If you guys have read my story Strength is Needed, (and enjoyed it) I think you will also enjoy this one. It's a bit more on the dark side so I hope you enjoy. PS. This is kind just to see how many people will be interested in reading this story, so I probably won't update until Strength is Needed is completed. Shouldn't be too long though.

Please Enjoy.

When Meara opened her eyes and focused on the bleary form of Mariah Kernovski, the youngest—actually she's quite old but looks like a snot-nosed pre-teen (which technically makes her the oldest) witch her father has ever hired to help the pack, she knew she was in for it this time. As stated before, Mariah looked like a pre-teen at 5'2 with large bobbing curls in her platinum blonde hair and large eyes, not to mention the underdeveloped body parts. Meara wasn't fooled though, she was pretty sure the little brat was the one who gave the Ancient Greek poet Homer the idea of the Witch Goddess, Circe. Yes, Meara thought she was that old, maybe a little bit more. So you can imagine the slight twinge of her nerves when she recognized the little brats scent.

She waited for her eyes to focus before full on glaring at the girl—there wasn't much else she could do, she could feel the bonds of magic and silver wrapped around her, the silver burning her flesh where it was flush up against it—and she was gagged which meant no verbal sparring with the witch either. Meara shifted her eyes, looking at her surroundings, inhaling deeply. Many scents curled into her nose, mainly pine and salt. She figured they were north and near the ocean. There were ruins of what appeared to be an old castle strewn about the grounds, trees and vines overflowing onto the stones. Now if only she could figure out which CONTINENT she was on that would be lovely. Her gaze snapped back to Mariah, who let out a chilling little giggle.

"Oh, sweet little Meara. It doesn't matter which continent you are on, because soon it won't matter!" She let out another giggle as Meara's glare turned more into a glower. She hated this witch. Reading her mind as if she were some open book. She'd think dirty thoughts and scar the poor girl if she knew something the girl didn't already know. The witch had seen and done many things in the past. Many, many things. Meara let out an aggravated muffled sigh, her glower deepening into a scowl.

Movement in the shadows behind the little witch caught her attention and she felt the hairs on her neck stand as they always did when her father was ever around. Meara lowered her eyes, leaning in on herself as her father came into view, a sign of submission. It was the only time anyone ever saw the great Meara Evans in a defenseless state. Besides the whole tied up with magic and silver ordeal, but as far as she could tell there was only her, the brat and her father.

When she heard the low growl her father emitted from his throat, she stiffened, knowing it wasn't at all a good sign. Her father was old at 2,876 years and with what they are and being that old combined; it was hardly ever a good outcome. Shoot, she was ranking up the numbers pretty well herself being exactly 2,000 years younger than him (of course that's not counting the times she's jumped realms). Meara looked up, staring at the point of his chin—looking him in the eye would just be plain stupid even if she were his only family. Meara and her father, Michael—this is not his real name, as he changes it every century or so, last century he was Craig—are creatures of the night, slaves to the turning of the moon.

Werewolves are not uncommon in the world, though thriving in the world of men, they are finding that they are dying off as the wild beings they once were. Meara remembers when she was young, barely passed a hundred years, and running wild on the moors of what is now called Europe. Yet, now, werewolves were domestic things, enslaved to be in human bodies without the option of becoming the wolf without the moons effect. The new inventions of cameras and video tapes made damn near impossible for the wolves to change in privacy and in secret—when you turn into an animal twice the size it should be, people would tend to freak out, not only that but when a werewolf changes it's the most vulnerable it will ever be. A werewolf in its human form is just as dangerous as a werewolf in its wolf form, mainly because most werewolves lived for a very long time and know their way around pretty much any weapon; Meara herself is pretty gifted with the long bow, the sword, the throwing knives and hand to hand combat, which considering most street fights she gets into are pretty chalked up to expertise now.

Meara narrowed her eyes at her father's chin, wondering exactly what she has done this time to piss the unreasonable alpha off. Don't get her wrong she loved her father, she remembers a time when he would tuck her in at night in her little bed of hay and tell her stories of his adventures on the moors. Yet now…now he was this man. As she came of age he slowly turned into a hard man, until it wasn't him who was teaching her but tutors and some of his best warriors. Back then he had been in his peak, he was considered otherworldly handsome—a strong jaw line, pale blue eyes, a mane of brownish hair that had many consider him to be more of a Lion king than a Wolf king. His hair, now, was chopped short, as the style now-a-day's calls for; surprising most of the pack that was with him 2,000 years ago, he put gray into his hair and though he could pass for a barely 30 year old he now passed for a barely 40 year old (amazing what some gray hair can do for you, of course it didn't stop the ladies from throwing themselves at him.)

"Do you know what you have done!?" He growled out, his normally pleasant voice distorted by the growls he was speaking through. "You ungrateful child, do you know exactly what it is you have done?"

Meara let out a growl of frustration—she was gagged, how the hell is she supposed to defend herself!? Of course, her father, as half crazed with anger as he was, took the growl as one of challenging and smacked her across the face. The blow should have broken her neck—nothing she hadn't healed from before—but Meara was sure that Mariah was the one who softened the impact of the blow to her head—much to her dismay.

"Now, now, Michael. You want her to be conscious when you send her away now don't you?" Mariah grinned, tugging as if she were a small child, on Michael's sleeve. The alpha in front of her inhaled, and Meara stared into his eye's, completely forgetting the whole submission thing. He meant to send her away? Away to where!? She's already been everywhere. Or did Mariah mean…her gaze cut to the witch. There was a slightly maniacal look in her eyes as she stood grinning there—it was kind of creepy. She figured since Mariah was present in her "send away", she'd be travelling through portals—not her first time—maybe going to another dimension, maybe the future, maybe the past—though she doubted the latter.

Her father growled, making a 'tsk' sound and made a motion for the little witch to proceed, "Get her out of my sight."

Meara stared her father down, blocking out the incoherent speech of Mariah as she cast her spell. She learned long ago that you shouldn't concentrate too hard or your mind won't come out of it well when dealing with magic. It took her three hundred years in the realm of the Kikoo's—a strange bunch they were, little things, but they knew how to throw one hell of a cook-out.

She felt the magic pool around her, a light shining through the dirt ground. The chains and bindings around her loosened, the gag becoming undone, "Goodbye, Father."

At the sound of her voice, an airy sound that many people thought didn't match her cool stares, her father shook his head, and as he started to come out of focus, she saw the look of surprise and fear mix together in his eyes. It wasn't a good combination—especially for her father. The light completely overwhelmed her eyes and the warm lull nearly put her to sleep and she knew that she had disappeared from the earth—possibly for good this time.

Michael whirled to the witch, feeling the strands of magic loosen from his mind, "Where did you send her?" He made to grab the witch by her throat. Her skin started to melt and he retracted his hand at the last moment, eyes narrowed at the woman standing in place of the little witch. Mariah changed her shape again, now looking more of an elegant young woman than that ridiculous pre-teen disguise. The look of satisfaction on her face made him angry—he could feel the pull of the change coming on as he stared at her.

"Where did you send her, Witch?" He yelled again, barely controlling the growls that erupted from his throat.

Mariah smiled fondly at the circle where his beloved warrior princess once stood, "A place where she will either thrive or die," She held a hand up at the anger welling up on Michael's face, "It all depends on her choices."

In a whirl wind of dead leaves and dried flower pedals, Mariah was gone, leaving Michael to stand alone amongst the ruins of his old kingdom—Meara's birthplace.

So what do you guys think?