Page 6 of Prey of the Lycan Queen
“Because you were the lesser of three evils!” I cry.
“You’re lying. Don’t give me that shit, Z. I know you love me,” Regan growls, stepping toward me. Hunter growls, and he backs up.
“Hunter!” Zeke snarls.
“He doesn’t answer to you anymore, and you’re about to learn that I no longer answer to you either.” Zeke looks away and nods once.
“Zirah, please . . . At least give us another chance. We can fix this. Make it up to you,” Lyon pleads. Does this fucker not realize I just burned for him?
I scoff, shaking my head. “No, you just all need to back off. I’ve lost everything because of you!” I scream, and lightning cracks across the sky. “I’ve lost everything,” I repeat, my voice breaking.
“You haven’t lost me,” Regan murmurs, and I look at him.
“No . . . but you’ve lost me,” I tell him.
The sky opens in a torrential downpour. The kings look up in confusion, but I turn on my heel and continue walking.
“Finish the game, Zirah!” Zeke calls after me. I stop, glancing over my shoulder at him. “My father is back now. He can run your Kingdom. Go through with the marriage agreement. Even if you don’t choose me, you can at least choose one of them.”
“Are you serious? You want me to play your stupid little game?”
Zeke shrugs while his brothers stare at him. “Come to our kingdoms, then decide. Finish the game. If you still don’t want us, we’ll stand down from our thrones.”
I scoff. All this crap was caused because of them wanting the throne, and they expect me to believe they would walk away from their kingdoms for me? I shake my head and turn back toward the castle, ignoring them.
When I finally reach my room, I collapse onto the floor, grief washing over me in waves. The pain of losing my grandmother is raw and fresh, a wound reopened by the knowledge that she had been alive, only for me to lose her all over again.
Memories of my mother’s death batter my mind, the image of her burning at the stake just like I did. I remember how my entire life flashed before my eyes, how I got my runes, and how my grandmother always protected me.
My cheek presses against the cold floor, and my body shakes with grief as I lie there, utterly consumed by the memories of every high priestess before me. My heart aches, and I can’t help but feel as if I’ve lost a part of myself—a part that was taken from me twice, first by the illusion of Granny’s death, and now again with her sacrifice.
My mind floods with images from my mother’s and grandmother’s memories, and when I squeeze my eyes shut, the damp, earthy scent of the cave surrounds me.
Water drips against stone in the distance as a little girl plays near the cave’s entrance. Her hair is windswept, and the smile on her face is pure joy as she bounces after a rabbit in the entrance of the cave. Her laughter reverberates off the walls, and the sunlight filters through the trees outside, casting a warm, golden glow on the cave’s mouth.
I’m preparing our dinner, but my hands unmistakably belong to Granny. Her bow still hangs over my shoulder from our hunting trip, and the knife in my weathered hand slices through the freshly caught rabbit. I can feel the weight of her weapon on my back and the ache in her aging hands as if they were my own.
I watch the child play, just as Granny had watched that day, and I can feel her love through her memory. There is a flare of sadness and curiosity in the little girl’s eyes as her tiny hands find the fur of the second dead rabbit lying on the stone next to the one I am cutting. Her small fingers brush the lifeless creature.
To my astonishment, the rabbit’s fur suddenly bristles with life, and it leaps from the stone and scampers away. My hands move without permission, snatching the little girl up. I can feel Granny’s fear pulsing through me.
“What did you do?” I ask, but it’s Granny’s quivering voice instead of my own. Before the little girl can say a thing, a gasp comes from the clearing nearby, and we turn to see a man stumbling into our camp. His eyes are wide with terror, and his voice shakes as he points a trembling finger at the child.
“She’s a witch,” he stammers.
Without hesitation, I drag Granny’s bow over my shoulder and shoot him with an arrow, killing him instantly. I snatch the child up and drag her back to the safety of our cave . . .
The little girl is me. Long arms and legs but thin as a rail. I remember this day—chasing rabbits because I had no friends to play with—but this is clearly not my memory, and the body I am in is Granny’s.
I remember playing with the rabbits. My granny’s abruptness. The cave. The runes being burned into my skin for the second time in my life. The searing pain.
Granny remembers things differently. Her pain isn’t physical like mine; it’s soul deep as the child in her hands screams and begs for her to stop.
I’m chanting a protection spell in my grandmother’s voice, and I can feel her intentions clear as day. She wanted to obscure my powers from the world.
When the little girl’s body gives out, and she falls unconscious, Granny’s tears fall like rain as she tends to the burns.
I’m watching her hands apply a salve to the blistering welts. She never showed me how much it hurt her to put me through those many sessions of branding, but now I understand.
