Baby after One Night with the Prince

Dorian's POV.

Mist enters my eyes and the world suddenly swirls out of focus. I frantically blink trying to see, but the mist is heavy. Thick clouds darken my surroundings as snow falls like white bullets from the sky. My skinny arms and hands wrap themselves round my body. The tips of my ears sting from the frigid environment as my teeth chatter uncontrollably.

I've been walking for days. But my legs struggle to push through the thick layer of snow that blankets the ground. And behind me I leave a pathetic trail that will soon be erased as more snow falls. I bet I will be erased, blown away from the terrible cry of the wind, or smothered by the ice, or worse, I'll freeze, and wither away and melt into the snow.

I drop to my knees.

I try to stand, but my body is too weak. And the snow feels like a comfy mattress, offering me eternal sleep. But I have to keep going. My life has to mean more than just what my mother has made of me. It's been a year now since I left her behind and ventured off on my own.

My torn scarf and ragged clothing offer little safety from the elements, but I wrap them tight around me in hope. However, when I lift my gaze, the snowstorm cannot hide the movement in the distance. Someone approaches. An unruly man, his long beard and thick brows are speckled with frost. His face appears worn and tired, but his eyes grow wide when he sees me.

I don't know who he is. I've never seen him before, and I wonder why anyone but myself and my childish ambition and ignorance would be out in this blizzard. But something about him is familiar. My mind despite its exhaustion runs through all the memories, but cannot find the face among images. And yet, the one thing that stands out is a name: Barlow.

"Please help me," I can barely manage a whisper.

But the man hears me and rushes over to help me. "What the hell are you doing out here child!" but he doesn't wait for my reply, he scoops up my feeble body into his arms and begins trekking back to where ever he came from.

Like an infant in the safety of their parent's arms, I find myself nestling into his warmth. I find myself finally at ease, finally feeling truly safe. I stare out into the fog, but something shifts. The sky cracks and crumbles, the snow changes colours, shifting back and forth between white and brown. Trees glitch in and out of my field of vision.

Till images flash about in my mind of the past and present and I suddenly realize that I've been here before. This is a memory, not reality! No, it's not even my real memory, there's something wrong, it's an illusion! My eyes shoot open just as something sharp impales my chest and I gasp.

The metallic taste of blood infiltrates my mouth forcing me to splutter out and stare at the red stain I've left on the ground. But the ground isn't brown, nearly every patch of grass and dirt is tinted in red, flowers splattered with blood and trees marked with crimson. My soldiers lay fallen all the around. Some had at least one of their limbs ripped off, others were barely crawling, if not trying to hold on despite bleeding out. And most lay lifeless on the ground.

So astonished by the scene, I nearly forget to look at what's in front of me. My gaze snaps to Marco, his hand having morphed into a Lycan claw, it still remains embedded deep in my chest, just scraping the edges of my heart. The shock is beginning to wear off and I feel the rush of pain that erupts in my body. Marco only glares at me, and he barely flinches as his claw jolts forward, and is thrust into the depths of my heart. I can't stop my head from rolling back, forcing my eyes to look up at the starry night sky.

The world shifts again, and the clouds form and crowd the sky at an unnaturally rapid pace. Snow falls and crystal flakes fall into my eyes. I'm being carried again, in Barlow's arms. But this time my adult mind remains, I'm well aware I'm back in my memory.

I can't help but wonder if maybe Barlow once described the scene of our first meeting to Tanya. And she created this illusion thinking it meant something to me. But what Barlow knew wasn't really the whole truth. From a young age I knew that in order to gain revenge, I must use all my talents of deceit. That and the fact I'd never be so pathetic or beg for help so willingly.

No, my first meeting with Barlow was all premeditated. I had long heard that Barlow's rogue pack were all hybrids, and that Barlow was very good at black magic. So, I secretly observed him for weeks, being sure that everything told to me was true. I also memories his daily routine, knowing where and when would be the best place to cross paths with him.

I deliberately placed myself in his path, pretending to be a dying child who just happened to be along his route, begging for protection from the cold. But I was never helpless. Never panicked. I would not allow myself to die so easily. That's right. I fought for my life, fought for my revenge and now...

But then I suddenly see Barlow smile at me, a familiar bright smile, and say to me, "Let's go home, kid!"

I look deeply at him, finally, smile and mutter my last words, "Alright, Barlow. Let's go home..."

***

Tanya's POV.

I shift back. But changing out of my fighting form doesn't remove the crimson body that smothers my clothes and body. Nor does it alter the slow healing wounds that relish across my skin. And my human eyes can still see the sea of bodies that lay across the forest floor, tainting mother nature's soil with their decomposing corpses.

We won. But not without the loss of life.

Marco still stands above Dorian's body as life leaves the hybrid's eyes. The sound of Marco's claws retracting out of Dorian's body is uncomfortably moist as his claws slip slickly out of the flesh wound. He stares blankly at his opponent whose eyes remain open, and even in death, he smiles up at the sky.

"He's gone Marco," I whisper softly as I come up beside my husband, pulling an arm away. But he doesn't budge. "It's over Marco. We need to go find Cathy."

This is what snaps him out of his unrest and he silently leads us down into the cave. What remains palace army follows us. Even with their wounds and their lost limbs, they follow Marco like true loyal soldiers. And we enter the darkness that's only lit faintly by candlelight.

"Find Eric," orders Marco whilst me and him rush to Cathy's side as she lays unconscious on the floor. When Eric joins us we try to release Cathy from the magic circle that's keeping her trapped to the floor.

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But there's nothing we can do, the magic continues to bind her to the ground and no strength or power can remove her. So, we have to have the doctor come down into the cave to take a look at her.

When the doctor finally arrives, the three of us are now standing around her body as he explains. "She's nearly been stripped of all life," he says solemnly. "What life does remain is the only thing keeping her breathing. But I'm sorry, she'll never wake up. And eventually, she will die as the magic drains her body."

In the corner of my gaze, I see Eric stumble, and almost collapse till Marco grabs hold of him, trying to steady him. "Hold on brother. She's still with us," he whispers. "We can't give up hope. There must be a way."

With Marco's belief keeping us going, me, him, Eric, and Oliver go to Dorian's now vacated territory. We search through his library, bedroom, office, and all other places we can think of for anything that could tell us more information relating to sacrificial black magic.

Two gruelling days pass, and none of us barely sleep as we're desperate to find something to save Cathy. But finally, I come across an ancient book hidden beneath Dorian's mattress. The entire book is information solely on sacrificial black magic, and hope grows in my heart.

Course, after finding the right page, and skimming the words. The ancient book records that once the sacrificial black magic spell has been cast there is no way of stopping the effects. Even if the witch who cast the spell is killed. Unless... My heart drops.

'Unless there is a volunteer, who is willing to give up his or her life to take the place of the person who was originally sacrificed'.