Windstorm (Nightwraith Book 1)

by Gaja J. Kos

  When my gaze swept the kitchen and came to rest on Cian once more, there was nothing but cold fire of a dark violet shade staring back at me. The air was laced with barely leashed violence, threatening to consume all it would touch should the bond snap, yet his voice was perfectly dry as he said, “It was demons who murdered my parents.”

  The room around me stilled as his words hit me, my world narrowing down to the hard lines of his face and the severe pounding of my heart. Oh, fuck. That certainly wasn’t the answer I was expecting.

  “Gods, I’m sorry,” I managed to say after long seconds had passed.

  He let out a bitter laugh.

  “I mean it, Cian.”

  “You’re sorry for the deaths of the Fae?”

  I was. As much as it surprised me, I truly was. But the lethal glint in those purple pools told me nothing I said could convince him otherwise. I chewed on my lower lip, replaying his initial reaction in my mind. Shit, Cian had sauntered into my store, looking for the renowned material empath, and found a half demon instead. It was a miracle I was even still breathing.

  He pushed from the doorframe and crossed the distance between us in a blink of an eye, crowding me against the counter with his muscular body. His hot breath brushed over my lips, his chest so close I could hear his heartbeat, as out of control as was mine.

  “Do you think I didn’t feel your fear, your hatred when you realized I was Fae? That I didn’t sense your demonic power urging you to attack?”

  I shuddered with each word that spilled so venomously from his tongue, from the truth they carried. But he was wrong about something.

  “Your kind hunted us first,” I said softly, my eyes never moving off the gradually lightening purple of his.

  Because he knew it was true.

  I was born with awareness of who my supernatural predators were etched into my very bones. And the Fae ranked highly on that list. Extremely so.

  I licked my dry lips as Cian leaned even closer, towering over me completely. My breath caught in my throat as the heat rolling off his body sent a bead of sweat to travel between my breasts. But despite the threat he was broadcasting so clearly, there was an edge of conflict seeping through.

  “Not my court,” he whispered, then pushed away, goose bumps erecting all over my skin at the sudden brush of fresh air.

  I stood there for a moment longer, every muscle in my body perfectly still as I let his words sink in. “What do you mean not your court?”

  Cian reclaimed his position by the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest and blades glistening in the late morning light.

  “The Court of Earth has never hunted demons. We aren’t like our brethren, governed by some irrational hatred that has been passed down through generations. Nor do we get off on the idea of committing genocide. But maybe we should have. Maybe if we did, those bastards wouldn’t have gotten my parents, Riordan would still be alive, and I wouldn’t be left to deal with all this fucking shit.”

  He stormed out of the room then, leaving me alone and quite possibly more confused than I’d ever been in my measly twenty-six years of existence.

  Not wanting to agitate him any further with my presence, I pushed the thought of Cian from my mind and went to work on the problem at hand. I couldn’t bring his parents or Riordan back, but maybe, just maybe I’d be able to stop the world he knew from collapsing. If what he said were true, then the Court of Earth was the only thing keeping the Fae from becoming the nightmare every demon child was warned about. And if they had plans to eradicate our race, who knew just how many others they would add to their list?

  This wasn’t just the balance of the Fae realm we were talking about—it was the balance of the world as we knew it.

  To my disappointment, the kitchen was just another frustrating dead end, so I went into the final room I hadn’t yet searched. The one I was avoiding like a coward.

  Riordan’s bedroom.

  My stomach twisted at the sight of the small brown stain on the bed, the vision of the Fae’s heart swimming in front of my eyes.

  It was sick.

  It was sick what the Court of Fire had done.

  But instead of being paralyzed by anger, I allowed it to fuel me, to seep into my every cell and drive me forward. Cian had told me he could only guess which members of the enemy court might have had a hand in his brother’s murder, but I could give them their faces. I had to.

  The murmurs weren’t loud here—in truth, none of them were even originating from this particular space, which only emphasized my earlier assessment. Riordan had never intended to stay long. Yet the absence of personal items didn’t discourage me. Not where there was something else in here that caught my attention.

  Narrowing my eyes, I strode over to the single piece of furniture that wasn’t the typical sapling nightmare of rural rentals—a cherry wood dresser from the early 1900’s. I cased it from all angles, hoping to Chernobog that this one didn’t vary much from the one I’d helped appraise a couple of months ago.

  I pulled out the top drawer, placed it gently on the floor, then shoved my hand into the gaping darkness. There were no whispers coming from here either, but I wasn’t expecting them to. My fingers slid across the top pane, the rough wood there catching on my skin with its thousands of little pinpricks. I ground my teeth and kept on searching.

  A small bump broke the fair smoothness of my exploration. Well, well, well.

  Though my nails were a bit too long to give me a comfortable grasp, I somehow managed to wiggle the rectangular mass of wood until it detached from the surface. Once that was gone, it didn’t take me long to fish out the thick squares of paper from their hiding place in the hole. Curious, I peered at the hidden treasure.

  Polaroids.

  Four polaroids, all of the same male.

  “Cian!” I shouted, hoping my voice was loud enough to reach the Fae wherever it was that he had gone. “I think I’ve found the killer.”

  But not only him.

  The building behind the male, although dipped in shadows, was very familiar.

  I blew out a long breath.

  It appeared I wasn’t the only Nightwraith Cian would have to stomach.

  Chapter 12

  “Gearoid.” The name exploded from Cian’s lips as hard and as violent as the fist he had just smacked into the wall.

  I stood a short distance away, right on the edge of the waves of his pulsing power, and still clutching three of the four polaroids in my hand. My own magic rested beneath the surface of my skin in case his outburst grew in magnitude, but Cian merely slammed his fist into the wall again. Then again. And again, until his knuckles left a bloody signature on it. I winced at the sight and took a suicidal step closer, carefully placing my hand on his back.

  Cian tensed beneath my touch. His breaths were loud in my ears and a low growl reverberated through his body right up my arm. But at least the wall didn’t gain any new imprints.

  “Come on, talk to me,” I said gently, the palm of my hand drawing circles down the muscular column of his back. “Who’s Gearoid?”

  Murder swirled in his now dark eyes as he looked over his shoulder and spat, “The High fucking Lord of Fire.”

  “Shit,” I whispered emphatically.

  Though the man in the photo didn’t seem all that impressive in his black business suit and curly chestnut hair, especially when I knew that the image wasn’t of his glamor but his true Fae self, thanks to the pointed tips of his ears, there was power embedded in his thin, sharp features. Power that made you want to look the other way.

  Or run, if you valued your life.

  I should have guessed who he was the instant I laid eyes on the polaroids, but a part of me had simply refused to accept it until the damned confirmation had left Cian’s tongue. The stolen hallow and Riordan’s murder were bad enough. To think that the High Lord of Fire himself was behind it…

  Well, to say this was getting worse by the minute simply wouldn’t do the fuckload of shit just
ice.

  “Have you found anything else?” Cian asked as he shifted around to face me fully.

  I let my hand fall down to my side, the loss of his warmth almost staggering, and shook my head. “There isn’t much of Riordan’s here. But I know the owner of the bar where the polaroids were taken. We could go there now, see if she remembers anything.”

  Even before the last syllable left my lips, Cian started to march towards the door. I followed.

  And hoped to the gods that him meeting my sister wouldn’t go as badly as our first encounter in the shop.

  The highway to Maribor was pleasantly empty, and driving kept the worst of my headache at bay. Though there was little I could do to hush the buzz of thoughts raging in the back of my mind.

  I was an antique dealer, for Chernobog’s sake. Saving the world was about as far from my job description as things went—even with the material empath gig taken into account. And yet here I was, smack in the thick of it, and determined to fight something I was in no way equipped for. Although I had a suspicion the well-being of the world wasn’t the true reason behind this madness that was driving me forward.

  I glanced sideways at the solemn Fae Lord—correction, the High Lord of the Court of Earth, now that the mantel had passed from Riordan onto him. My gaze wandered over his dark purple hair that danced with the wind and reflected the midday rays of spring sun, the sharp structure of his jaw and those high, pronounced cheekbones that would make marble statues weep with jealousy. Cian was as strikingly handsome as he was lethal, and I couldn’t deny that I had never felt such an intense attraction to anyone before in my life.

  But despite his—though reluctant—willingness to work with me, I couldn’t change the fact that he had lost his parents to demons. Couldn’t change the fact that I was part of the race that had thrust all of this fucked-up shit upon him, either.

  I focused back on the road stretching out before me, and allowed the combined roar of the wind and the purr of the engine to wash away the thoughts of what could have been—if only the past had unraveled differently.

  Silence accompanied us until we reached the outskirts of Maribor, and I found myself on the verge of running out of time to mention the one thing that just might sour Cian’s mood further. I sucked in a breath, my gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead.

  “The owner of The Night Hag is my sister.”

  A hot wave of violence crashed against my skin, forcing me to grip the steering wheel just a little harder. I cut a sideways look at Cian, noting the particularly tight set of his jaw, as well as the displeasure tugging on his lips.

  An inaudible groan uncurled from my chest. This went about as well as I had expected.

  “Is talking to another Nightwraith going to be a problem?” I asked calmly, adamant not to let it show just how much his reaction bothered me.

  “She will give us answers?”

  “To the best of her abilities,” I gritted through clenched teeth.

  “Then it’s not a problem.”

  I shot him another look, half inclined to just shake the attitude out of him, but, honestly, who was I to talk when I’d spent years putting as much distance as I possibly could between myself and all things demonic? I kept only superficial contact with my sister, and I’d even cut off my own power—although it constantly, and I do mean constantly, reminded me that I treated it like some evil stepmother straight out of a fairy tale.

  And I had. Still did.

  I wanted to devote my life to beauty and light, and I couldn’t make that happen with the shadow of my family following me at every step. The majority of the people I worked with had no idea of my heritage, and it was that lack of knowledge that allowed them to approach me without fear.

  Besides, my number one goal was to not turn out like my mother, to bury that link until no one could resurrect it from the ashes—and yet here I was, getting all protective of demonkind simply because of a damned Fae and his dislike for me. For that part of me I would never be able to erase, at least not from someone who had the knowledge of the ages on his side.

  The gods truly were having a party on my account.

  I was still frowning at myself, at this twisted joke I’d become when I took the exit ramp and followed the familiar path to my sister’s bar. At least there, I wouldn’t be the only offending party.

  The Night Hag was one of those places that broke the supernatural must-be-hidden-at-all-costs pact. It wasn’t even warded from non-sensitives, but instead welcomed all sorts of passersby. The last I heard, business was thriving, but the couple of posters I saw on my way in, glued to the walls of the adjacent buildings, were a clear testimony as to why humans weren’t ready to face our existence.

  The vanilla part of the world’s population wasn’t all that thrilled about Lana’s necromancy. However, I was surprised that, though they called my sister’s skills evil, the humans didn’t seem to extend the same hatred to the zombies working at her bar.

  In fact, they were fighting for the zombies’ rights, not against their existence, if the demands on the posters were anything to go by.

  Honestly, at times like this, humankind appeared to be even more conflicted than I was lately.

  The bar was mostly empty this early in the day, especially with the lovely weather blooming outside, so it didn’t take me long to spot the familiar flash of electric blue hair behind the long, vintage counter that snaked down the entire length of the rectangular room. I shot Cian a look to make sure he would control his temper, then took a sharp right, and perched myself on one of the vinyl barstools that offered not only privacy, but a good view of the room. Although both Cian and I had our magic on alert in case the High Lord of Fire decided to show up, the additional security measure couldn’t hurt.

  “Well, well, well,” Lana purred in her seductive, husky voice as she saw me leaning on the counter. But her smile died down when Cian fell into her line of sight. Her gaze quickly flickered back to me, and she arched a dark eyebrow in silent question.

  “He’s a client,” I said matter-of-factly, doing my best to ignore just how the dryness of the statement rubbed me the wrong way.

  Still every bit as cautious, my sister approached us, her gray-black eyes locking onto mine. “A Fae client? Not exactly one of your regulars, eh?”

  I shrugged. “I try not to discriminate.”

  Cian snorted behind my back, the pulse of his power clear even through the thick layers of glamor he wore around himself like a coat, shrouding his true form from the outside world. But not us.

  Lana gave me a look that spoke plainly of just what she thought about my current entourage, then flicked her magic at one of her zombies, motioning what used to be a guy in his late twenties to come over. The dead’s motions were natural, fluid, like it wasn’t purely the strength of my sister’s power holding him upright and moving him about. I guess I could see why humans thought there was an actual being lurking in the shell of reanimated flesh.

  But they were wrong.

  Or lucky.

  Given the accusation they were throwing her way, she could have showed them exactly how soulless, how guidable the zombies could be. The only thing standing between them and getting their faces bit off were my sister’s—although slightly blurred—morals.

  Lana’s necromancy, like my empathy, was an off-shot of the Kolduny’s natural magic, transformed substantially by our demonic blood. But whereas I refused to use my power beyond the realm of light, Lana had no qualms tapping into her darker side. However, looking at the zombie, at his lifelike appearance, I had to admit I didn’t exactly have difficulties understanding why.

  In a way, what she did was art.

  True, it was the kind that went against nature. But it still thoroughly impressed me time and time again.

  Noticing the admiration that must have shown on my face, Lana grinned and gave me a wink.

  “I know this isn’t a social call,” she drawled, “but you’re not leaving my bar without a drink lil’ sis.”
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  I pursed my lips and glanced at Cian who, surprisingly, didn’t object. So I ordered two glasses of Teran, the zombie already gliding away to fetch us our drinks, and fished one of the polaroids out of my floral Kenzo purse.

  Lana tilted her head to the side in a fluid, feline gesture as she peered at the photo, then muttered, “I should have known.”

  Her gaze briefly grazed Cian’s silent presence behind my back before she turned her attention back to me. “My patronage is diverse, but I rarely have members of the Fae race in here. Should’ve known something was up.”

  “Members?” Cian’s low, velvet voice floated from behind, carrying interest and anticipation at the same time.

  Lana straightened up and nudged her chin towards the empty booth by the far wall, the only one that didn’t have a window seat. “Yeah. The male in the polaroid was here. But he had two Fae buddies keeping him company.”

  Chapter 13

  Cian slid into the space between me and the next barstool in line, his biceps brushing against my arm as his palms hit the counters. I peered up at him, taking in the heavy breaths, the strain I felt riddling his muscles as our skin touched. Heatedly.

  “The other two, what did they look like.”

  It wasn’t even a question. It was a demand. But despite the harsh attitude he was demonstrating, the fury wasn’t directed at my sister.

  Even if his entire attention was placed on her.

  I studied him for a moment longer, noting that there wasn’t that usual hint of disgust lurking in Cian’s hard stare. Although that could have been due to the new information, my gut was telling me that he simply didn’t have the same problem with Lana as he did with me. Slightly bitter, I turned my gaze on my sister.