Authors: Kessie Carroll
Tags: #werewolf, #werewolf book, #werewolf romance, #werewolf love story, #werewolf love, #werewolf couple
Turned
Turned: A werewolf
romance
By K. M. Carroll
Copyright © 2014 by Kessler Carroll, Smashwords
edition
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Printed in the United States of America
Copyright 2014 Kessler Carroll
The werewolf's stare sent Bernard fumbling
for a weapon he did not carry.
Thunder rumbled overhead and echoed off the
thirty-foot stone wall. It stretched for miles to the north and
south, cutting the land of Grayton off from its neighbors, but
protecting them from the monsters outside.
A pen of felled tree trunks was built against
the wall, and it contained a single werewolf. It snarled at them
all, but it stared at Bernard with particular loathing. The chains
on its limbs did not reassure him.
Bernard cleared his throat. "Archmage, why
are we here?"
Archmage Allard had summoned the Mage Guild
to witness his magic demonstration. He was a tall gray-bearded
mage, but moved with the energy of a man half his age. The other
adepts clustered outside the wooden enclosure, and somehow Bernard
was at the front. He'd never been so aware of his five-foot height
and lack of muscle.
Allard opened a gate and entered the pen. The
wolf lunged at him, struck the end of its chains and grunted.
Allard pointed his staff at the beast and green light glowed at its
tip. The wolf shuddered and sank to its haunches.
"See?" Allard beamed. "It's completely under
my control."
The mages stared at Allard and his wolf, and
exchanged wide-eyed glances. Bernard shook his head. If he
neglected to question the plan's sanity, no one would. "It's
amazing, Allard. And yet, how long do you expect to control it?
It's fighting you."
The werewolf trembled and whined. Saliva
dribbled from its lower jaw.
Allard shot Bernard a fierce look from under
black eyebrows not yet gone gray. "No matter how much they fight,
they can't reverse their nature. My spells control them through
their own pack instincts. They can't resist the Alpha Staff."
Bernard turned to Kryn, the potion master.
"What do you think, sir?"
Kryn was a dark-haired, dark-skinned man of
Southern descent, with a build more becoming a wrestler than a
potion master. "We have no choice. The goblins draw closer every
day. I say we present the werewolves to King Grayton."
The other mages nodded assent.
Bernard bit his tongue, but warning screamed
in his heart.
Allard pointed his staff at the ground. The
werewolf lay on its belly, never taking its eyes off the humans.
"Excellent! Once the king approves, I'll construct an army of
obedient wolves. The goblins will fall like wheat before a
scythe."
Bernard wished he'd not eaten that last mince
pie at lunch. Fighting monsters with monsters--what did that make
the humans controlling the beasts? The land of Grayton might be
saved ... but at what cost to its humanity?
He hurried away from the meeting, another
sort of dread settling over him. In a fortnight he'd be married to
Lady Charlotte Brighton. Most likely, he'd only ever see the
werewolves again in the newspapers.
Chapter 1. The Marriage
Bernard resisted the urge to loosen his
collar. He and Lady Charlotte sat together on a sofa, a polite
distance between them. Her hair and perfume should be intoxicating
to him, since they were courting. Instead, he fought nausea. The
pain of his twisting stomach made this more punishing than the
rack.
Charlotte’s fine clothes and jewelry were
befitting the Brighton family name. And when she came into her
inheritance, luxurious Halfmoon Manor would become hers…and her
husband's. The spacious grounds and pleasing view far outclassed
Bernard’s Preston house. Any man would enjoy living here.
But what of the stranger he was marrying? He
glanced at his aunt, who pretended to read in a chair across the
room. She had reared him since his parents had fallen to a fever
when he was six. Now his aunt sought to marry him off and see him
beget an heir as quickly as possible.
It was a pity this was only the second time
he'd laid eyes on Charlotte Brighton. She was taller than he, and
her carefully arranged golden curls made her seem like a queen or a
goddess, untouchable by mortal men.
Charlotte shot him a haughty smile, chin
uplifted. "Tell me of yourself, Mr. Preston. What are your
pursuits?"
He scrambled for something to say. "I enjoy a
bit of gardening. And I'm a fair shot with a fowling-piece. But I'm
sure a lady has far more refined tastes."
At their first meeting she had talked about
herself while he had sat in terrified silence. Certainly it was her
favorite topic. "Why yes," she said, smiling in a cold way that
reminded him of polished silver knives. "I spend my time among
people of society. The Lyedyn Duchesses invited me to join their
exclusive embroidery group. It's lovely to work among such
accomplished women."
Her tone mocked him.
His collar grew tighter with each of her
words. "Certainly, my lady. You shall have to educate me in such
things. I confess I have kept to myself these last few years." Why
did she make him so nervous?
Charlotte arched a perfect eyebrow. "I had
heard you spent much time in the company of the Mage Guild. Are you
a magic worker?"
Despite her condescension, he sensed real
interest behind the question. "Ah, no." He ran a finger along the
inside of his collar. "I have been studying alchemy and I grow many
of the necessary herbs for basic potions and remedies. But it is a
solitary pursuit, sad to say."
"Alchemy." Charlotte's fingers drummed in her
lap. "Why dabble in such things if you have no magic?"
"Because it's as close as I shall ever get,
my lady." He must not grow angry, not on a courting visit. Perhaps
it was merely the blasted collar. "I have misgivings about Allard's
werewolves, and I am seeking knowledge to combat his arts."
She smiled a white, perfect smile. "The
werewolves are preferable to goblins overrunning the city. Everyone
knows this."
"Yes, my lady. But a curse is a slippery
snake that tends to turn on the caster. It makes me nervous, is
all." Lovely, a woman schooled in political thought opposite his
own. Possibly she applauded the construction of the Grayton Wall,
too.
"Excuse me, miss. I must speak to my
manservant in the hall." Bernard escaped the sitting room with the
speed of a ball fired from a cannon. Once he gained the safety of
the hall, he unbuttoned his collar and drew deep breaths.
Dread and gloom settled over him. He was to
wed a woman who shared none of his interests and who already
despised him. Why must he be forced into this? No fortune was worth
the unhappiness that lay before him.
His aunt stepped into the hall and scowled at
him. "Bernard, you return to her at once."
"Yes, ma'am," he said. Then he dropped his
voice to a whisper. "Of all the women in Grayton, why must you
choose her?"
His aunt leaned close, eyes burning. "She is
the third richest woman in the country, and she is the only one
near your age. Be grateful she is not a dowager!"
"Perhaps I would have had more in common with
an older woman," he retorted.
Then he lifted his head, buttoned his collar,
and returned to his visit with his future wife.
***
"He was pleasant enough, I suppose," said
Charlotte. It was the following day, and she was drinking tea with
her mother, Mrs. Brighton. The afternoon sun gilded the curtains
with light, highlighting dust motes in the air.
"Did he seem interested in you?" asked her
mother.
Charlotte considered. "He was quite nervous.
I had the impression he has not conversed with many women. Study
seems his main preference."
Mrs. Brighton gazed out the window and sipped
her tea. "He may not be the most fascinating man, but such a match
will provide you with immense wealth!"
But not love. Charlotte kept that thought to
herself. She could, perhaps, bring herself to love the small,
rotund man and his shining pate. But would he ever return her
affection? Or would he spend the years oblivious to her presence,
buried in his studies?
"Mother, they say that love is possible in
arranged marriages, yes?"
Her mother waved a dismissive hand. "Love is
not necessary when both parties possess fortunes."
Charlotte bowed her head and gazed into the
dark tea. It seemed to foretell her future--dark with loneliness
and devoid of sweetness. She added another sugar lump, but it did
no good.
"Why must I wed him?" she burst out. "Surely
there is someone else!"
"Your father and I have had our eye on
Bernard Preston for years," said her mother. "His aunt is one of my
friends. I'm frankly surprised you don't know him better."
Charlotte sighed. How could she know him when
he attended an exclusive school, never visited neighbors or
attended balls? He was absent from her social circle. She did not
doubt his intelligence, but what sort of heart beat within his
pudgy frame? Until now, he was the sort of man she habitually
snubbed. Had she snubbed him at their meeting? She couldn't
recall.
Still, there was the possibility of
happiness, even if it consisted only of material things. She had no
inclination to learn about alchemy--or werewolves. Such things were
beyond her ken. Besides, money could buy a consort, if she went
about it quietly.
But she turned from that thought with a sigh.
What was the point of marriage if she was already destroying it in
her heart? She would try to love Bernard. And only if nothing came
of it would she consider alternatives.
***
The wedding was a glorious affair of flowers,
silk and feasting. Yet afterward, Charlotte went to her quarters,
and Bernard went to his. There was no intimacy that night, or any
other night. Charlotte shed many bitter tears over it.
Bernard seemed uncomfortable around her,
hardly daring the occasional clasp of her hand. He spent most of
his time in the cottage behind the house, where he worked long
hours on alchemical mysteries.
The days became weeks, then months. Charlotte
gave up hopes of romance, and focused her energies on managing
their estates, and climbing the social ladder.
It was not until shortly after their third
anniversary that everything changed.
Chapter 2: The Curse
The matter came up one evening at supper.
They sat at opposite ends of a vast dining table, amid islands of
silver and glimmering candles. Bernard had acquired a habit of
reading while he ate, and was engrossed in a small tome as he
sipped his soup.
"Bernard," said Charlotte. "I wish to ask you
something."
He looked up in surprise, his glasses
slipping off the end of his nose. He caught them before they landed
in his soup. "Yes, my lady?"
"What is it that you do all day in your
shop?"
Her attention flattered him. However, three
years of his wife's presence, however distant, had taught him that
the only time she noticed anyone was when they'd prove useful. "I
am conducting various alchemical experiments."