The Payment

by Michelle E Lowe

  Legacy

  The Payment

  Michelle E. Lowe

  Copyright

  Legacy: The Payment Copyright © Michelle E. Lowe 2019

  This is a work of creative fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead or immortal is purely coincidental.

  Michelle E. Lowe asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

  All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Any copyrighted material is reproduced under the fair use doctrine.

  ISBN: 9781072070924

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank those who have helped the Legacy series along on its journey. First, I’d like to thank my daughters, Mia and Kirsten, who keep encouraging me to tell stories, and to my dad, Jim, and Aunt JoAnn for always being there. Special thanks to my husband, Ben Deda, for your support.

  Thanks to Yvette Bostic, MontiLee Stormer, Michael Arnold, Michael Baker, Jonathan Rose, Jessica Ellis, Kelly Evens, Dara Crawley, Mad Wilson, and William Bitner for their assistance and advice. Thanks to Amy Coughlin, Elena Lange, Elisa Jiang, Evan Pitman, Heather Pitman, Oliver Bagley, Ruth Daly, Glenn Ramos, Scott Carol, Kimberley Luce, Landry Prichard, Taunji Hurlbut, Erin Mulligan, Amber Heyman, Russell Hinson, John Cook, and Tom and Jennifer Allard for their time and generous support. Thanks to my editor, KH Koehler, for your hard work.

  Although they’re no longer here, I’d like to thank my mother, Janice, and my brother, Jimmy. Miss you both so very much. And, a huge thanks and heaps of gratitude to my mentor, Catherine Rudy.

  Legacy

  The Payment

  (Book Six)

  “Moments are but tiny beads in one’s existence, darling. String them together and you get a lifetime.”

  —Pierce Landcross

  Her New Life

  England

  Summer, 1801

  Rosie Bates enjoyed her solitude. As a youth, she once lived among the public in small towns, as well as a city, but she had never been able to bring herself to care for anyone she met. She felt nothing for even the lovers she bedded. She understood how strange that was. Most people shared some type of empathy toward one other. Not Rosie Bates. She regarded people as walking, talking anomalies that grew steadily against the very order of things, unlike the other creatures that easily fused with the flow of the planet. Humankind was constantly searching for something: wealth, prospects, marriage, a sense of purpose, or anything they believed would make them happy. Rosie Bates had witnessed this several times over.

  She considered her lack of emotion a blessing. It made it easier for her to leave the manmade world and rejoin nature. Finding an uninhabited cottage in such a beautiful forest had been a real treat. Inside, she had discovered the skeletal remains of someone who may have lived there. Rosie took the remains outside and hurled them into the woods. She saw no reason to bury the skeleton, for it was mere bones, after all, and eventually, they’d end up in the ground, anyway.

  The cottage had been in disrepair. Rosie did what she could to restore the place. Without proper tools and materials, there wasn’t much she could do.

  Rosie kept herself busy, tending to her garden located at the side of the house where a spot of sun shone through the trees. She gathered things in the forest with which to create décor. Aside from the wild dogs that roamed the woods, her life was perfect.

  Until the huntsman found her.

  Rosie had gone out to the meadow to pick flowers. She wanted them for her cottage to bring some color into the old place. She had been bringing flowers to the house for ages. Rosie nearly had her entire basket full when a man with a gun suddenly appeared. What he did to her was rough and primal, and when it was over, she seized his knife as he was dressing and stabbed him to death. It surprised her how easy the blade sank into his back. Killing him made her feel empowered, more so than what the huntsman must have experienced as he took her. He had acted on pure ancient instinct to breed, and because of it, he’d lost his life to his victim.

  She claimed whatever valuables he had with him—his weapons, a few shillings, and a compass. She left him there to be consumed by the wildlife. After a few days, she returned to the field to pick more flowers. The body had been torn to pieces, most likely by the dogs.

  It wasn’t long afterward that Rosie found herself with child. Other than the physical discomforts of pregnancy, she felt nothing toward it. Rosie carried on with her daily routines and when ready, she gave birth to it alone. The pain, though, was remarkably little. She experienced heavy cramps in her abdomen and legs, and there were some sharp pains in her lower back, but other than that, the labor was nearly painless. She wondered what the fuss surrounding childbearing was all about.

  Despite how the child came to be, Rosie allowed her motherly instincts to take over and pulled the newborn babe up to her breast to nurse. Whatever kind of loving emotion she was supposed to have for the child it didn’t exist, but that did not keep her from raising her daughter. She gave her the name Freya, after the goddess from the Vanir tribe. Freya was unique, Rosie realized. Her violet eyes, which Rosie called her twilight eyes, appeared to hold many secrets. Although what secrets a new-to-the-world being could have, Rosie hadn’t the foggiest notion.

  Rosie did the basics in raising her child. She made sure her daughter was well fed. She kept her clean and taught her how to grow things in the garden. Other than that, she hardly spent time with her. Freya never minded. She never even nagged her mother to play with her, for she had her imaginary friend, Njáll, to keep her occupied. Rosie would catch her running about, playing games with this invisible companion, chatting with him, and other such things. It was a queer thing, Rosie thought, that this make-believe person held such an influence over her. Rosie didn’t ask many questions about it, though.

  Freya had mysteriously learned how to read and write. There was hardly any literature in the cottage other than an old copy of Robinson Crusoe that Freya had begun reading to Rosie every evening after dinner.

  One day, when Rosie went out to gather firewood, she found herself surrounded by the wild dog pack. They snarled and snapped their hungry jaws at her. With the huntsman’s knife clutched tightly in her hand, Rosie readied herself for a fight. She feared their teeth—and there were many of them to fear. She imagined being torn apart, her innards savagely ripped out. The thought of such pain caused her to soil herself. She didn’t want to die so horribly. She would fight, but in the end, she knew she’d fall.

  A large dog—possibly the leader—was the first to charge. It leaped at her and Rosie raised her blade. Then something strange happened.

  She died.

  She was dead before the dog touched her. The canine dragged her body down before it fell over on its own, and the pack quickly tore into it. Rosie saw this and wondered how it was she had died before the beast sank its teeth into her.

  Rosie Bates decided to wash her hands of it and moved on to where the dead go.

  * * *

  Freya Bates was thirteen when she found her mother’s mauled remains in the forest. There wasn’t much left.

  “And you claimed her life before they got to her?” Freya asked the handsome man with the feminine face who was leaning against a nearby tree.

  “I stopped her heart at nearly the precise moment the Fates had planned her death, yes,” he told her. “The hags shouldn’t be too upset about it, unlike the huntsman I allowed your mother to kill years before his thread ended.”

  Freya st
udied the body while holding the shovel she had brought. She had never held an abundance of love for the woman, but she had a certain attachment to her. It couldn’t be helped. Rosie Bates had done more in regard to raising her than Freya had expected when she had chosen the hermit to be her mother. Freya hadn’t needed a motherly woman or a father to dote on her. She had needed her space in order to redevelop her memories. The Trickster, Njáll, had helped with that. He had also assisted in honing her new talents as a witch. Surprisingly, that took minimal time, for her abilities were as much a part of her as everything else in her body. She was grateful to have the Trickster with her. They had been lovers in her past existence, but now he’d become her mentor and guide. Freya had needed to die and then be reborn with the powers of a witch, for that would enable her to set her plan in motion. So far, everything had worked out smoothly.

  In her previous life, she came upon a major discovery about the family she and Njáll helped produce. The bloodlines that belonged to a god and a nymph had joined the bloodlines of an enchantress and an elf, creating Nona Fey and Jasper Landcross, who were instantly drawn to each other by their special genealogy.

  “I thank you, Njáll for numbing most of her labor pains when she was giving birth to me. And I thank you for killing her quickly. I never wished for her to suffer.”

  “But you didn’t request that she be saved, either,” he threw in. “I could have, you know.”

  She glared at him as she drove the nose of the shovel into the ground. The winter’s frost had stiffened the surface.

  “Are you all right?” the Trickster asked, pushing off from the tree.

  “I believe I allowed her to grow on me more than I should have.”

  “You never allowed it, Freya; it just happened. You’re no longer a nymph, but a human.”

  “So? Nymphs have feelings, too.”

  “Ah, but you’re unable to shut out your emotions as you once did. The mourning you feel for this woman is due to how the chemicals in your brain are controlling your feelings, based on what you see. She lies dead before your eyes, and so, your mind reacts accordingly.”

  “I understand,” she mused, pushing the shovel into the icy dirt with her foot. “If seeing her causes me to despair, then I shall put her out of my sight. Out of sight, out of mind, right?”

  She utilized her abilities to send a great amount of heated energy through the shovel and into the ground, thawing it.

  “That’s not how it works,” the Trickster remarked. “Would you rather I manifested a grave for you?”

  “Thank you, Njáll. I feel, though, this is something I must do myself.”

  “Well, then, I shall leave you to it. The nomads will be here by midsummer. I’ll see to their arrival.”

  Freya smiled at him. “I don’t deserve you.”

  The Trickster snorted. “I suppose I’ve grown soft in my old age. Regardless, your mission has me highly interested. I shall like to know how it all plays out.” He began vanishing when he added, “Oh, by the by, Thooranu is now the property of Clovis de la Fuentein. He is the son of a late duke and is living in the family’s château in La Rochelle. For future reference.”

  He vanished and Freya returned to her digging.

  Two years later.

  “Where are you going?” Joaquin Landcross called out when Freya left the camp on the night of Pierce’s birth.

  “Your grandmother told me to leave.”

  “Told you to leave? Why?”

  “I was only holding your brother,” she seethed vehemently. “That’s all.”

  He looked at her with puzzlement, but before he could ask, she cut in. “I have to go. You and I shall meet again someday. Farewell, Joaquin.”

  She vanished into the darkness and as she did, she heard the boy say, “Don’t go.”

  A tug in her chest nearly caused her to weep, but she kept going without looking back.

  Freya felt foolish for letting herself be caught while placing the tracking hex on young Pierce. She should have made certain that the witch was better preoccupied. Élie Fey had likely sensed Freya in the tent with the babe and gone in to investigate. It mattered not, for Freya had succeeded in casting the spell upon him.

  Pierce was both a vital part of her plan, as well as a giant obstacle to it. If she hadn’t been interrupted, Freya would have cursed the boy with horrible misfortunes. That would make it easier to kill him when the time came, as well as block anyone from casting protection spells over him. Instead, she had only managed the tracking incantation before Élie caught her. She’d just have to make due.

  That night, she slept in a field after putting a blinding spell over herself to keep Élie from discovering who she really was and locating her with the help of her spirits.

  She also thought deeper about what she needed to do. To kill Pierce prematurely would require some crafty planning. The first step was damaging his fate thread, which would be a much simpler task were it not for Élie—especially now that she was aware that something was going on. The old witch would be an obstacle, but killing her would not be easy. Freya had to be more subtle in her attack against Élie and so she placed a curse over Élie Fey, turning her own abilities against her, which would eventually make her ill before killing her. Such a curse would take a few years to take effect, but once Élie fell ill, Freya could carry on more easily.

  As she drifted off to sleep, she recalled what the Trickster said.

  Oh, by the by, Thooranu is now the property of Clovis de la Fuentein. He is the son of a late duke, living in the family’s château in La Rochelle. For future reference.

  * * *

  “What on Earth are you talking about, girl?” Clovis demanded of Freya.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t have it, Clovis de la Fuentein,” Freya fired back. “Thooranu is his name. He’s a Cambion Demon named after his father. I have a hundred pounds to give for some of his blood.”

  Freya already disliked Clovis de la Fuentein. He came off as a spoiled, pompous fool. He was a grown man, in his early thirties or so, but age had not made him any wiser. She sensed his spitefulness, and most of all, his arrogance.

  Clovis’s face went slack with shock. “How did you know—?”

  “You’re not his first owner,” she interrupted. “Do we have a deal?”

  Clovis considered her before saying, “A hundred pounds is all you offer?”

  “No. I also offer you the gift that is my silence. You have no idea what else is out there, wanting to get their hands . . . or their claws . . . on what you have.”

  That prompted the fool to obey. He led her down into an ancient wine cellar that was no longer being used to store wines. It contained only one detained demon. Thooranu was locked inside a cage, which was ridiculous, considering he was forbidden to escape his master unless the yearly contract expired without a name on it.

  “Thooranu,” Freya announced.

  The room was dark, but she held a lantern, as did Clovis, standing with her.

  The creature appeared in the light.

  He looked sickly. His ankles were chained, which was also unnecessary. It occurred to her that Clovis was some imbecile who wanted the keys to the kingdom handed to him, but he was too intimidated to rule it.

  She remembered how much healthier Thooranu looked when he belonged to her. When she was Temenitis, the Pegaeae nymph, she used to have him tell her stories. Sometimes, he spoke about the things he did when he was free. Thooranu had confessed to her that as a young demon, he’d steal from deities. One item was a book containing an invocation to snatch the Fates from out of their realm and bind them in one place to serve as slaves to those who had summoned them. Thooranu had also stolen death masks belonging to three deceased gods—masks that were designed to bind the Fates to their prison. Written in the same tome was The Life-bringing Spell, which the gods and goddesses used to bring forth life without conception.

  “I have come for some of your blood, Thooranu,” Freya explained.

  “Sti
ck out your arm, slave,” Clovis demanded.

  Without hesitation, he stretched his arm out between the bars. A dirty, torn sleeve hung from it.

  Freya showed him the knife. “This won’t hurt too much, I promise.”

  Freya could not help but feel sorry for the damn thing. Mainly, she felt bad that he had such a worthless meat sack for a master. She could only imagine what senseless deeds Clovis ordered him to do.

  The demon gave her no response, but he did look at her inquisitively as if sensing they had met before. He might even have asked, but it was apparent that Clovis had most likely ordered him to speak only when given permission.

  She put the lantern down and held his arm gently in her gloved hand. Her touch could trigger a memory of her as his former master, and she did not want him to discover that, in case he was freed before she had succeeded in her plan.

  When she was a nymph, she had had the power to release her slave by letting the contract expire. Instead, she gave him away. That was due in part because she wanted to protect the silly Trickster who thought catching demons was all in good fun.

  If Thooranu knew who she was—or, rather, who she used to be—he might come seeking revenge, which was exactly what she didn’t need when she had so many other things to concern herself with.

  She cut into Thooranu’s arm, releasing the dark-colored blood. Freya held a jar under his arm where it dripped.

  “Slice him deeper if you wish, girl,” Clovis offered with a cruel grin. “He’s a slave, after all.”

  Freya bit the inside of her cheek.

  “This will do just fine,” she said from over her shoulder.

  She continued holding the demon’s arm, stroking her thumb over it, trying to offer what little compassion she could. When the jar was filled, she handed him her handkerchief.