Prophesy 3: His Righteousness (The King & Alpha 3)

“We’re being attacked,” Macauley growled.

“No, do not—” Adres gritted out, but Macauley had already shifted.

Adres glanced over a split second later, and his hand was buried in thick, soft, white fur. Startling blue eyes were focused on the subtle movement of their attackers closing in. If Macauley was calling telepathically on his siblings, then Justice and his pack would be defenseless against this weapon.

“Do not call for your brothers. These darts are poisonous,” Adres said quietly. “They will kill you.”

Macauley growled, his large canines bared, his sharp claws digging into the frozen earth.

“Tell your brother to send the king’s elite legion.” Adres didn’t wait for a sign that Macauley had done what he’d asked. Instead, he hesitantly removed his hand from the wolf’s neck and released a soft whistle into the air. Within seconds, Adres felt the ground tremble before Razboi appeared behind the tree a few feet away.

Macauley shifted, his mouth falling open. “How’d he do that?”

“Not now,” Adres ground out.

“Belleron is gathering the soldiers now,” Macauley informed him.

Macauley was an open target as he crouched beside Adres, and he felt the sudden urge to protect him like a thunderstorm raging in his chest. He had never hesitated in battle before, but he struggled with leaving Macauley’s side. He could smell the enemy getting closer, and the thought of the man beside him getting killed had him second-guessing himself in the field for the first time. Darts flew at Razboi, each of them ricocheting off the portion of his flank not concealed by the tree.

“How is he—”

Adres felt the dart whiz by his forehead, and he thrust his hand out in time to catch it midair before it lodged into Macauley’s throat. If he had been a hint of a second late, then…Angry flashes of red and orange clouded the corners of Adres’s vision as he squeezed the six-inch projectile in his fist and disintegrated it into pieces.

Macauley’s eyes widened in disbelief as he got almost face down in the dirt. “Fuck!”

Adres felt as if his core was on fire. It was rage. He never showed emotion, especially not while in the midst of a fight, however, there was no other way to describe his feelings and motives at this moment. He needed to kill. He glanced at Macauley, and he could see the ferocity in his eyes. He was an alpha—it wasn’t in his nature to cower and hide—but Adres was glad he was smart enough to obey him and sit this fight out. It showed him the alpha’s intelligence, his restraint, and his immense level of discipline.

The vampire who’d shot the last dart peeked his hooded head from behind a wide maple tree almost a hundred yards away before he flashed to another hiding place. Sorcerer’s assassins.

Adres’s vision got darker, scarier. And even in the midst of his rage, he was able to concentrate enough to track the vampire’s pattern. He felt a murderous thirst to drive his dagger through that assassin’s chest before he ended his life in a manner befitting his crime. Raw power coursed through him, his voice terrifying. “I will bring you his head, young wolf.”

A surge of courageous energy seeped into Adres’s chest slowly, warmly, and he turned to see Macauley staring at him, before he rumbled in a voice that did nothing to calm Adres’s anger, but in fact, exacerbated it, “Be careful.”

Adres’s tongue was tied. Be careful. He didn’t have time to analyze anything transpiring between them as all he could think of was slaying. He gazed high into the mountains and saw black smoke rising into the air, whatever it was, barreling its way towards them, singeing everything in its path. As it got closer, Adres’s anger increased to the point that his body began to tremble.

Macauley followed Adres’s line of sight, the expression on his face changing to one of concern. “It’s Wrath,” he warned, his fingers clutching the ground as it shook beneath them. “He can feel your rage. It’s about to get very dark… and very hot.”

“Then may the gods have mercy on their souls.” Adres flashed to his feet and Razboi sprinted towards him in time to shield his body from the attack. He yanked his Hwando sword from the hidden compartment attached to his horse’s saddle and mounted him in one swift motion. Adres couldn’t turn around and risk getting lost in Macauley’s penetrating glare again as he bolted into the dark woods.

He held the reins loosely as he crouched and clenched his thighs, the speed and agility of his war companion always sending a thrill of excitement through him. Razboi had been bred to sense his distress, so he’d always come when Adres needed him, even if he was unable to hear his call. His comrade could feel the shift in his heartbeat, could sense the flames licking up the walls of his soul as he trained his eyes on the vampire who had almost struck the young wolf. The assassin was on the retreat now, having gotten a glance at the embroidery on Adres’s dark hood, his midnight-black Friesian, and the symbols on his knuckles as he charged at him with his sword out to the side, ready to behead.