was chaos all around him. He is in a fucking war.
Though masked by strings of endless screams and w
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