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

FOUR

FOUR

ENLISTING THE HELP OF THE Ó MAOILRIAIN ALPHA HAD PROVEN FUTILE, AITHNE REALIZED THE NEXT DAY.
Aithne's fingers twitched and her mouth felt parched. A velvety cape of crimson enshrouded her, some having long since tangled and dried in her hair, and other portions fresh.
              Tears lashed Aithne's eyes as she looked upon the destruction, frozen as the battle ran rampant about her.
              The Dubh and come and obliterated nearly everything to rubble. The children had fled to the forest with their family members, leaving behind only a scant few soldiers to half-heartedly defend their Clan. And, Aithne suspected, the Alpha himself had gone and hidden himself like a coward. He hadn't even bothered to try and defend what he had stolen from Aithne's parents. So Aithne had entered the fray, sending Roarke, Aoife, and Caoimhe to the forest.
Her wolf relished in the fray. Her wolf's glittering eyes peered from Aithne's own, hackles raised until Aithne could feel its claws scraping the length of her innards, restless in the fleshen confines she'd condemned it to. 
Aithne jolted from her thoughts as feet entered her vision, wolf snapping to attention. It was feet that were currently sporting half-grown, blood-sodden fur and claws just barely budding the surface of the flesh. A loud snarl vibrated from her chest as she spied the injured and the dead strewn about the grown in a macabre manner.
The Dubh wolf struck, wielding bloody claws that raked in the direction of her face.
    Aithne snapped away from them, ducking with bared teeth. Her eyes slanted, "I don't appreciate you going for my face," she spat. Her fist balled unconsciously, and she went for a series of punches against his abdomen.
    The wolf stumbled with his footing, shocked by the force of her thrusts, and then snarled. It was a loud ugly sound that had her wolf's ears flattening, and canines baring. There was a wet snap of bone as his claws popped free of his skin, leaving him in a mangled form halfway in between, and he lunged for her face again. Aithne rolled to the side once more, but not before his claws scraped against her cheek, tearing threads of skin from bone, and she snarled.
"Pick a form to fight in, Dubh," she spat blood, wincing as her cheek cried in agony.
And he did. Aithne smirked. Though their Alpha was no fool, the wolves he'd sent to fight his mission certainly were.
As his skin twisted and shuddered, fur sprouting from pores, blood welled on his skin. Bones snapped with audibly wet pops and crunches, twisting and rearranging. There was a moment during the shift, where he was neither covered in fur nor human. He was naked, flushed the color of human skin, yet without any hair. It was grotesque. And then was when Aithne struck.
She pounced on him, wrenching her hands around his vulnerable neck. She felt him urge his shift on, and give a growl that even she felt, but with a twist of her hands, she wrenched apart his spinal column and neck. The wolf slumped and went lax, and with Aithne let him loose.
She wiped her hands against her bloodied clothing, though it did little good.
Bastard Dubh wolves, she hissed, glowering at the sight before her.
A veritable massacre spanned before her eyes -- committed at the hands of only five wolves sent by the Dubh Alpha. It was pathetic and disgusting, on both parts.
With a growl, she lifted the body of the wolf she'd just killed and threw him off to the side.
That's four of the Dubh wolves killed. Now to find the last --
And it was then when she heard it.
"Aithne! Aithne, look out!" A small, frail, very Aoife-like voice cried out in alarm.
Aithne's spine snapped straight, horror spilling throughout her body. She turned her head, slowly, and found Aoife struggling in Roarke's grasp a mere few feet away. She grasped and kicked at the thin air with all her might, but Roarke's weakening grip was unyielding. Tears ran unchecked down Aoife's features and she let out a terrible wail, "Aithne!" and tore away from Roarke.
Aoife paid no heed to the massacre surrounding them, wide eyes fixated solely on something behind Aithne. Her index finger was extended, wavering at the sight that had her tortured, and an overdose of shock jolted Aithne's system.
"Aoife!" Aithne let out a startled scream, then she began a run, "Aoife what are you--"
Aithne heard the gunshot.
She heard it like an explosion in her ear -- as though it had gone off right beside her, and everything drew to slow, nauseating speed. The bullet emerged in her periphery, glinting a menacing hue of silver. A blood-curdling scream ripped through the air, and without thinking, Aithne dove to catch the bullet.
It shot past her fingertips.
Roarke bolted towards Aoife who stood, frozen in fear.
But they were both too late. Aithne could only watch in horror as the bullet sank into the side of Aoife's forehead, bursting through porcelain skin, cracking and tearing it asunder as crimson spurted forth. Aoife gave a little waver, and then crumpled to the battle-torn ground, dead.
A terrible, terrible, keening cry welled in the air. It raged painfully, nearly overshadowing the sound of the gun cocking again. Belatedly, as Aithne found her knees crumbling beneath her, having lost her strength, she realized the tortured scream was coming from her lips.
The bullet, this time, was full-force in her vision, whistling through the wind. It tore into Roarke's jaw, song growing muffled as it emerged from the other side of his head, drenched in blood and brain matter. And he, too, collapsed at Aoife's feet, dead, hands splayed over Aoife's tiny body.
Aithne gave a horrendous shriek as she realized what had happened.
Aoife and Roarke were dead.
Aoife and Roarke are dead. Aithne's vision blurred, and her screams drew to a pained whimper as her heart hurt badly at the realization, as though someone had butchered it beyond belief and hastily tried to sew it back together.
Aoife and Roarke are dead.
And their killer is to your back, her thoughts whispered insidiously.
And Aithne gathered to her feet, not sparing her loved ones another glance. She turned a glower on the wolf who bore the gun. The wolf wore a crooked grin on her lips, slim fingers clutching the gun painted crimson.
Aithne's vision narrowed in on the nails.
Crimson -- like Aoife's blood.
Her wolf gave a tortured howl, and Aithne went mad.
*
    A crowd had emerged from the forest as Aithne flicked away the remnants of the she-wolf's flesh from her fingers.
Aithne had torn her apart; shredded her to mere slivers of flesh and fat, and scatterings of blood with her very mortals hands, and very mortal teeth. Her fingers clawed through the dirt, scissoring away at the bits and pieces of flesh that scattered the earth from the she-wolf's foul presence. The wolf's face was an unsalvageable mess, limbs strewn elsewhere.
"Aithne." The command went in one ear and out the other, and Aithne continue picking at her nails.
"Aithne, listen to me." The voice commanded again, at Aithne whipped around, turning her bloodied back to the speaker.
Vaguely, she heard gasps from the crowd that she could barely see.
"Aithne, listen to me!" The words were uttered with a hint of a command, and Aithne shivered.
It was a weak command, but somewhere, where her wolf had gone silent, the command roused it.
"What?" She found herself snapping, still keeping her back to the speaker.
A hand pressed down on her shoulder, "Aithne, thank you for--"
It was then that Aithne was able to place the voice. It was The Alpha. The shitty, cowardly Alpha who had run to the woods, the one who had called the attack down upon them, and who had now stolen five people from her heart.
"You!" She spun, splittle flying from her lips. "This is your fault." Gasps spread like wildfire amongst the crowd that instinctively broadened their circle.  
Aithne jabbed a finger in the Alpha's chest, noting to her satisfaction, the wince drawn across the planes of his features. "You stole my Father's Clan. You had them murdered. And now, now you've stolen them away from me, too. You're cowardly, you're foolish, you're shit, and you're not worth the dirt beneath my blood-soaked feet. I have no liking for you, and you disgust me, Bryden."  
The madness plagued her once again, and she stepped forward, nudging him into the circle his Clansmen had made.
"Aithne," Bryden found his backbone, "You will address me properly as your Alpha."
Aithne smirked, one of cruel, cruel intentions. "Ah, you've finally found your backbone, now haven't you? It took you long enough; only as many years as Aoife had been alive." Bryden winced.
"You could never look me in the eye, Bryden." Aithne sneered, watching with no small amount of satisfaction as bryden stumbled back again. "I dare you to look me in the eye. Just this once. And maybe, just maybe I can find it in my cold, cold hard to pity the fool who got played like a fiddle when he decided to steal shoes that he could not fit into."
Aithne was cruel, and merciless, and her wolf eagerly arose -- savoring it. Aithne was far too focused on Bryden to tighten her reign over her wolf, and her wolf snapped free of the constraints. Her wolf's paws clawed with dagger-like crescents lengthened along Aithne's own hand, and tore through the tips of Aithne's fingers, teetering the control into the wolf's hands.
Bryden shook in face of Aithne's long-repressed dominance. And with agonizing slowness, his watery, rheumy grey eyes tilted to peer into Aithne's.
Aithne clucked her tongue, reveling as her web spun tighter around the fool.
And she pounced.
She shot from the ground and tackled him to the upturned dirt and grass, clawed paw hovering menacingly over him, and she cocked her head, appraising his cowering state. "Oh, how the fiddle plays the fool again," she uttered calmly.
And she raked her clawed hand through his jugular and throat, tearing out a mass of flesh.
Aithne smirked, and for good measure, she twisted his neck.
It was the slow smattering of applause that alerted her to the presence of the Ó Maoilriain Alpha. And then it was the steady, strong footsteps squelching through blood and mud. The crowd parted like the fabled red sea, and Aithne cocked her head again, spine straightened.
The Ó Maoilriain Alpha was coming her way, she realized. And she made no effort to turn around or greet him.
"You're late," she bit out crisply, having the presence of mind to acknowledge him a heartbeat later. "I believe we discussed something else entirely on the phone yesterday."
He knelt behind her, sudden warmth engulfing her from behind. A hand clasped the back of her neck, warm and large, a steady firm hand that tilted her neck and allowed the Ó Maoilriain Alpha to admire the new marking of Alpha on her neck. Then he knelt, and whispered in that velvety voice, "My apologies, Alpha Aithne, for missing your performance."
******