Chapter 1 - Raphael’s Unexpected Delivery
Author’s Note: This chapter is told from Raphael, the hero’s point of view. Each chapter goes back and forth, sharing the hero and heroine’s point of view.
Eight Months Earlier in a realm far, far away
“Who is that woman chained to my bed?”
Father didn’t miss a beat when I stormed through the door of his study, unannounced. I thought he’d be shocked by my absurd question or at least annoyed by the intrusion of my 6’ 2” frame. He wasn’t and that worried me. He was up to something. Placing his journal on the huge mahogany desk, he then took his time to stuff the book and some papers in a drawer and lock it. As he tucked the key in the front pocket of his red silk vest, he buttoned his black velvet smoking jacket, retrieved his pipe, tapped it a few times on the desk, and then met my gaze, acting not the least bit surprised by the interruption.
“That woman is your new pet.” He shook a long, bony red index finger at me and made his way around the desk to perch on one corner. For a few moments, he stared at the wall of bronzed werewolf skulls he had collected, waiting to see if I’d inquire about a few new additions. I didn’t take the bait. I did notice, however, one was female, one male. He made no distinction between gender. A kill was a kill. If asked by a stranger how he gathered his collection of trophies, he’d boast he had received them all as tokens of appreciation for being such an honorable leader which was a lie. Father had killed each and every one of them in his sick games, games I refused to participate in. I may be a warrior protecting the realm, but Father was a sadistic hunter, one who needed to be destroyed.
Finally he returned his attention to me. His human eyes rolled over and changed to a blood red as his pupils dilated, disappeared, and formed menacing glowing orbs. He thought his monster face would scare me.
I didn’t flinch. “I don’t need a pet, Father.”
“I hand picked her for you, my boy. I thought you’d be grateful.” Snapping his fingers, a fire spark ignited at the tip end of his index finger and he used it to light his pipe. He inhaled deeply, taking a second or two to size me up until he finally released a puff of smoke in my direction.
“I won’t play your games.”
“Oh yes, you will,” he snapped. “You’re going to be on the field this year. That bitch is the cream of the crop. She’ll perform well. I hear tell she’s a Livonian werewolf. And guess whose daughter she is?”
I remained silent.
“You give up?” he asked. His eyes returned to their more humanistic qualities as he situated his vest.
Immediately not wanting to hear anymore, I crossed my arms and leaned slightly against the door frame, refusing to answer or enter the room entirely. I also cocked my right foot in front of the left, letting the steel toe of my black leather boot smack firmly on the freshly polished wood floors. Surely that would leave a nice scratch for one of his staff members to buff out later.
He didn’t seem to mind. His excitement took precedence over the condition of his precious treasures in his finely decorated office, or the floors for that matter. Father and his schemes. He and his brothers – my uncles who I refused to claim any relation to other than we were all a part of the same underworld known as the Dark realm - acted like six-year-olds when it came to the Season of the Games or they figured out some cunning ploy to irritate the Golden realm, the latter plan which usually ended up being very stupid or one some person, mainly me, had to clean up. My patience thinning, I sighed and observed him.
