Faults in Fate_A Vein Chronicles Novella

  It unnerved and excited her.

  She undid the front clasp, dropping her bra to the ground, and the cold air assaulted her hard nipples.

  That time there was no nudge against her spell—there was an almighty slam. She’d been prepared, so she held onto it.

  Barely.

  She hooked her thumbs into her jeans, bending slowly to yank them to her ankles, pushing her hips upward and thanking Goddess for all those squats she did that one time ten years before.

  When she straightened and kicked her jeans away, her eyes met Conall’s molten gold ones.

  Was it Conall or the beast? Was there a difference?

  She stood only in her panties, which were drenched from the electricity in the air, from the pure and utter sensual act of stripping for her wolf while he could do nothing but watch.

  He was thrashing against her spell now, and she was having trouble controlling it. It said nothing about her power, and everything about his desperation to go to her. She ached for him so bad that she almost released her grip on the spell, let him have his way, finally sate that hunger both of them had been battling against.

  But no.

  That meant that pesky ownership agreement.

  That meant begging.

  So instead, she called up more power and tightened her grip on the spell. Her hands trailed the top of her panties as she continued to gaze at her wolf through hooded lashes.

  Shit, there she was thinking of him as her wolf again.

  “I think I might have to change these too, no?” she asked innocently, blinking at the wild eyes.

  “Release me, luna mia,” he commanded. His words were thick and guttural. Barely human, as the human inside him was bound with her magic.

  Her hand froze at the top of her panties, which had just become even wetter at his desperate tone. He should not have been able to speak. She’d had some of the strongest demons on earth in the grip of that spell and they hadn’t even been able to blink as Isla or Sophie herself cut their heads off. Desire to live wasn’t even strong enough to fight Sophie’s spell.

  But Conall’s desire for her was.

  She recovered quickly, licking her lips and gazing at him. “I think not, piccolo lupo,” she replied. Then, before her strength failed her, she yanked her panties down her legs, biting her lip as she brushed her sensitive clit.

  The air thickened to the point that it almost became unbreathable.

  Sophie sucked in the thick energy of her wolf’s desire. Then she turned, giving his eyes a feast.

  “Come. To. Me,” he gritted out.

  She almost did. His entire body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, but instead of being grossed out by it, the glistening muscles turned her on even more. Everything was taut, ready to spring, battling against the unseen cage. His eyes were molten gold, heat seeping out of them and directly into her. Everything inside her told her it was right to go to him.

  But she never did what was right.

  Why start now?

  “Sorry, wolf, I’ve got an appointment to keep.”

  And she turned on her heel and walked in the opposite direction toward her small closet.

  His growls echoed with every step, a physical slap against her aching need.

  But she ignored it.

  She had to.

  She was rather attached to surviving, and she wouldn’t do so if she surrendered to the wolf.

  As she slipped into her clothes in the next room, her hold over the spell grew more and more tenuous, which should have been impossible. Why was this wolf continuing to show her that there were no rules when it came to them? She hated rules on principle, but her magic was her constant. Yes, it was getting pretty scary and uncontrollable. But not defeatable.

  Even the most powerful witches she’d encountered so far weren’t a match for her. He held no magic, yet he challenged hers.

  He was still a statue—albeit an angry one—when she sauntered into the room a handful of minutes later, having regained her composure and dressed in a kickass outfit.

  His eyes flared at what she was wearing.

  “You are not leaving in that,” he ground out, focusing on her leather hot pants that laced at the front and showed a generous amount of butt cheek. Her boots went almost to the tops of her thighs—think a goth version of X-Tina’s “Dirty”—so Sophie reasoned it evened out.

  She snatched her purse, grinning at him. “Pesky wolf, you keep thinking you’ve got say over… well anything,” she tutted. “It doesn’t work that way with this witch. The sooner you realize that and move on, the better.”

  She turned on her heel and strutted from the room. It was only when she reached the front door that he spoke once more, breaking her spell again.

  “You know there is no moving on from this, luna mia.”

  She froze, her hand on the doorknob.

  She itched to stay and argue, scream that he was wrong. But she didn’t have the energy for that kind of lie, and she needed her energy. Who knew what she would encounter at the king’s compound.

  So instead of doing something she wanted to do, like cross the room and kiss him and then surrender, she walked out, in search of a battle that was a lot less dangerous than whatever was between her and Conall—like the end of life as she knew it.

  One Week Later

  “You have to tell me where she is,” an angry male voice demanded.

  Not the angry male voice she’d wanted.

  There were just too many around these days.

  She glanced up from her computer where she was gaining intel the new-fashioned way. Who knew, maybe there was a Tumblr page dedicated to Malena.

  “I’m getting rather sick of men telling me what they think I have to do,” she replied to Thorne, who was rippling with panic and fury and despair. She glanced at him and felt a little bout of pity for the poor sod. He was a mess.

  Okay, he wasn’t a mess. He was hot as shit with his leather jacket, jacked muscles, carved cheekbones and intoxicating eyes.

  But his aura was in somewhat of a frenzy. It was bad.

  Then she remembered that he’d lied to Isla about being brothers with the king of the vampire race—who just so happened to be trying to make Isla his queen—and about everything he was. And he was the reason Isla had gone MIA for the past week, because she couldn’t handle the heartbreak that came with betrayal.

  Then she didn’t feel so sorry for him.

  “I’m gonna start giving overzealous males some boobs and a vagina soon, just so they know what it feels like when people think they can order women around just because they possess them,” she said mildly.

  Thorne ran his hand through his hair. “She is in danger, Sophie,” he clipped. “She’s fucking cursed and running off half-cocked.”

  “Half-cocked is the way Isla works best.” She smiled, despite being slightly worried about the vamp running around the city solo while witches had a curse on her. “You should be happy I’m not making you work that way after what you did to her.” Venom and sincerity saturated her tone. No one fucked with her friend and got away with it. Not with their whole penis, at least.

  He crossed his arms, meeting her eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “Can you be any more cliché? That’s what every fucking guy says after he hurts the woman he ‘loves.’ Granted, the whole ‘deceiving her into thinking you’re a mortal slayer when you’re really the immortal and kind-of-human offspring from a vampire king and queen’ thing isn’t exactly the same as banging the secretary.” She glared at him for a second. “But betrayal is betrayal, no matter how it’s packaged.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I didn’t exactly expect to fucking fall in love with her!” he roared. “And then when it became apparent that I could only ever have eternity with her, how did you think I could broach the subject of truth? I knew she’d act like this, that I might fuckin’ lose her. I’m not losing her.” It wasn’t so much a promise to Sophie as a declaration to the
gods.

  “You don’t have to convince me, dude,” she said, holding her hand up. “Actually, you totally do. But first you have to get your shit together, stop hitting up my place of work, and figure out that Isla will come to you when she’s ready.”

  “When do you think that will be?”

  She grinned. “About a century, give or take a decade,” she said honestly.

  His eyes flashed with anger. Or maybe despair.

  Sophie leaned forward. “I know Isla might act like she’s bulletproof—and that’s because she is. With actual bullets. With things like what you’ve done to her?” Sophie shook her head. “Not so much. Isla is the strongest immortal I’ve ever met, apart from me, of course. And it’s the strongest ones who are most vulnerable. Who break the hardest when someone they trust betrays them.” Sophie gave him a long and pointed look. “You better pick up the pieces and repair her as good as new, Buffy, or else you’ll be ash and there won’t be pieces of you for anyone to pick up.”

  That was another promise.

  He nodded once, curtly, as if the motion pained him.

  Sophie smiled. “Great, now I’ve got work to do.” She moved her attention back to her computer.

  “You’re not gonna tell me where she is?” he all but shouted.

  “Of course I’m not,” she replied, still focused on the screen. “I’m still on her good side, and it’s chicks before dicks. All day long. I’d advise you to leave while you’re still intact.”

  He stayed for a long moment, desperation dripping off him. “I will find her,” he vowed.

  “Or you’ll die trying,” she muttered as he left.

  That was the thing with these males. Death was the only thing that would stop them.

  Which meant both she and Isla were fucked.

  Chapter Eight

  Since banishing Thorne to go rip apart the city looking for Isla, Sophie had met the vampire herself for coffee. She had not looked good. Like at all. In addition to the previously self-professed invincible badass suffering her first heartbreak in five centuries, she was also battling a serious case of the blunchies—like munchies, but with blood.

  The nasty curse cast by those evil bitches meant the only blood Isla could drink was Thorne’s, and after they found out it didn’t actually kill her like it technically should have, all was well. It was all Twilight and romantic, from what Sophie gleaned.

  But then Thorne had gone and fucked up, and Isla didn’t want to be near him so bad that she was literally starving herself so she didn’t have to see him.

  It was a clusterfuck of emotions, ones Isla was not equipped to deal with. So she did what any heartbroken girl would do: went on a killing spree.

  When Sophie had helped as much as she could’ve, she’d feigned off joining in—highly unusual—with a lie about the coven meeting.

  Isla still didn’t know that Sophie and the coven were technically on the outs. And she did not need to know right now. Instead, Sophie needed to get as much research in as possible about the witches, since she was still stumped on how to beat them.

  She knew every inch of the damn book backward and forward, but there was no step-by-step banishing spell.

  Of course, that would be far too easy.

  She also had to actively not think about the wolf, who had been absent from her life for nigh on a week now. Something she technically should’ve been glad for.

  She was horrified to find out she was not glad.

  She was horrified to find out that she yearned for him, ached for him with a pain that was barely bearable. Which didn’t make a lick of sense because she wasn’t the one experiencing the stupid and cruel mating phenomenon.

  But she yearned all the same.

  And dreamed of him every single night.

  Something cold curled in her stomach as to the reason for his absence. Obviously he could’ve just given up on Sophie, thinking she was a lost cause, and decided to get on with his life.

  But Sophie’s truest of hearts knew that was not the case. Something more sinister was going down.

  One Week Later

  A lot happened in a week when you were Isla’s best buddy.

  Or when you were Sophie.

  Since Sophie was both, a lot went down.

  Isla went missing.

  Twice.

  After having coffee with Sophie and giving her intel about the location of someone connected to the rebellion, she dropped off the face of the earth for three days.

  That was when she’d faced off against the father of all vampires.

  Like, the original one.

  Then, after a brief sarcastic phone call to stop an erratic Sophie from well and truly losing her ever-loving shit, she’d hopped on a plane to the cave where the remaining Herodias sister was imprisoned to fight her alone.

  Sophie had done some quick computer hacking and a tiny bit of scrying to find out Isla was in Eastern Europe, so naturally she hopped on a private jet to back her sister up.

  Naturally a wild Thorne and a reserved but still rather worried King Rick came with her.

  “This is all because she’s too pissed at you to ask for help,” Sophie had hissed at Thorne while they weaved through the hills of Albania, heading toward the cave Sophie had found by scrying for Isla.

  “Isla never asks for help. She’s far too narcissistic for that. Even without her anger at Thorne, she likely would’ve done this anyway,” Rick put in. His cultured voice was tight with worry.

  At least he’d spoken. Thorne hadn’t said a word since getting on the plane, nor during the two-hour ride it took to get to the place Sophie sensed was near.

  The evil spreading over the landscape caked it like tar, but only for the eyes of the witch. She shivered, dread creeping up her spine. She had found no banishing spell, so she was just going to have to wing it.

  She did it with her eyeliner, why not undefeatable witches who would end the world if she failed?

  Sophie glared at the monarch, her eyes glowing with power she was calling up in preparation. For either a battle at Isla’s side, or at the sight of her corpse. If it was the latter, both of these males were dust.

  But as it happened, Isla had defeated the witch and was undead enough to boast about it. In other words, she was fine… ish.

  Sophie still sensed the death magic, only stronger now since Malena was the last remaining witch and she sensed that her sisters had died.

  And she was pissed.

  Witches were most dangerous when pissed. Just ask the hairdresser who’d fucked up Sophie’s bangs.

  They brought a human stowaway back from the cave, apparently tortured by the witches. Sophie had sensed immediately that she wasn’t just human, but she hadn’t sensed outright malice, so she’d stayed as mute as the human. It wasn’t her story to tell.

  So all happy ever after.

  Kind of.

  Okay, not at fucking all.

  Especially since she still hadn’t found the wolf. More and more she seemed to sense he was in danger. In pain. Her dreams were telling her so. And a witch had to listen to her dreams—they were her third eye’s most powerful communication tool.

  So she listened. Mostly because it had become hard to breathe without knowing the wolf was alive.

  Her wolf.

  Isla thought she was searching for some ingredient for the binding potion for their upcoming mission to Russia. Kill Isla’s family, capture the all-evil witch, your normal weekend jaunt.

  But instead she was wolf hunting.

  Her knife trailed along the wood of her floors as she carved out a line. “The sky is not above me, for I am the sky,” she said, her voice floating with the power of the single stroke of the athame. Red seeped into the wood from the knife dripping with her blood.

  That time, blood was required. And Sophie spilled it without question. It was for her wolf.

  She made another line, meeting the first at the top and moving diagonally down so she made two thirds of a triangle. “The earth is not
below me, for I have emerged from it, and it clings to my skin,” she continued, the low burn of magic humming through her. She drew a diagonal line back upward, to the left side that time.

  “The fire is within me, and it does not burn me for I use it to burn my enemies.” She drew a horizontal line. “Water turns to blood and blood to water as I use the elixir of my enemies to paint my soul,” she chanted, power pulsating the walls of her apartment.

  She drew the last of the lines to complete her pentagram, and a sharp jolt of energy ran up the knife and into her arm, like the kickback of a shotgun. She grinned at the glowing star, pulsing purple. “And my spirit, well, that’s kickass as all hell.”

  Images hit her brain with enough force to make her bite her tongue painfully. Blood ran down her chin and she clenched her fists laying atop her knees. She forced herself to hold the image of Conall in her mind, as other beings drawn to her power tried to claw at her skull for help.

  She had cast for trapped beings, in pain, or imprisoned, and on this earth, that was most of the population, so it was safe to say her head was louder than a Nine Inch Nails concert.

  Her teeth mashed together as she waded through a planet full of suffering, casting beings aside with a brutality that was required.

  She couldn’t save everyone.

  Not even most of them.

  But she would save the wolf.

  Her wolf.

  Sophie pressed against the exhaustion in her bones as she crunched through the woods of Sterling Forest, right in the middle of the Ramapo Mountains.

  The moon dimly peeked through the dense shrubbery.

  The full moon.

  This should be interesting.

  Contrary to popular belief, the full moon did not make the werewolves turn. In the beginning, they might’ve been chained to the lunar cycle. But wolves were a species, even if they were created by wrathful gods—hey, you could say the same about humans, depending which way you decided to take the creation story—which meant they evolved. To survive, to scramble their way up the food chain, they fought against the moon’s pull until it no longer forced them to change.