White Trash Warlock Novels & Stories

Mary waved a hand and turned to enter the house. The five remaining warlocks of the Wyatt clan knew that with their ridiculously limited number, they didn’t stand a chance against the Stanwood Pack and their Ojah freak. Their strategy, therefore, had been to recruit rogues and witches to help them fight. Rogues were werewolves with no packs. They were usually broken from customary behavior and killed indiscriminately and heedlessly.

Mira clawed at her throat, her eyes wide, terrified, her fingers scraping at nothing as the invisible force tightened around her neck. Rowan lifted his other hand to finish it, and that’s when it happened. A flash of white. No, it wasn't white. It was blinding, holy even and almost impossible. It erupted right in front of Rowan, exploding outward like a star being born. Every warrior, every puppet, every creature on the field cried out and shielded their eyes. I fell onto my hands as the world turned winter white. “What…?!” Rowan snarled, stumbling back. The light reached my skin, warm, and familiar, and I just knew who it was.

A hot discomfort rose in my stomach. "What do you mean?" I whispered, before I could stop myself. Beside me, I felt Icarus’s firm, warm touch. He wrapped my hand in his. The pressure was light but steady, a reminder that I wasn’t alone. "Your father was a warlock," Vardam said, as if the words weighed on his tongue. "One of the most powerful of his generation. Unique. A direct heir to one of the most influential and powerful magical bloodlines to ever exist."

At least, not until it was necessary to do so, which was never going to be the case because I was not going to allow it. One of the villains remarked, "Well look what we have here, the royal family is back together!" My father confronted me with this question, "Michael, what are you trying to accomplish with my family?" The fact that the white wolf had been assigned to be my betrothed prompted me to pose the following question: "Well." "What is he talking about, Lucifer?" Michael questioned. "Who are you, anyway?" My mother gave me this response: "Well, you see when Lucifer and I were younger, he promised me that if one of his children was blessed with the powers of the white wolf, they wou

At the command, Scorpion acted swiftly, spraying venom that instantly corroded the black robe. Inside was indeed a human figure but wrapped tightly in white bandages, resembling a mummy with no discernible features. The bandages had been specially treated, impervious to the corrosive venom. "A War Puppet!" At the sight, many exclaimed in astonishment. In Grimalkin, these powerful servants were coveted by many warlocks. However, the conditions for their creation were so stringent that they were exceedingly rare. The War Puppet before them might just be the only one in the entire Grimalkin, or even the world.

Behind them, a chaotic assortment of rough-looking fighters—Rogues, mercenaries, and exiles—fanned out, weapons drawn. Ethan didn't flinch. He watched the three Warlords approach. On the left was Silas, a Warlock exiled from the High Coven twenty years ago. He was thin, pale, and wore a suit of modern tech interwoven with glowing runic circuitry. He didn't carry a staff; he carried a tablet that hummed with dark energy. Silas was the architect of the "Techno-Magic" movement, a man who believed biology was a flaw to be corrected.

They were discussing people beneath my rule as though an unconfirmed threat had made every life among them available for disposal. I had protected werewolves in war. I would hold them accountable if there was cause, just as I would hold Lycans accountable. But I would not send soldiers across their land so the people around me could feel reassured by the sight of someone else being forced to kneel. I had already paid enough for a throne to understand what it meant when men began making war sound simple. “I will not march onto werewolf soil unless they give me a reason to,” I told them.

Does that mean he is the one who is causing all these monsters to go after us? That guy always did seem a little too nice for my comfort. Bonnie said. But I never thought he would be some monster-making psychopath. I am afraid it is a little more specific than that, Huguely said. I had my suspicions earlier but now they have been confirmed. Dean Trask is a warlock and an immensely powerful one at that. The girls all of that each other as they heard. Huguely’s words. Each one struggled to form syllables to describe the type of emotions that had been acquainted with learning that a man who would always seem to be fair and just was now their greatest.

All the teachers at the encampment tried to search for that warlock with great efforts. “Warlocks. As expected, they are garbage who should now have existed in the mage continent.” Adrian narrowed his eyes. He knew that the warlock who entrapped him must be among the students and he would give his utmost to find that bastard. He wanted to uncover that garbage’s camouflage and to expose him to everyone so that they could spurn at that disgusting and despicable profession! Right there and then, Adrian quietly determined that he would investigate that guy’s identity, no matter what. He would make that garbage understand that he had made a huge mistake when he provoked him.

While Eric and Tate just looked at me like they normally did. “How do you not know what a warlock is?” Ryan asked. “A warlock is a male witch. They are distrustful and they are only out for their own gains. Never trust a warlock to do anything for you because they will turn on you in a heartbeat.” Tate answered before I got the chance to respond to Ryan.