The Mór-Ríoghain's Curse | Book 0.5 | Entry for the #AfterParty Contest

THREE

THREE

AITHNE SWALLOWED, CLUTCHING THE PHONE TO HER SHOULDER.
    The number her fingers itched to dial was one that had been carved into her memory for as long as she could remember. In the way that humans maniacally taught their children and little ones to memorize emergency phone numbers such as 9-1-1 or 9-9-9, they had all been taught the number of the Ó Maoilriain Alpha at a young age.
    She had never dreamed that there would be an instance where she would need it. Or even want to use it.
But it had come.
    A flutter of panic stole her breath from her lungs. She paced before the fireplace, absently taking note of all that was in the living room. She was cognizant of Aoife slumbering away on the couch, cocooned in pillows and blankets, as Aoife had no inclination to sleep in her dark bedroom without Aithne having put her to sleep. Distantly, Caoimhe's music blared from where she sat at the dining table, finishing up her school work. In the corner of her left eye, she found Roarke leaning against the doorway of the living room, watching her.
"What do you plan to do?" Roarke asked calmly, voice careful.
Aithne's fingers found themselves clasping tighter around the phone. Her mouth felt strangely dry. "Something I should have thought to do a long time ago."
Aithne could hardly believe she was even considering doing what she was planning. And, it was a bit frightening how easily she had decided to do so.
"Which is?" Roarke interrupted her. He arched a brow, crossing his arms over his chest.
Aithne bit down on her lip, teeth sinking into it firmly enough to draw blood. "I'm going to call the Ó Maoilriain Alpha."
The finality, the decisiveness, of her words struck her and she almost blanched.
No one dared call the Ó Maoilriain Alpha on a mere whim. Only at a time of great need would one call him for advice, for aid, or for summoning. As he seemed more a myth than anything, most had the notion that the Ó Maoilriain Alpha was aware of anything. That calling him was not necessary, for he usually knew when calamity would befall one of The Mor Rioghain's creatures before they themselves did.
But Aithne didn't want to risk it.
She glanced at a slumbering Aoife. Her heart warmed at the sight. Little Aoife's hair pressed to her neck and forehead in a messy tangle of a ponytail and baby hairs, hands clasped daintily beneath her cheek. Her mouth had fallen open with a sweet rumble, the little gap between her two front teeth on prominent display.
Aithne's heart ached at the thought of Aoife being in danger.
Then Aithne's eyes shifted to Caoimhe at the dining table, twirling the length of her hair about her finger as she nodded along to whatever her favorite "jam" was.
Aithne's heart squeezed so tightly with love for the sisters she had raised, she feared it might burst.
No, she didn't -- wouldn't -- put their lives in jeopardy. Even if calling the Ó Maoilriain Alpha was a fool gamble, she would do it to ensure their safety.
Slowly, her fingers pressed the buttons. With each indent, a shaky breath departed her lungs, and her bones very nearly rattled as she continued her pacing. When, finally, ringing from the other end began, it felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
The Ó Maoilriain Alpha could fix everything, was what she had been taught. Logically, she knew that it wasn't possible. It wasn't fair to put the fate of an entire race on one being, but it was comforting to do so.
Seconds, minutes, and hours could have inched by as Aithne listed to the monotonous dialing. Her breath tangled in her throat, and her wolf was strangely uneasy as she waited. Patience had never been a strong suit for either she or her wolf, and such a trait was easily becoming her weakness.
"Hello," A sinuous rumble stole over the line.
Aithne's heart skipped a beat as she absorbed the sound. It washed over her in perfect clarity; like cold, icy water soothing her skin.
The accent was implacable, but it brought to mind images of lush, velvety vales, dark, thunderous skies, and stormy waters battering against teeth-like rocks. Aithne swallowed audibly at the sound, and her wolf swallowed at her blatant display of lacking confidence.
"May I speak to the Ó Maoilriain Alpha?" She managed to find her voice.
There was a brief pause. Then, "this is he," that voice of low-timbre washed over her, speckled with both ire and weary surprise.
You fool! Aithne's thoughts hissed at her. She swallowed her tongue, hesitation evident in the silence on either ends of the phone. "Alpha, I -- I called to request something of you."
There was a humm on the other end, a collection of serrated edges of low-pitched rumbles that Aithne gathered to be in annoyance. "And what is it you wish to request from me?"
"Help," the word slipped from her tongue. "Our clan has been deteriorating since Bryden Ó Conaill  her voice grew strangled, "took over our clan. The Dubh clan has exacted a payment to ward off an attack from them, and I know that what little money Bryden has to offer, won't do us any good. I need your help to save this clan."
Aithne swallowed thickly. She hadn't once referred to Bryden Ó Conaill as her Alpha, and she wondered, for a heartbeat whether or not the Ó Maoilriain Alpha would take offense. Then, she tacked on "please," her voice cracking tremulously as she watched Aoife's chest rise and then fall.
Something very nearly like amusement flickered in his voice. "And why should I feel so inclined to help your cause?"
Aithne swallowed, stifling the paralyzing fear that swelled in her lungs. "Because it is your duty. You are our Enforcer. You regulate the packs."
He was the oldest among them. He had been the first -- or, at least, was descended from the first -- to have been cursed by The Mor Rioghain. He had an obligation to help their race, didn't he? Her brow furrowed, that's what she had been taught, at least.
A harsh, grating spill of laughter nearly had Aithne jumping from her bones. Then she scowled; she was not one to be unnerved so easily. So why was The Ó Maoilriain Alpha doing so?
"Regulate the packs, do I?" Aithne grew miffed at the mocking tone in the Alpha's voice. "You must realize, little wolf, that baring The Mor Rioghain's curse means there are no rules. Centuries have taught me that rules, regulations -- leashes, in essence, would stir the beast. It would not do to have Wild Beasts running amok, now would it? Nor would it do to have mutinous, rebellious packs running around under my thumb, disregarding my rule. Therefore, I play only in the background, and only interfere when I see fit."
Aithne heard the scorn in his voice -- perhaps not at her, but for her lack of knowledge, and for the beast they all bore.
"And this isn't something you see fit?" Aithne was outraged.
A static red sheen coated her vision and her wolf snarled within the confines of her body, itching and clawing for release.
There was a brief pause, and then his voice rumbled through the other end, a distinct courtness to it.  "Miss Mac Cionaoith, your Alpha, Bryden Ó Conaill was never formally recognized as an Alpha. Not by me, not my by pack, and not in the name of The Mor Rioghain. Suffice to say, this attack would be nothing short than a punishment from The Mor Rioghain for his ill-deeds."
"Why didn't you come after him and reinstate another Alpha?" Aithne's voice deepened to that of her wolf's snarl.
"I saw no use for it." She heard a chair creak, as though he was reclining lazily. "Alphas have come and gone in the blink of an eye, the title won through bloodshed and fighting. I knew another Alpha would rise one day. Only, my choice had been too young at the time of your father's death."
Aithne snarled, tears stinging her eyes. But she managed to withhold herself from ripping the phone to shreds. "And what about the kids? The innocents in this pack? Are you going to leave them to die at the hands of The Dubh?"
A grave pause.
And then, "I shall consider your request, Miss Mac Cionaoith."
Aithne grit her teeth, "how utterly kind of you." Malice bled from her lips.
"If that is alll--"
"-- No, that is not all," Aithne lost control of her fury, snapping with an interruption. "For the record, I believe you to be the worst Alpha in the history of The Mor Rioghain's Creatures. You are not a good Alpha. You think nothing of the safety and health of those who look up to you, and don't care about any of the children who grow up hearing tales of your might and courage. You are a cruel bastard, and I wish another curse upon you from The Mor Rioghain herself."
Then, she hung up, stabbing her finger into the 'end call' button with enough vigor to smash the button and surrounding plastic to smithereens. Then she fisted the phone, grinding it to bits and pieces that tumbled past her fingers and onto the carpet.
The weight of what she had just done stole the breath from her lungs, nearly sending her keeling over.
With a weary sigh, she turned to face Roarke, who -- to his credit -- didn't look the least bit surprised. "What have you just done?" He arched a brow, tone belying  the anxiety sheathed by his neutral expression.
"I--" Aithne's voice shook, cracking, as she noted the tear strolling down her cheek. She wiped at it half-heartedly, and another came down. And then another, and another, until she felt like a wilted leaf near to blowing away. "I don't know, Roarke."