The Burns Defiance

by N M Thorn

  The Burns Defiance

  The Fire Salamander Chronicles Book Three

  N. M. Thorn

  The Burns Defiance

  By N.M. Thorn

  Copyright © 2019 by N.M. Thorn. All rights reserved.

  nmthornauthor@gmail.com

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  Cover art design by www.originalbookcoverdesigns.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Book Four: Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Before you go…

  Also by N. M. Thorn

  About the Author

  Prologue

  November 1916

  Saint Petersburg, Russia.

  “They are not going to kill me! You’re lying! I’ve heard this prophecy once before. How did you find out about it… Things have changed, and they wouldn’t dare! I have the ear of the Tsarina herself. She’ll kill them all for me.”

  The man was pacing in front of a large silver mirror that was hanging on the wall, throwing angry glances at his own reflection from time to time. After a minute, he stopped, leaning heavily on a small table. He glowered at the mirror like it was his worst enemy, breathing hard. His electric blue eyes got glassy and his black pupils widened, coloring his eyes black.

  He slowly lifted his hand and brushed his fingers over the smooth surface of the mirror. “What are you saying?” he asked drowsily even though it appeared there was no one else in the room but him. For a moment he fell into a deep trance. Then he shook his head and his pupils returned back to normal size. “Yes, you’re right. I know what I need to do.”

  The man pushed away from the table and walked to the opposite end of the room. He lifted a curtain and found a small button hidden in the wall. He pressed it and a small trapdoor cracked opened. With his height of six-foot-four he had to almost double-up to walk inside.

  The small room behind the trapdoor was submerged into darkness, but the man knew his way around. He moved his hand to the right and found a half-burnt candle that was sitting on the small shelf next to the door. He picked it up and touched it with his index finger.

  “Ignius,” he whispered, and a small flame ignited on the wick of the candle, illuminating the tiny room with a flickering yellow light.

  The man proceeded inside, careful not to hit his head on the low ceiling and sat down on a single chair that was positioned next to a table. A few large books in leather bindings were scattered all over. At the far end of the table stood a bunch of new candles, and a number of different jars and cans filled with liquids, crystals and powders. Chemical scales with a set of weights were sitting next to the candles. The wall above the table was partially concealed by bunches of dried up herbs.

  The man picked up one of the books and read it, slowly moving from one page to the next. Then he closed it and pressed his lips into a stubborn straight line. “I’m still missing one ingredient. I still need that apple. But this will have to do for now.”

  He got up and took an empty jar. Carefully he measured a spoon of powder and placed it inside. Then he picked up a bunch of dry flowers and plucked a few petals off, dropping them inside the jar. Slowly mixing everything with a wooden pestle, he poured a few different liquids and put everything in the metal holder above the candle.

  It took a while for the liquid to come to a boil, but the man wasn’t in a rush. Once the liquid finally boiled, he took the jar and placed it on the table. Slowly he started to chant, clearly pronouncing each word. A dark mist rose above the jar, shimmering in the light of the candle. He kept at it until the liquid turned bright red. Once he noticed the change, he stopped his enchantment. The man took the jar off the holder and carefully placed it on the table. After the potion cooled down slightly, he picked it up.

  “Na zdorovie,” he muttered and downed the contents of the jar in a few large gulps. He placed the empty jar on the table. A few drops of the red liquid trickled down his thick mustache and his long untidy beard, but he didn’t bother wiping them.

  He found a clean piece of paper, a stylus and an ink bottle on the table. Pulling everything closer, he dipped the long stylus into the ink and started to write.

  “I write and leave this letter in Saint Petersburg. I feel that I will leave life before January 1st. I wish to make known to the Russian people, to Papa, to the Russian Mother and to the Children what they must do.”

  He wrote and stopped, thinking, his black pupils fluctuating in size. He picked up the stylus again and continued. He was writing fast, like he was afraid that he would forget to include something.

  “If I am killed by my brothers, the Russian peasants, then you, the Russian Tsar, have nothing to worry about. You will remain on your throne and keep your reign. And you, Russian Tsar, don’t need to worry about your kids. Their reign over Russia will continue for hundreds of years.”

  He stopped writing again and put the stylus back into the ink bottle. Wiping perspiration off his face with the sleeve of his shirt, he re-read again what he wrote so far and picked up the stylus.

  “But if I will be killed by boyars and nobles, and they will spill my blood, then their hands will remain soiled by my blood, and for twenty-five years, they won’t be able to wash their hands clean. They will leave Russia. Brothers will rise against brothers and they will kill each other. And for twenty-five years, there will be no peace in the country.

  Tsar of Russia, if you hear the bell ring, telling you Grigory has been murdered then know this: if it was one of your own blood who wrought my death, then none of your children will live for more than two years…”

  He dropped the stylus on the table, spilling some ink and got up. For a while he paced in front of the table, the sinister words of his own prophecy making his blood run cold. “I have no reason to worry. Nothing of it will come true. They can’t kill me now that I have taken the potion, it’s impossible.” He nodded, feeling reassured by his own words and sat back down, picking up the stylus, dipping it into the ink.

  “Russian Tsar, you will be killed by Russian people, and the people will be cursed and serve as a weapon of the devil, killing each other and spreading death through the world. Three times for twenty-five years, the servants of Antichrist will destroy Russian people and the Orthodox faith…”

  Once he was done, he looked over the letter and re-read it a few times. Satisfied with his work, he signed his name “Grigory Rasputin” and sealed the letter.

  December 10, 1916

  Saint Petersburg, Russia.

  It was past midnight when Rasputin walked into the Molika palace of Prince Felix Yusupov. The Prince met him at the door, expressing his delight and quic
kly ushered him into the basement room of the Palace. The basement was just as lavish and bright as the rest of the palace and the table was served for a late-night feast. The sweet scent of cookies and cakes filled the air, giving it a welcoming, homely atmosphere.

  Rasputin sat down, relaxing in a soft chair. He didn’t wonder why he was invited into the palace at such a late time. It wasn’t the first time for him. Felix Yusupov filled his cup with tea and placed a slice of cake on his plate, the smile on the young Prince’s face just as sweet as the dessert he offered.

  Grigory took the cup into his hands and felt a light touch of heat on the wrist of his left hand. He glanced down. One of the stones on his bracelet changed its color from black to dark red. The stone indicated the close presence of a poison. A wide smirk stretched his lips. The young Prince was trying to kill him. Well, let him try. He had nothing to worry about. Confident in the elixir of immortality he took just a short while ago, Grigory brought the cup of tea to his lips, observing the Prince over the rim of his cup.

  The eyes of Yusupov lit up with impatience and hope. He looked like he was ready to pour this poisoned beverage down Grigory’s throat himself if he wouldn’t drink it fast enough. Grigory slowly sipped his tea, taking large bites of the poisonous cake. The stone on his bracelet became hotter, counteracting the effects of the poison. Grigory smiled, complimenting his kind host on his hospitality and delicious dinner.

  “Some wine, perhaps?” asked Felix rising, his pale face glistening with sweat. “I have a nice bottle of Madeira in my study, waiting for a good reason to be opened.”

  The Prince forced a smile and walked out of the room. He came back a few minutes later with a bottle of Madeira in his hands and filled Rasputin’s glass. Grigory knew the wine was poisoned even without the amulet in his bracelet telling him that. He smirked and raised the glass.

  “Za zdorovie,” he said and downed the wine, placing the empty glass back on the table. He wiped his lips with his hand, staring at the Prince with a mocking smirk. Then he took the bottle and filled his glass again, demonstratively lifting it to his mouth and swallowing its contents in one giant gulp.

  “How is it possible?” whispered the young man, his eyes bulging. “It’s not possible!”

  Rasputin cackled, staring down at the young Prince with scorn in his eyes. He filled his glass one more time and drank it to the bottom. Felix backed away, crossing himself, whispering something incomprehensible. As he stepped back, Grigori moved closer, his imposing frame towering over Felix. Prince Yusupov drew his revolver and shot Rasputin in his chest point blank.

  Grigory pressed his hand to his chest, bright red streams of blood gushing between his fingers. With shock, he gaped down at his own blood spilling down his chest, dripping to the floor. The sickening smell of it made his head spin. He swayed, fell on his back and blacked out.

  When he regained consciousness, the first thing he heard was the voice of Prince Yusupov.

  “This can’t be,” said Felix, “I shot him in his heart!” Grigory felt someone’s hand tearing at his shirt. “Look at all this blood on the floor, but there is no bullet hole! I couldn’t have missed! I shot him point blank.”

  Rasputin slowly opened his eyes. His vision was hazy, but he recognized Prince Yusupov standing over him. Right behind him he saw Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich and the right-wing politician Vladimir Purishkevich.

  Rage surged through him, providing him with much-needed strength. Grigory leaped to his feet, his face contorted into a devilish grimace. All three conspirators gasped in horror, staggering away from him, but Rasputin reached the young Prince and seized his neck, shaking him.

  “You’re a bad boy. Bad boy!” he growled, continuing shaking the Prince. “I’ll tell everything to the Tsarina!”

  The Prince whimpered, struggling helplessly against his grip for a few seconds before he gave in, hanging limply in his hands. Rasputin finally dropped him and rushed toward the stairs, thinking about only one thing – escape to safety. He needed to walk out of this house and cross the palace’s courtyard, and then he’d be safe. Tomorrow he would tell everything that had happened to the Tsarina and she wouldn’t be merciful to those who dared to harm him.

  He made it all the way to the outside door and burst through the door of the palace into the cold winter night when he heard the sound of two loud gun shots, one after another. He felt a sharp pain in his back and in his side. Grigory cried out and fell to his knees but managed to get up and kept running toward the exit from the courtyard. He didn’t listen to the agitated screams of Felix Yusupov and his co-conspirators. He didn’t care. All he needed to do was run out onto the street. They wouldn’t keep pursuing him there and the immortality potion would do its job, healing his wounds.

  Grigory almost felt the taste of freedom on his lips, which were smeared with his blood, when he saw another man standing in front of him, blocking his only way to freedom. He’d never seen this man before. Young and well-built, the man was slightly taller than him. He was dressed in an expensive suit of a nobleman. His long gold hair fell below his shoulders, down to his waist.

  “Regular bullets can’t kill him now,” said the stranger calmly, addressing Prince Yusupov. He raised his hand and Rasputin saw a revolver. The weapon was glowing with a soft shimmering light. Staring directly into Rasputin’s eyes, the man pressed the trigger without blinking.

  As if in slow motion, Rasputin saw the bullet erupt from the revolver’s barrel, followed by a bright red flare and swirls of white smoke. It shimmered with the blue light of magic, a tiny glowing rune engraved on its tip. He felt a push into his head and clasped his hands to his forehead. Pain the likes of which he had never felt before forced him down to his knees. He swayed and collapsed on the snow. He was still alive, but he couldn’t move, he couldn’t open his eyes, he couldn’t make a sound.

  “Is he dead?” He heard the voice of the Prince.

  “No,” replied the stranger, his deep voice laced with sadness. “Unfortunately, I was too late and now it won’t be easy to kill him.”

  “What should we do?” asked Purishkevich. “How can we kill him then?”

  “You need to submerge his body into frozen water,” replied the stranger. “You do that, and I’ll do my part. Pray that the Dark Nav can keep his soul from rising.”

  A few minutes later, Rasputin felt someone’s hands move his body, tying his arms and legs with thick ropes. Then they wrapped his body into a cloth and lifted him.

  Who was this man? Was he privy to the dark arts? He had to be, otherwise he wouldn’t know any of it, Rasputin thought desperately. I have no idea who he is, but I swear to God, I will rise again. And when I do, there won’t be a place on this Earth where he can hide from my wrath.

  The icy waters of the Neva river closed above him, pulling his body into its frosty embrace.

  Chapter 1

  Zane Burns, a.k.a. Gunz

  Modern day. Somewhere in Florida… Probably…

  The roars of a demon were supposed be scaring him but mostly annoyed him. Gunz watched as the demon carelessly launched his whole bulky body into a frontal attack and rolled his eyes. The monster was over six feet tall with a massive body wrapped in a thick layer of muscle.

  The demon obviously thought highly of himself, sure in an easy victory, but Gunz knew better. No matter how much muscle-power this monster packed, how impenetrable he thought the shield of his iron muscles was, there were always a few weak vulnerable points on his massive body. Besides, compared to Gunz, the demon was extremely slow.

  He watched the demon’s fist sail by his face and took a quick step to the side, meeting his opponent with a powerful strike to his neck. The monster choked, losing his balance. He fell down clutching his neck, his eyes bulging. In a split-second, Gunz reached him and pulled him into a sitting position. He wrapped his arm around his neck and clasped his hands, his forearm set firmly into the demon’s back. He pushed with his forearm and yanked his hands, applying a brutal choke.<
br />
  The demon was thrashing in his arms, struggling against his hold. Gunz squeezed harder, putting the monster to sleep. Then he got up, dropping the unconscious body on the floor and turned around, staring through the net of the cage at the raging crowd. He found the eyes of Mr. Kogan, the man who owned all supernatural fighting pits in Florida and watched him turn his thumb down.

  A cold smirk split Gunz’s face as he kneeled next to the demon and drove his fist through the monster’s face all the way to the floor. Blood and brain matter splattered all around the place where the demon’s head used to be. Gunz rose, staring down at his dead opponent with disdain.

  The crowd exploded in carnivorous screams. The referee opened the door into the cage and approached Gunz. He seized his wrist and yanked his arm up, blood – demon’s blood – slowly trickling down his forearm. Gunz pulled his arm out of the referee’s grip, wiped the blood on his cargo pants and walked out of the cage.

  He headed to the backroom where he could clean up and relax for a few minutes before leaving. As he walked with his head bowed down, the roar of the crowd followed him. He felt a few hands touch his arms and shoulders, but he didn’t react. It wasn’t his first fight and he got used to ignoring everything, never paying attention to what people around him were doing or saying.