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“I’m sorry.” Voice hoarse, his orbs flick between black and their natural green tone while the wound on his chest is almost closed. As is mine. “Please forgive me for not staying.”
There’s so much pain when he meets my eyes, my irises the same golden color as my mum’s, and a shuddering breath escapes him. He holds her body a little bit tighter.
“Go on. I’ll follow soon.” My timbre is gruffer than I intend. Not that he takes offense; Dad simply nods, and I watch with a heavy heart as he heads toward the family mausoleum. It’s deep within the property and unavailable to those without familial ties or permission, sitting deep within a cave and carved out of stone.
Crystal stalactites hang at the center near a small opening at the top where water drips down and falls into a pool of crystal-clear water. And surrounding that body of water are tombs, from my great grandfather to now my mother who will find rest within those walls.
Almost there.
I don’t acknowledge Cain. Instead, I exhale before addressing those kneeling. “Please stand and go home. I will address everyone later.”
“My king, may I speak?” Low, a female’s voice comes from the left, and my attention snaps toward her. She’s someone I’ve known all my life. Who’s worked with my mum to plan important events or set up accommodations for visitors from outside packs or species.
Her neck is bared to me in a show of respect. Face red from crying.
“Yes, Martina?”
“My...our hearts are with you during this difficult time. We will always love her majesty, and she is missed already.” In response, I nod past the lump in my throat, my own eyes misting with tears that will never fall. Everyone has risen and retaken their human skin, nodding in agreement with her sentiment. Nudity isn’t a problem among shifters, but those without take what is handed from a member of the guard. Trousers and simple shirts are kept throughout the property and forest. “Please let us help you with all the preparations. Your formal coronation must be held within forty-eight hours after—”
“There will be no festivities. I am your king and don’t need to be celebrated.”
“Yes, Alpha Xadiel.” She looks contrite, ashamed, but she has no reason to be. None of this falls on their shoulders.
“I appreciate the offer, Martina.” A small smile is all I can offer her, and she returns it with a watery one of her own. “Don’t worry about me, but instead prepare a proper farewell for your queen. Mum loved to eat and dance and run with her people. Send her home to the Moon Goddess with love and peace.”
A fancy ball to place a golden crown upon my head means jack shit to me. I’ll accept the formality once the cadaver of mum’s killer and all involved lie at my father’s feet.
Dead by his hand. Or mine.
My father and people need me to lead, protect, and serve justice. Nothing else matters.
“Of course, King Xadiel. It will be an honor to do so.” Nodding, I tilt my head to the side as my ears pick up the rustle of leaves nearby, followed by a few familiar scents and an outsider. The last isn't pack or human, yet the rapid heartbeat and stench of fear is heady. Nearly intoxicating.
More so when a few seconds later the person lands a few steps from me—tossed without care—and on their knees. The frail male cries out from the sudden impact to his legs, and my eyes flick to Cain, who glares at him with so much animosity as realization dawns.
Magic surrounds him, dark and ominous, yet it’s clear to me.
Those around us peel their lips back, many taking a step toward the warlock whom I’ve yet to address, but they stop at my sharp growl.
“Don’t.”
“This is a mistake.” Yet he avoids my eyes. Reeks of fright past the sudden false bravado. He went from a whimper to boredom. “Release me at once or I’ll—”
“What is your name, warlock? Who sent you?” I ask, cutting him off. The sharp tendrils of his emotions are clear, almost touchable, and I wonder if anyone else can see this.
Black and serpent-like. Also, dirty.
Then there’s the lilt in his accent; it’s not natural. He’s not English. Of that, I am sure.
Wiccan covens, much like my packs, are based across the world. Yet I’ll bet money he’s not a native.
“I do not answer to you, mutt.”
“Wrong answer.” In the blink of an eye, he has a single claw embedded in his cheek, deep enough that a low clicking resounds once the tip taps his teeth. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Ready to try again? Nod if you agree, and speak. My patience is nonexistent.”
He does and I pull the nail out, smiling as blood seeps from the wound. A few drops splash onto my bare chest, mixing with my sweat. Both roll down my muscles as another light rain descends on us.
Sadness clings to the air; it feels as though the earth mourns our fallen queen.
