by Liv Brywood
Captive of the Vampires
Liv Brywood
Aria Hunt
Captive of the Vampires
Copyright© 2019 Liv Brywood
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Description
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
About the Author
Description
Love is the most powerful magic of all…
Azealia’s life of self-imposed exile comes to an end when a clan of powerful vampires sets out to destroy her. She can’t fight them alone, so she turns to three of her closest allies. A wolf shifter, a bear shifter, and a dragon shifter come to her aid, but it will take more than their combined strength to defeat their enemies. It will take the most powerful magic in Bonfire Falls—Love magic.
Captive of the Vampires is a complete book with a HEA, no cliffhangers, and no cheating. It’s the fourth book in the Bonfire Falls Paranormal Romance series.
Chapter 1
Azealia
Dawn. When life rests in balance, light and dark both hold sway over the world. Stars rest on the gentle curve of one horizon while the first delicate pastel hues of morning make themselves known above the tree line. Cold and warmth reconcile. Birdsong weaves with silence. Within these few small hours, everything knows peace. At this time, magic is at its strongest.
I step through the ankle-high blades of grass and let a shiver pass through my body as dew clings to my bare legs and feet. I should be used to the chill. My skin has touched the bare earth countless times yet, with each new moon, the brisk sensation takes my breath away.
To the east, the sky sleeps in deep blues. The most pristine diamond stars lay in a scattered blanket, but their weave across the morning sky fades with the change from midnight blue to soft yellows and pinks. The air is still, no breeze stirs my hair.
It’s beautiful. A perfect morning.
I turn my face to the sky and smile as I wander to the back of my garden. The path winds among rows of flowerbeds, past the smooth glass walls of my herb garden, past my sunflowers, and past my apple tree. They all brim with energy and they seem to reach towards the blanket of sky above them.
Rosemary for healing.
Lemon balm and chamomile for sleep.
Mint and sage for protection.
I know them all by name and purpose. Dozens of plants with dozens of uses, but there is only one reason I’m out on this particular moonless night.
The bush waits for me, beautiful and strong at the back of my garden. Its tallest branches stretch over my head as I admire it. Slender, bell-like flowers hang from its limbs, each delicate bloom open to the magic beneath them, deep in the earth. Datura. A cousin to Belladonna, nightshade. It’s a potent hallucinogen I use in some of my strongest spells and potions, easily one of the more powerful plants in my garden. Some witches call it Devil’s Trumpet for the way its flowers lean away from the sky. Others call it Thorn-apple, to describe its spiky, unfriendly fruit. Still others call it Moonflower, for on moonless nights it blooms brightest and its petals swell with magic. It’s highly toxic if not prepared by a witch. Fortunately, I know exactly how much to use for various purposes.
Magic is simple, in theory: It’s comprised of two halves, Light and Dark. Light magic is the power of positive energy and intent, willpower and desire that never comes from a place of hatred or willingness to harm. A spark that breathes life back into a wilted plant, the gentle flicker of energy that brushes shut a wound or softens a bruise. Words of support and kindness spoken at a memorial. Bright, joyous laughter.
Dark magic is precisely the opposite of Light. The power of negative energy and intent, emotions that stem from places of anger, hate, fear. It is energy used to harm other things, to dominate and control. It lashes out with fury, shapes a strong will and bladed words into a spell that cuts cleaner than the keenest of razors. Where the Light mends, Dark maims. It is violence in its purest form.
In my years, I have encountered magic used in countless different ways. During holidays, to celebrate life with bright, spiraling colors. During funerals, to protect and bless the remains of a lost loved one. I’ve seen it in conflict, though the use of magic to harm others is discouraged.
I’ve seen magic used in life. And in death. I’ve learned to balance these forces, to truly understand that both magics complement each other. Negative and positive, neither could exist alone. Both are strong individually but when used together, in balance, they are a force that is nearly unstoppable.
I am a witch, and I am unstoppable.
I stand in front of the datura bush and reach for a flower. My fingers brush the plant. Its energies dig deep into the earth, into the stone and soil. After a moment, those waves of energy seem to reach back into me. The tiniest bits of its magic intertwine with mine in a sort of greeting. Sensations of bright summer mornings pass through my mind in the span of a heartbeat. I feel the primal comfort of warm sun after a chilly night; the familiarity of an old friend’s embrace.
Hello again, it seems to say.
I respond with a greeting of my own, a subtle pulse of my magic as I touch a different leaf. An image of the gentle fog that clings to leaves on early spring mornings pops into my mind. The featherlight caress of a warm autumn breeze wraps around my body.
“I come on a night with no moon,” I breathe into the darkness. “Asking for a gift, freely given.” The plant’s energies curl around its leaves. It wraps barely visible tendrils around my fingers as it absorbs my intent. “For protection,” I continue. “For clarity.”
The air around it ripples. The bush reaches into itself, into its deepest roots and tallest branches. It searches and curls. My attention is drawn to a cluster of three flowers. Yes, these are the ones I’m meant to take tonight. I’m full of gratitude, and I let the sensation wash over me as I move to pluck the plant’s gift.
A rustle pulls my attention skyward. A section of stars blinks off and on again. I frown as my eyesight adjusts to the darkness. A black shape passes in front of the stars, blocking them from sight. It’s some sort of bird.
Now that I’ve noticed one, others appear. Two, then three. Four, five, six? Nine, ten. I lose count as they settle on the fence and my fruit trees. There must be a hundred birds or more.
I turn in a careful circle. Cold realization freezes me in place.
Crows.
Icy fingernails of dread dig into my scalp. They scrape across skin and down my spine. Time seems to slow before everything leaps into perfect clarity. My heart
beats against my ribs.
Turn around, my mind screams. Run. Find the safety of walls, of a roof, anything!
My limbs refuse to listen.
Without thinking, I clench my right hand into a fist. The tips of my fingers tingle. I latch onto that energy, that magic, and pull it deep from within me.
Another wave of unease washes over me. I push it away and focus on calming myself. The sense of calm radiates out, and with a flick of my wrist, I cast a spell that spins discs of light into the air above my head.
A bird caws behind me—a wholly unearthly sound. The anxious shiver that passes through me is reflected in the spell, spawning large circular eyespots on each swirl of magic.
Crows are cowardly, nothing to be afraid of.
They travel in numbers, but they’re skittish and easily spooked. If the light doesn’t scare them away, I hope the eyespots will. A bird would never ignore the bright-eyed predators swirling above them.
Around me, there is nothing but silence. No shuffle of wings, no rattle of crows calling. The spell frays at the edges, then spins into nonexistence.
I release the magic and stare into the sky. I focus on one bright star, then another, then another, encouraged by the lack of anything crow-related, until a dark wing passes in front of my face.
The birds are still here.
There is no hesitation this time. My flight response takes over. As I stumble backwards, my feet tangle in the dew-damp hem of my skirt.
“No!”
I fall backwards and hit the ground hard. The rustle of coarse black feathers passes over my head. Before I can scramble to my feet, a crow lands heavily on the grass in front of me. It caws loudly, tilts its head to one side and then the other. The wicked curve of its beak, and the bright silver shine of its eyes entrance me.
Wait…
Curiosity shatters the veil of fear that shrouds my mind. Morbid curiosity gets the better of me. I lean forward a hairsbreadth and direct my magic to illuminate the area. I’m enveloped in pale, warm light when a horrid realization washes over me.
Every bird turns to look at me with swirls of silver in their eyes. It’s a side effect of possession caused by strong, dark magic. But I’m the only witch in Bonfire Falls with the ability to cast such powerful magic. The magnitude of ability needed to sustain a spell like this—not to mention over the sheer number of crows—is something very few witches are capable of.
So, who watches me from behind this myriad of eyes?
A sharp pinch at my ankle snaps me back to reality. I flinch from a bold crow who pecks at my bare legs.
“Shoo. Get away.”
As dozens of birds break the quiet sanctity of my garden, I push to my feet. I leave the datura behind since there isn’t time to retrieve it.
The dusty rustle of their wings and the click-snap of sharp beaks and claws serrates the air. They swoop down to pull at my hair and flap their wings in my face. As I duck, shield myself, they peck at my arms.
I stumble up the porch steps. I can’t find the doorknob. Where is it?
When my fingers finally find cool metal, I twist the knob roughly.
I dash inside. The door slams behind me, and the deadbolt as it slides into place. Beaks and claws scratch at the window near the top of the door. I take a few steps back to distance myself from it.
The glass will hold. It will. It’s survived thunder and rain, and hailstones heavier than these birds. The glass will hold.
But after a full minute of flailing birds, I’m not so sure.
Suddenly, the commotion subsides. My gaze is drawn to the motionless body of a crow which is laying on the ground outside. Its neck is bent at an angle that no living thing can hope to maintain. One wing is dislocated and ugly. It must’ve hit the door when I shut it, unable to reverse its inertia in time.
Poor thing, part of me thinks, the part of me that hates to take life in any form. But as I stare, bile rises in my throat and my gaze hardens. It deserved that. Filthy, disgusting, treacherous—
From the corner of my vision, it twitches. Did I imagine that? No, it wasn’t a trick of the light. It moved. But how? It’s clearly dead.
As I struggle to comprehend its sudden movement, the crow’s body warps in terrible ways. It attempts to get back onto its feet, but it overbalances and crumples onto its shattered wing. Its head swings on the end of its limp neck, like a morbid pendulum come to haunt me. Ripple after ripple passes through its feathers as if worms crawl incessantly beneath its skin. It finally gets one foot under itself, then the other. Each joint and tendon cracks and pops into place as it reassembles its body. Until very recently, I’d assumed it was very, very dead.
"I was right, it is dead. But that isn't stopping it."
Like a puppet dangling on invisible strings, it continues to twitch and snap and jerk in awkward, clockwork-like movements until finally it stands. Its head snaps back into its correct position. The bird looks around, sizes up the glass door, then stares directly at me with those blank silver eyes.
I slide away from the door. I push myself back out of sight and hide behind the sofa. I cradle my head in my hands, wondering what will rid the crows from my house. I can’t focus. Every few seconds, the thought of that crow pops back into my head. It haunts me. It might be stuck in my mind forever.
Three loud knocks on the glass snap me out of my trance. I startle. Crows can’t knock. At least I don’t think they can.
I hesitate before risking a quick glance around the corner of the sofa. The glass door frames a bulky silhouette. The man’s face is unrecognizable in the dim morning light, but I know who he is. Only one person visits this early. Bastian.
“Why are there so many birds outside? There must be one hundred crows in your garden. What in the world’s goin’ on?” he yells through the glass.
I swallow the fear that bubbles as I unlock the door, but the crow on the porch is gone. Bastian enters. When I slam the door shut behind him, he fixes me with a sideways glance, one eyebrow raised in question.
“Is this one of your spells?” His voice rumbles low in his chest. If a mountain had a voice, this is what it would sound like—deep and gravelly. Every other sentence ends in a near-growl.
The deadbolt slides home. I’m safe. Safe from the flock of silver-eyed crows—at least for now.
The bulk of Bastian's body blocks most of the view of the outside. I immediately feel a bit better with him here.
I shake my head and wet my dry lips with the tip of my tongue. “I don’t know,” I admit with a shrug. “They showed up when I went outside.”
Liar.
All at once, the crows burst into flight. The air fills with raucous calls and I swear I can understand them.
Liar. Liar.
Dozens of them lift from their perches around my garden, scattering leaves and feathers in their wake. I turn to watch them fly past the windows, silhouetted against the rosy morning sky. One hops onto the windowsill, taps tentatively at the glass, and watches me. It glares at me. A chill runs down my spine and I whisper one word into existence, a name.
“Adrian?”
The bird fixes me with its unblinking silver stare, then hop skips into flight after its brethren with a gravelly croak. I realize it’s also possessed, so it couldn’t be Adrian.
Not Adrian. Breathe.
“Hey, there. Easy. It’s okay,” Bastian says. The warm rumble of his voice subdues my panic and dampens my fear. I pull a blanket over my shoulders and walk over to the kitchen table. Bastian stands behind me. He’s facing the window, as if on guard.
As I pull the blanket tight, his arms encircle me. They’re strong, warm and protective. I focus on his strength and rest against his chest. His presence calms me. It’s been ages since anyone has held me like this, ages since Adrian.
“Who’s Adrian?” Bastian asks.
I glance at him.
You can read minds? Since when can you read minds?
He gives my shoulders a little squeeze and gestures a
t the window where that crow had been. “You were lookin’ at that bird like you’d seen a ghost. You said ‘Adrian’ like the thing could understand you.”
Ah. He can’t read minds. Good.
“Adrian is… someone I knew a long time ago.”
Bastian doesn’t reply. He merely squeezes me into a gentle hug, which is exactly what I need right now.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks.
I hesitate for a moment, then decide to tell him the truth. “I’ve been having dreams. Bad dreams. Nightmares of things to come.” I pause to gather my thoughts. Bastian gives me another encouraging little hug, the barest squeeze of his arms. Words come easier because I know I can trust him. “In my dreams, I see a storm cloud, rich with magic and darkness. It looms over everyone. Over the whole mountain. It starts small, but it grows bigger by the day. It gets closer, and closer. I don’t know what it means, or what it could be warning me about, but…” I glance towards the horizon, hoping to find comfort in the newborn pink light, but dread is my companion.
Bastian murmurs quiet, reassuring words.
“Something is coming,” I whisper. My body yearns for the comfort of Bastian’s arms. I sink into his embrace and nestle against his broad chest. “Something is coming for me…”
Chapter 2
Bastian
I’d heard rumors about Azealia for years, both before and after she’d ended her self-imposed exile. According to the people of Bonfire Falls, she was a cursed witch hiding in a cursed forest. A legendary woman filled with unspeakable power. But once I’d met her, I stopped believing the stories. Azealia is kind and gentle. A woman who eats toast for breakfast while sitting in her garden. A woman who takes in fallen birds and nurses them back to health. She listens to what people say about her but carries on anyway. She’s a woman who’s been alone for years. I don’t understand why she’s so intent on living a solitary life. She’s fierce, powerful, and beautiful—the woman I want standing beside me.
