by A. Vers
Shadowed
Fire
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
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
ALSO BY A. VERS
New Adult Urban Fantasy
Lost Nights Series
Blood is Forever
Bloody Thanks
Fire & Blood
Hunt for Blood
Blood Lines
Requiem Codices
Grave Night
Young Adult Paranormal
The Covenant Trilogy
Witch’s Hammer
Veil of Midnight
Shadowed Fire
Fire Weaver
Adult Paranormal Romance
Dark Ties
Marked
Mated
Seven Hells
Circle of Fire
Cover Art & Design: Dark Wolf Graphix
Shadowed Fire
Book 1
Veil of Midnight
www.authoravers.com
Copyright© A. Vers, 2019
Full Moon Publishing
All Rights Reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the permission of the copyright owner.
Dedication
For J and K.
Shadowed Fire
Veil of Midnight
Book 1
A. Vers
Chapter 1
The sign above the door glares down at me as I crest the last step into the foyer. In garish black paint, the words Welcome to Midnight blaze in neat lines on the old canvas. I fight off the urge to rip it from the columns as the last supernatural being disappears deeper into the large house.
Far from the foyer. And far from me.
Leaning against the front counter, I rock a bit in my old boots and scan the shadows outside.
Greeting.
It’s the job I’m supposed to be doing—not counseling a vampiress and her demon boyfriend. Even if said boyfriend is a two-timing Asmodean who was trying to lure me into a one-nighter behind her back.
I fold my arms over my chest with a huff. Not happening. Ever.
Consorting with our guests is forbidden. No matter who or what comes through those doors, they are off limits in every sense of the word.
A dark, horseless coach pulls up outside—as though on cue—and the gleaming exterior is framed in sigils and magickal casts to my sensitive sight. My parents rush down the steps to greet our esteemed guests.
My teeth grit at the notion. Esteemed.
Sure.
More like another wave of criminals seeking asylum at Midnight.
Every being to cross our threshold is either a demon or an arcane: witches, casters, necros, and magick addicts. And we pander to them like they’re visiting royalty. Like kings and queens on a damned holiday.
But most of them are really outlaws. Rogues and outcasts. Beings without clans, packs, covens or groups.
I brush the edge of my silver dagger under my arm; the stone pommel is warm from my body heat. It’s the only weapon I own that doesn’t clash horribly with the pencil skirt and short blazer of Midnight’s daytime uniform. But the boots…well, those I’m not compromising on.
Until this new group knows the rules, I need to be prepared to squash any trouble. Efficiently and quickly.
My eyes narrow as four figures climb from the coach wrapped head to toe in dark cloaks. Mother catches my eye through the glass, her pretty expression pleading. Pleading for me to let it go, to do my job. To be a good girl and welcome the newest guests to our humble manor.
Midnight Embassy. Home to all wayward souls, we are the forbearers of refuge, protection, and peace. Right now, the mantra is like a pick in my skull.
My exhale comes out with force, but I straighten my jacket and plaster frozen-wasteland on my face instead of arrogant-discontent.
It’s the best they’re getting.
The doors swing outward and the guards—barely visible through the glass—bow as the group parades in past them. But I don’t miss their greetings; the tone they use is equal parts eagerness and disgruntlement.
I’m not the only one unhappy with the situation.
I stifle the tremor of my lips behind my hand.
Slipping around the desk, I pull out the heavy guest ledger and hide my secondary knife out of sight under the narrow overhang. Just in case.
“Welcome to Midnight,” I say, careful to keep my voice to a polite lilt. The group turns toward me, fanning out in a vague half line as their hoods lower at last. Three males and one woman. Two are nearer to my parents’ age, judging by the woman’s pale blonde hair, but the two males closest are only a handful of years older than I am.
And all of them are unearthly in their appearance. Beautiful but arcane.
They all sport dark, nondescript clothing under their cloaks. All the better to blend into the constant dark of the Void. My eyes flow over the two younger males, but their clothes are where the similarities stop.
The tall, lean blond male winks at me, his eyes a smoky and vibrant ice-gray. Though blond may be stretching his hair color, the tendrils are thick and spiked high in platinum and gold swirls. His body is wrapped in an onyx T-shirt and ultra-tight jeans. Even with the darker colors, his tan is deep and smooth. It brings to mind sunshine, beaches, and refreshing drinks in the human summer.
The thought process is so far from normal for me, I gape at myself.
God. What is wrong with me?
My face heats against my will, and I glance away, my gaze halting on a pair of vibrant carnelian irises.
The guy is older than myself and the blonde, maybe mid-twenties, as he pulls a thick piece of fabric from the lower half of his face. It bunches around his neck in a thick cowl. He stares at me, expression blank and almost frigidly devoid of life. Menacing. Cruel. I shiver, and he looks away first.
He peers around the vast room, boredom on his unfairly chiseled features. Where the blond seems sculpted like a human model, this one seems made to destroy hearts or lives, depending on his mood. And his mood seems to lean more toward destroy.
Period.
His shoulder length red hair glistens with hints of wine-red, ruby, and garnet in the light from the chandelier. Every highlight is like blood in sunlight, and it’s a startling contrast to his rich russet skin. Especially where the tendrils hang past his eyes. A single braid is woven along one side of his head, the end tipped in odd black beads that make no sound when he moves.
He takes a step forward, and the cloak around him billows open. Thick boots and fatigues—strapped with daggers, thigh holsters, and tactical weaponry�
�climb his legs. Obsidian bracers gleam mildly over muscular forearms in a tight black shirt, and the harness across his chest is laden with even more blades.
My dagger and backup seem paltry in comparison.
The blond steps closer to his spine before speaking to him in a low murmur. The warrior nods mildly, gaze fixed inward as he falls into a simple position of attention before his friend. No. Not friend. He is the blond’s bodyguard.
I blink and look between them.
Then who exactly is the blond?
I glance at Mother, but she is embroiled in conversation with the two older guests.
Her dark hair hides most of her expression, but Father’s face is tight and lined in worry.
Whoever these beings are, they are trouble to more than my hormones.
Turning back to the two younger males, I try not to stare as they appraise the columns, dark-walnut wood walls, and the second floor balcony. The massive staircase is worth a look or two as well. Hells, it still draws my focus, and I’ve lived here my entire life. With thick rails and ornate metal trellises of roses and vines, it was hand carved and blessed by the original witch who built it.
But instead of marveling once more over the architecture, my eyes remain fixed on the guys, all the air frozen in my lungs.
There is something deadly and strange about them, but more so around the older of the two. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
I close my eyes and pull on the magick that lives deep inside me. My amhara rolls through my body like a wave, suffusing my limbs with energy. Vitality. When I open my eyes, the blond’s silvery aura is calm, languid even. But there is no trace of magick.
Straining my other sight harder, I sweep his frame again, adding a touch of extra power for oomph.
A small beacon around his neck pulses. It brightens sluggishly as I watch, almost battling to be set free. Very little magick resides in the blond save for that telltale glow. But his companion is riddled in midnight shadows; shadows that seem to breathe and undulate outward from his form and over the blond with soundless whispers of malice.
For a beat of time, I want to scream siphon. To call attention to the way those shadows seem to eat at the blond’s natural energy. But the longer I stare, the more my head tilts in confusion.
Their gold and black energy merges between them, weaving like sunlight straining to push back the devouring dark. But there is no further exchange of power. The blond’s energy is muted under the darkness only. Dampened. Like shadows hiding the sun, or blocking it. A shadow cast, maybe?
But what the hell are they that they need a shadow cast? Or better yet, who the hell are they?
I shudder. Regardless, it’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.
My magick retreats with another small push, and a slim chain grows visible around the blond’s neck. One I didn’t notice until my amhara cut through his glamour. Most likely it’s the source of the cast on him. Unfortunately, he is still as flawlessly beautiful as before, maybe more so. Not that that should be possible.
He catches my eye and takes a step closer to the desk, his strange irises warm and engaging. They rake over the top half of my body like a lover’s hand in the dark. I gulp.
“Welcome to Midnight,” I breathe out, hating the girly tone and my reaction to him even more.
He smiles, flashing perfect, straight teeth. “Thank you,” he peers at the slim tag on my blazer, “Sayah.” His words are like a teasing symphony in my skull. Melodious and husky. Designed to be whispered by candlelight.
I stand there, fingers gripping the edge of the desk but unable to do more than gawk at him. One of his eyebrows raises as I continue to stare. My stomach flips with nerves and I shake off the strange allure enough to function.
Gods above, what is he?
Picking up the ledger, I lay it gently before him. “Please fill out all the information needed.” There. That was professional, but polite.
Brow still arched and a small frown tugging at his full lips, he takes a quill from the ink pot and scrolls it across the aged paper. “Most establishments this close to the line use computers, you know?” he says, voice amused.
My head whips up, really looking at him and the contemporary–almost-human–quality of his attire. The heat that was leaving my skin flows back with a vengeance. We are off the grid indeed compared to most of the embassies in the Void. Which is something as an eighteen year old I don’t need to be reminded of.
“Our wards and human technology don’t really mix. In order to keep Midnight as neutral ground, we need the wards more than we need a computer,” I grumble, ears burning.
He sets the quill back in the ink pot and leans over the counter ledge. Something like fresh baked cookies and cinnamon flows to my nose, making my mouth water. I lick my lips. A sheen of icy gold light rolls through his eyes in bursts of sunlight or stars.
“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he murmurs.
My lips part. Adorable? Me?
“Chol.” The voice is commanding and like a whip.
It cuts through my odd fixation with him, and I jerk back from his closeness, belatedly realizing I was leaning into him too.
He looks over his shoulder, and the blonde woman shakes her head minutely. Chol sighs, but the sound is only mildly aggrieved. He turns back to me with a coy wink and slips away. His guard trails after him, cloak swishing and carnelian eyes searching every corner and potential hiding place.
As he nears, a tendril of fear cuts through the heat in my stomach. I watch him go, unable to look away as his deadly presence rolls through the room like thunder. Or maybe ice. I shudder. He keeps going, oblivious to me or my reaction, and fades into the shadows near the staircase.
My heart finally resumes beating. I sag against the narrow counter in relief.
“I must apologize.” The voice snaps me back forward. The blonde woman’s stiletto heels click against the marble floor as she walks up to the desk, Mother in tow. She peers at me from her taller, willowy height, eyes a shade of true violet beneath her golden locks.
“My son is renowned for his love of beauty, and you are that.” Something about the way she says it lets me know it’s not a compliment. But I can only nod, starstruck all over again as her musical voice flows to my ears. She smirks. “He is a rather mischievous boy, but he means…well.”
“Of course.” My voice comes out in a croak.
Mother coughs, and I drop my eyes to the ledger. Damn. What is wrong with me today?
I rifle through the room keys in an attempt to ground myself. “How many rooms will you need, Mrs…”
“Ms. Delancre.”
The name slams into me like a ton of bricks and I stare. “Delancre?”
As in the reigning High Lady of the Succubi sect? My head whips over to Chol where he stands half in shadow with his guard.
Son of a succubus—
Literally.
Chol’s allure now makes more sense, and I chastise myself for not realizing what he is sooner. A damn Cambion. The bastard offspring of a succubus and a human.
Mother glares at me a bit behind Lady Delancre, reminding me to remain professional. “Ms. Delancre, we have suites available for Chol and yourself,” she says jovially when I stay silent. “Will your men require a spare room or…”
Ms. Delancre glances back at me as my heart hammers. Can she hear it? Do succubi have advanced hearing?
In the lore, they are silken, sensual demons from the Asmodean class, capable of seducing anyone from any race. But there is little else about their abilities.
“Erem will stay with me, but his prodigy…” Ms. Delancre trails off, gesturing to the older male next to Father before sweeping her gaze over the mostly empty foyer. “Nix?” she calls.
I startle as the red-haired male, Nix, steps out of the shadows, like he materialized from thin air; his body at loose attention. Compared to the reigning family, Nix is thick and well-built. But the way he moves is all refined grace; a predator st
alking after his prey.
“My Lady?” His voice is a dulcet rumble that reverberates into my bones, deep, powerful, and like velvet across my insides.
She peers at him. “Would you prefer to stay with Chol in his suite?”
He dips his head, slim braid sliding over his cloak. Oddly the little beads on the end still make no sound. “Until I can form a perimeter and validate the wards, yes.” He glances from Mother to myself, gaze piercing. “If you have a spare bed…”
“I can bring one up,” I say, quickly, and then immediately don’t know why I do. Mother’s eyes widen out of my peripheral. I cough, knowing how eager that came out. “Or I can have Aith do it…” I amend, trying to cover my slip.
Nix watches me, irises almost glowing with soft flames. I meet his gaze without flinching, though it’s hard. “Whatever you have will suffice,” he says. “I don’t sleep much.”
Gooseflesh rolls over me the longer he speaks. The man may not be as polished as his charge, but his aura of masculinity and ferocity is a heady mix.
“Of course, Nix,” Mother interjects, still eyeing me. “We will have one brought up immediately. Sayah…Make a note.”
I bow my head, skin flaming from embarrassment as they all watch me like I’ve sprouted a warvil growth out of my head. My fingers curve around the quill and I scratch out the request.
When I glance back up under my lashes, Ms. Delancre’s expression is one of polite contempt as she moves off back to where Father and the other guard, Erem, wait. Mother gives me a cutting look as soon as we are alone.
“What is wrong with you?” she mutters softly. “Are you sick?”
I stand at the counter, trying to stomp my erratic hormones into submission. “Maybe…”
She exhales. “Take the boys to their room and then see to the spare bed while we get Ms. Delancre settled.” I nod as she turns to go. Her eyes lock on me over one slim shoulder. “And, Sayah?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
