Bane of the Bears (Born of Blood Book 1)

  Bane of the Bears

  Born of Blood

  Helena Novak

  Contents

  Untitled

  Prologue

  1. Bayne

  2. Ursula

  3. Ursula

  4. Wick

  5. Tucker

  6. Ursula

  7. Dov

  8. Ursula

  9. Wick

  10. Bayne

  11. Ursula

  12. Ursula

  13. Wick

  14. Ursula

  15. Tucker

  16. Ursula

  17. Ursula

  18. Dov

  19. Bayne

  Untitled

  Untitled

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Bane of the Bears

  Copyright © 2021 Allana Kephart writing as Helena Novak

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without written expressed permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Suite Six Design Studio

  Edited by Girls *Heart* Edits

  The use of actors, artists, movies, TV shows, and song titles/lyrics throughout this book are done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior express, written consent of the author.

  Created with Vellum

  to those who thrive when others pray for your failure… this one’s for us.

  As much as I’d like to deny it, I knew what I was doing.

  Maybe not at the time. I’d like to believe I didn’t truly think I’d get Orsa Jelani pregnant, or that I’d hope for the outcome it caused. That if I knew then all I know now, I never would have left my house. I never would’ve set foot in that bar, caved to the temptation the Master’s soft tongue and long fingers promised. I would have apologized to my wife and held her close, and we may have been hungry, cold, and endangered, but we’d be together.

  But I don’t know that for certain. I don’t know what I would change if I could. I only know where I went wrong.

  I traded happiness for safety, for power and notoriety. I traded my wife and my sweet boys for a title.

  I love my girls. Honestly, I do. I love the daughters of the monster in my nightmares more than life itself, same as I love my boys. They’ve been mine, for all intents and purposes, as long as they can remember. My sweet Keyona, beautiful and bright, as shy and reserved as ever.

  She would have loved her brothers, had she only met them. Had they survived my stupidity as she has. She would have loved the isolated life, living in the cottage, deep in the woods, under willow trees and tangles of flowers. She wants for nothing in this near-royal life she has now, and yet, she craves nothing but peace.

  Privacy.

  Love.

  Her older sister, however, she was built for The Order.

  She has everything her bitch of a mother lacked. Where Orsa was selfish, Ursula gives. Where Orsa hated, Ursula loves. Orsa despised her title, her place in The Order, her duties, her people and the expectations thrust upon her. Ursula begs for them. She wants nothing more in life than to go down in history as a mighty ruler, to be the best Master of the Order, the strongest bear shifter in North America.

  She is as stubborn as her mother, too, that’s for certain.

  But it is not her place. And so I cannot give her that right.

  From what I’ve learned of The Order in my two decades forcefully running it, women control all. I guess some pretty girl made friends with some big bad reaper way back in the day, and was presented with the power over death itself. The latest firstborn daughter is the bearer of this burden, and will carry that responsibility until she births a new heiress into the line.

  Fuck if I know why the death bringer thought that was how things should go, but I’ve learned better than to question their—our—traditions. All it does is get me a lot of side eyed glares and low murmurs threatening mutiny, questioning my authority.

  I don’t argue with them anymore. It’s best for everyone if I smile and nod, fall in line with the religion-like cult mindset The Order follows.

  But with that mindset, I also learned bloodlines can be altered. Bloodlines depend an awful lot on matehood around here, and mates is a loose term. Mates are strictly who The Order considers to be such… which, prior to Orsa’s disappearance, was me.

  This means, although Ursula was the firstborn daughter of a Jelani woman, when I killed her father, I inherited the bloodline. Which, in turn, nullifies her importance to the prophecies.

  The Order, the curses, the gifts, the magic, they all belong to my firstborn daughter now.

  Keyona.

  As stated, fuck if I know what that reaper prick was thinking with his garbage rule book. Shit didn’t make sense when I buried Orsa’s first husband, and it makes even less sense now.

  I have resigned myself to never understanding the old magic. Or the new magic. Or magic as a whole, period. And the livelihood of it doesn’t matter to me anyhow. What happens to The Order and the kiss of nightshade prophecies after I’m gone means less than nothing. They took everything from me, what could I possibly care about their legacy?

  That’s not entirely true. I got what I wanted—I am safe. I am secure. I am in an invincible position of power, set in stone for the rest of my days.

  But my wife is gone. Frozen solid, forever grappling at the windows, trying to claw her way out of a house overtaken by dark fae magic. The image of her body is burned behind my eyelids, her frail form curled up in a tight ball, head bowed, icicles of her tears suspended on her chapped, bruised cheeks.

  She was so scared.

  And it’s all my fault.

  But it’s easier to blame it on The Order for driving me out of my mind and trapping me here. So I’ll do that instead.

  All I want now is to find my boys—whatever form they may be in now—and give us, my real family, the closure we deserve.

  Whatever that looks like.

  All who know of us know better than that—the best way to get into The Order is to get in good with my daughters. No one would dare challenge me for what I sacrificed everything for.

  Well… no one but Ursula, that is.

  She fights me, tooth and nail, harder and harder every single day. I see that frigid bitch coming out in her with every sunset. Unmatched greed glows behind her dark eyes with each new denial she meets at my hand.

  Or is it myself I see in her?

  Doesn’t matter.

  It’s for her own good. Lord only knows what The Order would do to her—to both of us—if they found out she’s not mine, that I’ve been lying to all of them this whole time. She doesn’t have to understand my reasoning—she only needs to remember her place.

  How I’m supposed to do that? Not a clue.

  She’s not exactly keen on learning any such place that isn’t the head of the fam
ily. I can’t blame her. I’ve hidden many truths from her—from her parentage, her relationships… hell, she even believes my wife is her real mother from the few pictures I can’t part with—but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t hide tradition from her.

  She knows I should have stepped aside years ago and helped her become the new Master. I should have put her in the spotlight, silently had her back while she made herself into the force all the women before her had been.

  But I can’t.

  I don’t know how important it is that she’s the firstborn, how easy it will be to deduce whether she is or isn’t if she’s in the spotlight. No one’s told me of any rituals or whatever, but I’ve been surprised before. Too many times to count.

  I failed my sons and my wife. I let power get the better of me and they paid the ultimate price.

  I won’t make the same mistakes with my daughters.

  They can hate me for the rest of their lives, but they will outlive me. I will not bury another of my children in this lifetime. I promised them, years ago, they would be protected no matter the cost.

  And I intend to keep that promise.

  Whatever it takes.

  She doesn’t fit.

  In the world of bear shifters, there’s The Order, and then there is everyone else. Your regular run-of-the-mill shifter is usually found in isolation, planting berries in their yard and pretending they can’t hear their neighbors mumbling about the possibility of living near a serial killer.

  We all tend to avoid big gatherings and live in self-inflicted solitary confinement. We aren’t big on crowds or monogamy, and as far as shifters go, we stick out like sore thumbs. Even more so than dragons, and those are some of the most dramatic fuckers I’ve ever seen.

  Another problem with being more noticeable than a goth in church, we tend to get ourselves killed more frequently than the other supernaturals… We’re easy prey for hunters—both human and the paranormal type—and our women are rarely born, but are more powerful than any man.

  We’re nothing without the ladies.

  My older brother, Enzi, and I fall into the everyone else category. We live pseudo alone in a cabin buried in rural, southern Utah, haunted by a wraith called Cosmo who took a liking to us when we were orphaned children, after our parents were killed.

  Or at least, that’s what I thought.

  I barely remember what happened. Mom’s screams still wake me up at night, her shuddering breaths as she pushed me out the freezing window in Enzi’s arms and told us to run. Tension claws up my body like zombies from the grave whenever a cold wind tickles my neck, and I don’t trust any moment of joy that happens outdoors.

  Enzi told me it didn’t matter. Mom and Dad are dead, we got lucky with a friend watching over us, keeping us alive out in the wild like mountain men. End of story.

  He doesn’t want answers.

  Curiosity killed the cat, if you ask him. But the second part, about satisfaction bringing it back, that’s my fucking game.

  Our old house still stands, frozen solid nearly two decades later. The ice doesn’t thaw even in 107 degree heat, the bite in the air holds tight like it’s trying to single handedly repair the Antarctic glaciers from within that square acre of land.

  Mom’s gone, the morbid outline of her warmth still clinging to the wall and window.

  Enzi calls it nature—it’s been twenty years, of course she’s gone.

  But the boot tracks on the floor are from a man, the only blood in the building smeared on the wall in the grooves left by knuckles.

  No one ever punched the walls in my childhood home, not while I was there.

  Her remains vanished, no hair or blood or bones left behind. Scratches on the floor show whoever lifted her out had to break her off like icicles off the gutter, carry her outside to lay her to rest… somewhere.

  Enzi says I’m a romantic and made up a better reality for her body, because I can’t stand the thought she was eaten by real animals.

  I miss Mom, I do—but not enough to create a false reality about her remains. Her memory is on the outskirts of my mind, soft laughs and tender kisses drowned out by her strong goodbye. She fought to save us, gave her last breath to a monster so we could keep going.

  I can’t be convinced otherwise. Her death was a homicide.

  Especially now. Bent over this newspaper article I picked up from a reasonably reliable source (he was naked and screaming about some bear shifter called Teddy, but hey, he knows about paranormality, he must be legit) with the headline regarding a man being escorted out of a town hall meeting in Las Vegas, Nevada. On the surface, the article is typical—disgruntled business owner enraged by city's inaction in cases of missing children.

  Big deal.

  But the paper is charmed with hidden messages, revealing the man is one D’Andres Jelani, head of The Order. He threatened to disembowel a warlock who tried to say these kidnappings aren’t an organized crime ring, and merely coincidental.

  D’Andres Jelani, né Stanton.

  My father.

  The Order takes “we’re nothing without our ladies” to a whole new level. They rule everything, cult leaders in their own right, queens of all bear shifters in the world. They were gifted with powers of dreamwalking—the ability to enter another’s mind and travel deep into their subconscious, taking all their memories with them without detection—and the ability to bring death on any victim they so choose.

  A member of The Order or not, all bear shifters know to kneel in respect to these masters of the shift.

  Girls being a rarity, and the guaranteed protection that comes along with being part of The Order, means countless men fall all over themselves trying to be mated to the first born daughter of the Jelani bloodline. If you have a daughter with her, and are recognized as her life mate, you’re royalty.

  Kinda like a princess in a world that considers women second-class, but still. Only being afraid of your spouse is a kinder fate than the hellish existence I’m living now.

  I can’t blame Dad for leaving us behind for this.

  But it doesn’t make sense. According to everything I can find out about The Order, the mom died around the same time mine did, leaving the eldest daughter as the Master of the Order.

  Her name is Ursula.

  She’s a year older than me, five years older than her younger sister, Keyona.

  Keyona, who was born the same year her mother and mine died.

  It’s not entirely unusual to see death surround the family tree of The Order once a daughter is born. Plus, the first master, Orsa, was already married when she and Dad were recognized as mates. Her husband died in a fire, and it came out that Ursula and Keyona are Dad’s children. She died a few months after that news.

  But that doesn’t fit.

  If Dad already had a daughter, why would he let so many years pass before claiming his rightful place in The Order? Why would he wait for a second girl to get off his ass and take over? And on that note, why wouldn’t he come and get Mom, Enzi, and I after Orsa died? He was already the father of the Master; it wouldn’t hurt his status if he took another mate after that legacy torch was already passed down.

  Unless he’s hiding something detrimental…

  “What’re you doing in here?”

  There’s an edge to my brother’s voice that says it’s a rhetorical question. I only hide in Cosmo's dusty office when I’m digging up corpses Enzi wants me to leave six feet deep.

  “I know you don’t care,” I say. “But look at this—”

  “God damn it, Bayne,” he snaps, snatching the paper right out of my hands. “I told you to stop.”

  “I found Dad,” I say, gesturing to the paper desperately. Surely he’ll give in to information like that, right? “He’s in The Order.”

  Enzi’s eyes widen, his fist clenching around the paper, fragments of the charm breaking off and landing on his boots.

  “Enzi, stop, you’re—”

  “So what?”

  My hea
rt drops. “What d’you mean so what?”

  “We’ve talked about this a million times,” Enzi growls. He slams his hands together, smashing the paper into a tight ball in spite of my protesting. “He’s dead. Whether he killed himself or not, he’s still dead.”

  “But he’s not,” I say, exasperated all over again with his stubborn disregard. “He’s alive, he’s living safe and happy, and so close.”

  “This isn’t living!” Enzi hisses, shaking the crumpled paper at me. “This is evil. This is criminal, and captivity, and stupid.”

  “What’s so stupid about wanting to live a high life?” I ask. “Look what happened to Mom—to us. He went and avoided all this.”

  “At our expense.” He looks down at me like I’ve lost my mind to be on a different page than him. “Mom died because of this. We live out here, in this little shithole you hate so much, because of him. It’s not my fault this is the best I could do with what he left us. Because he left us. What aren’t you understanding?”

  I shouldn’t be surprised he’s mad. He takes everything I do as a personal attack. He grew up because he had to take care of me, and his resentment is toxic. He does his best not to direct it back at me, but instead funnels it outward, to Dad, to Mom, to the world.

  “Maybe he was trying to help,” I say. “You showed me the house. Why would he assume we made it out of there alive? He’s freaked about these missing kids. The article says he’s been a massive advocate and he’s active in searches. What if he thinks we’re alive? What if—”

  “I get that you’re mad,” Enzi says. “I get that you hate it here, and you have this comic book fantasy about Dad being a superhero. But he’s not. He’s a selfish prick, he’s not coming back for us, and you need to let it go.”