Blood and Belladonna: Westwood Origins

Blood and Belladonna: a Westwood Origins novel www.jdcaren.com © 2023 J.D. Caren All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: [email protected] Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7339206-3-6 Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Epilogue Chapter 1 Eirnen Westwood stood over the last of three bodies. Well, bodies wasn’t precise as it insinuated the crumpled figures were dead when the persistent twitches and mewls of misery suggested otherwise. “Abel’s forces increase by the day. His power grows by the night,” he shouted. The sight of the cringing male incensed him. “You had twohundred wolves adding to your power and still you are useless!” He kicked what used to be Blacke, alpha to the werewolf pack, hard enough to splay his nose open across his face. The once vicious male whimpered and yipped like a pup, slinking away. Eirnen stomped forward, intent on kicking until the disgusting display of weakness ceased. “But, my love, those same twohundred are still yours to command,” Marceline interrupted from the door. “You know you are not permitted here,” he snarled without sparing her a glance. “Blacke was useless alive and whole. At least his current state garners a lesson, but you, Marceline, are below either of his forms in terms of purpose. Purpose, as you know, is the requirement for admittance to this room,” he said and finally turned to face her. “You have visitors, my lord,” she said with a slight bow and an unaffected curl to her lips. “Shall I summon Riley to put these in the gardens?” “By all means clean the mess,” he spat and stepped over yet another useless body. The long robe hissed across the stone floor as it trailed behind him, his harried steps echoed in the corridor. Weeks wasted on Blacke and his two companions, not only time but power and energy. Some of his own and now all of theirs had been depleted from the collective, but he would not relent. He couldn’t afford to, not now. Not with Abel set on destroying everything he’d built. He needed creatures of more power. More strength and resilience, just…more. One time, one perfect moment when all the right pieces fell together, and Abel would not be alone in falling under the warriors at Eirnen’s command. He’d be unstoppable, unopposable. For that reason alone he’d continue to search until every last creature in this kingdom was shriveled to nothing if that was the cost. The sound of agitated footsteps coming from the great hall gave Eirnen a reasonable idea of who his guests were before they came into view. There were three of them, each as feral-looking as the next with long hair tangled into ropes and dressed in naught but thread-bare trousers stained with gods knew what. These beasts were one of many reasons his precious Camilla did not roam the castle. Seeing them only solidified the rightness of his decision. She was fragile, delicate, naïve, and had to be protected from such things. They smelled of sweat, a stench the lead male was determined to continue feeding with his fevered pacing. His head snapped up and his lips peeled back to show human teeth, but the animal gesture was not lost on Eirnen. “Where—” the male growled and Eirnen flicked his fingers. Rowan’s glaive sang as it sliced the air and was followed by the wet thud of a head connecting with the floor. Rowan, Eirnen’s ever-faithful guard, was back at attention, blood rolling down the staff of his glaive before the body completed its fall. “No one speaks until I am seated and have given consent.” Eirnen stood before his throne, daring the other two men to even squeak. The blood of their packmate pooled, seeping ever closer to the two men, but they didn’t step back to avoid it touching their bare feet. They stared at the dead animal but said nothing. These two were smarter or they learned faster. Both attributes would be instrumental to them leaving Westwood Castle. Eirnen lowered onto the seat and laid his palms flat on the golden arms. “Speak.” The man to the right was the first to regain composure. His companion seemed determined to take up the anger of the fallen. “Your Majesty, my name is Grayson Quinn and this is Thomas Birch. We have come to inquire about our alpha.” “Your Majesty?” Thomas said and stopped pacing to gape at Grayson. “You speak to him as if he’s your alpha,” he accused before turning eyes so heated he was a heartbeat from shifting form. “You sit on your throne of gold, declare yourself a king—though you have no claim to such a title—and condemn the rest of us to suffer at your whim. We owe you no allegiance. Blacke is our alpha, our king, and we demand you present him to us, now.” “All who live to reap the reward of making a home in Calame owe fealty and they owe it to me. I am the reason your pack has free hunting range and are not hunted yourselves. Does that not earn me your loyalty as well?” “You talk about loyalty, you expect our gratitude, but we know what you are. We hear your creations howling in the night. Their cries are wordless pleas to end their suffering, yet you show them no mercy. We know the only motivation for allowing us passage onto your lands is for your own purposes in syphoning from us. For this you want loyalty?” “I borrow from your pack as you take from the bounty of my lands. Bounties, I might add, which have allowed your pack to grow from no more than a defenseless twenty to over two hundred. Would you prefer I