CAST INTO SHADOW
THE CRUCIBLE SERIES BOOK 8
• • •
by
ANGELA COLSIN
• • •
Copyright © 2018 by Angela Colsin. All rights reserved by the author.
Published by Angela Colsin www.angelacolsin.com
Smashwords Edition
Cover image designed by Angela Colsin.
This story is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination, or merely used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locations, events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is not for reproduction by any party outside of the copyright holder. Transmission of this publication by any means other than the intended e-book distribution is prohibited without prior written permission from the author.
For any questions, concerns, and/or comments, please send an email to the author at [email protected] or visit www.angelacolsin.com/contact
• • •
ALSO BY ANGELA COLSIN
Blue Moon
Light of Dawn
Strange Brew
Fallen Hearts
The Final Calling
Hunter's Moon
Fated Fortunes
TO MY READERS
As I worked to publish this story, the support of my readers really kept me going. So though I may torture you from time to time with bad jokes or the occasional plot twist, you guys need to know how amazing you are!
This one's for you!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
♦
Preface
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
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Author's Note
PREFACE
♦
Dok'aal: More commonly known as Dark Elves, the Dok'aal are a race descending from unions between elves and Perosian demons. As such, the physical traits of Dok'aal vary from person to person. Some have pointed ears, others possess horns. But three attributes they all share are argent skin tones ranging from silver to pitch, glowing eyes in all shades, and snowy white hair.
Unlike elves and Perosians, the Dok'aal cannot detect honesty, fears, or desires in the eyes of mortals. Yet they do possess a unique, and natural ability to cloak their bodies from sight called darkwalking. This ability works best in dark places as brighter environments makes the light bending around their bodies easier to detect unless remaining motionless.
In times past, the Dok'aal made their home in the realm of darkness called Perosia. But today, they are scattered throughout worlds, most preferring to live in isolation underground due to their light sensitivity. Because of their night vision and unique appearance, they've avoided taking up residence in the mortal realm of Terra where the supernatural is regarded as being nothing more than myth.
As such, there is no Order established under The Crucible to govern their affairs.
Half Elves: Though any child of a union between an elf and another being could be referred to as a Half Elf, this term largely refers to elves who are part human, and the physical traits passed on from their parents vary. One might appear to have no human lineage whatsoever, while others look fully human.
The same can be said of their abilities. Some have a natural inclination towards magic, or retain an ability to eternally bond with a mate, making half elves extremely diverse. In the Kingdom of Onoria, elves possessing a human ancestry are regarded indifferently, which has been a cause of tension. Though half elves are allowed to prove their worth, many are too indignant to care, living life on their own terms outside of the kingdom.
In Terra, half elves are governed by the elven Order of Light's Grace.
PROLOGUE
♦
Subterranean City of Satorala, Vrella, Ithelyon
“Mikail … .”
The name was purred on a low, sultry tone, a sound meant to entice, breaking through his sleepy haze with a languid smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. When his name was punctuated by a hand slipping into the waistband of his pants, seeking his rapidly hardening cock, the other corner followed.
There was nothing better than being erotically woken by one's mate, her aroused scent filling the air to prove her need for what only he could provide.
And he certainly needed to provide it.
Growling at the thoughts, he reached up the moment she climbed over him and greedily tugged her down for a hard, possessive kiss. The movement must've surprised her because he'd muffled a gasp, which seemed like a strange reaction, but he didn't let it stop him, thrusting his tongue into her mouth the same way he intended to thrust his cock between her legs.
Or at least, that was the plan until the kiss broke and she remarked playfully, “Well, good evening to you, too.”
Every muscle in his body tensed. That voice wasn't his mate's—it was Nevan's, meaning he'd just had another prophetic dream.
With reality finally crashing down, Mikail looked up to see a familiar female hovering above him, her smile playfully pleased, even amused. Nevan was a long time friend who, in more recent years, had provided certain benefits. But despite her beauty, the sight of her only served as a painful reminder that he hadn't actually found his mate yet.
And the resulting disappointment made the way she rolled her hips over his lap extremely irritating.
Grumbling, he pushed the woman aside and muttered, “Not now, Nevan.” Or ever again. Apparently.
Landing next to him with a bounce against the soft furs covering his bed, she asked curiously, “What? You told me to come.”
He knew he had, muttering, “That was before I fell asleep waiting for you and had another dream.”
Glancing over, the expression he spied on her face proved she finally understood his reaction.
“So that's why you kissed me. You thought I was yours.”
With pursed lips, he nodded—Nevan knew he never kissed, feeling the gesture was too affectionate to share with anyone but his mate. He was also glad she wasn't upset at being turned down despite his promise to share his bed that evening before his impending hunt.
Yet it didn't lessen the disappointment so clearly visible in her lilac eyes, and she swept her white hair off her shoulders before concluding, “If your dreams are becoming this intrusive, I suppose that means you're off the market permanently. More's the pity. The women of Satorala will weep.”
Mikail rolled his eyes, but not out of irritation at her teasing tone. No, Nevan was completely right. Women tended to fawn over unmated Warlords such as himself—and he'd certainly capitalized on their attention in the past.
But male Dok'aal were subject to having prophetic dreams of their mates the closer they came to actually finding her, and once those dreams began, their interest in sex dwindle
d until they were essentially impotent.
Such was Mikails' plight. In recent months, Nevan was the only one he cared to share his bed with, but his interest had faded significantly. Even imagining the meaningless fun they could have while looking her over in that sheer top and the tiny thong hugging her perfect hips did nothing to change the story—or the direction his cock was pointing.
Usually, such teasing garb would've had him ready to go in mere seconds. He'd never been able to handle such a tease without giving a proper response.
But for as alluring as Nevan was, all he could wonder now was why she couldn't be the woman haunting his dreams instead of a mere friend with benefits.
And the most infuriating part of all was knowing he wouldn't even recognize his mate when they did meet.
His irritation must've shown because Nevan's playful smirk faded with a sigh. “I'm sorry. I know this bothers you, and I'm not trying to tease.”
Sitting up, Mikail pushed himself to the edge of the bed where he shrugged it off. “It doesn't matter, Nevan. We both knew this was coming.”
“True. But look on the bright side—you can start engaging in the monthly competitions now.”
She sounded salaciously interested in the prospect, and finally, Mikail grinned. The monthly wrestling competitions were designed solely for male Dok'aal having prophetic dreams of their mates as a way to impress and attract their female.
To push the point home, the men contended in nothing but a loincloth—after their bodies had been smeared with oil.
So the sport not only served as an entertaining distraction for the fighters, but the women certainly had no complaints watching their males show off—and Mikail would be happy to participate if only for the heightened chance of finding his mate and putting an end to the irritating dreams.
As he considered it, Nevan grabbed her discarded caftan from the floor, slipping her arms into the sleeves before tying the band around her waist while adding, “So, since you're not in the mood for anything dirty, I suppose I should take this opportunity to tell you there's some interesting talk coming from the Council Chamber.”
Reaching for his boots, Mikail asked, “What talk?”
Nevan turned to him with a look of skepticism on her face. “It's about the prophecy concerning the Steward of Perosia.”
At the mere mention of that tyrant, Mikail scowled. Perosia was the original home of the Dok'aal, a realm of darkness where they didn't need to dwell underground to feel more comfortable. But circumstances following the assassination of the Perosian Imperial Family one thousand years ago forced most of them out to find safety elsewhere.
Now, the Dok'aal were scattered throughout different worlds, and those who'd remained in Perosia were eventually enslaved by its current ruler, a tyrannical bastard named Rothario.
Many Satoralans had organized efforts to free their kind from his oppression, and most were successful. But sadly, some groups traveling to Perosia had been discovered and killed before returning home—a fate Mikail's parents suffered when he was a boy.
Ever since, he'd harbored almost as much contempt for Perosian demons as he did for elves, and there were only two reasons he gave their kind the benefit of a doubt.
The first was Lia, a seven-hundred-year-old demoness living in Satorala who'd proven time and again that she hated the current leadership of her home realm even more than his own people. Why, he wasn't certain, but she'd worked hard to keep Satorala safe, making her one of the few outsiders they treated like their own.
The second, and bigger reason, was an Ancient Perosian named Arias. A thousand years ago, he'd led several Dok'aal to the underground caverns of Vrella where they'd established Satorala, giving them the chance to live on their own terms and attempt saving those that hadn't been fortunate enough to escape Rothario's tyranny.
Arias had also passed on news of a prophecy concerning Rothario's demise, the same one Nevan was mentioning now. Five hundred years ago, an oracle predicted that the current leadership would come to an end at the hands of an enchantress his people typically referred to as the usurper.
But though most hoped the prophecy would come true, not everyone possessed enough faith to believe in it.
Still, if their leaders were talking about it now, something must've been going on, prompting Mikail to inquire while donning a boot, “What is it?”
For some reason, Nevan showed off her fangs in a grin when she answered, “Rumor has it the usurper is on her Calling now. My aunts are out looking for her to offer help.”
Mikail looked up in surprise. The Calling Nevan mentioned was a quest apprentice mages undertook to craft their magic staff, and if the mage foretold in the prophecy was currently on that quest, Rothario's end could be drawing near.
Still, he couldn't help a little skepticism, asking, “Do you know what race she hails from?”
“I've heard she's human.”
Mikail sighed. Human's weren't inherently strong or cunning—not that he'd known many—and the chances that one would overthrow the current Perosian leadership seemed slim. So he decided not to put too much faith in this news if only to keep himself from being disappointed when the prophecy wasn't fulfilled, and stood with the intentions of preparing for his impending hunt.
As he worked, Nevan walked over to his bar cabinet to pour herself a drink, inquiring, “Think she'll have any luck?”
“I have no idea,” he answered honestly. “But if she does, a human would have the throne of Perosia, and there's no way to know how that would bode for our people there.”
He glanced back to see Nevan sitting on the edge of his bed with a goblet of wine in hand and a blank expression upon her face. “True, but better a human take the throne than an elf.”
Mikail could certainly agree, and with any luck, Nevan's aunts, Asasha and Briye, would locate the mage quickly and help her find success in usurping Rothario.
If so, the people of Satorala would throw a celebration unlike any before.
But for now, he had other concerns to focus on, and was quick to fasten his leather jerkin before strapping two cuffs around his wrists.
When he next grabbed his sword belt, Nevan suggested, “So, I guess you'll be getting an early start after all.”
He nodded, considering the trip ahead. A few days ago, word arrived from the northern caves that hunting was going badly, and earlier that day, one of their hunters returned to inform everyone they'd spotted an ogre in the area, proving why.
Ogres were nomadic creatures that only stopped moving long enough to hunt until everything was wiped out—and they ate anything they could get their hands on. So if something wasn't done to stop them, Satorala could end up facing a famine.
To remedy the problem, the Council was sending a Warlord—a Dok'aal warrior specially trained to protect the caves surrounding Satorala and its outlying villages—to eliminate the ogres.
This time, Mikail was the one chosen for the task, and his only hope was that the hunt would provide a distraction from his frustrating dreams—though he doubted it would last long. Ogres were fearsome creatures, but they were also dense, so killing them would be easiest to accomplish using stealth.
But tracking them down was another story, and could take several days.
Because of this, he worried about returning too late to sign up for the competitions, a fact Nevan proved to be aware of by inquiring, “Would you like for me to try reserving a spot for you in the competition if you don't return in time?”
He didn't hesitate to nod, mentioning, “Hopefully, this hunt won't last that long.”
Finishing off her goblet, she stood and returned, “With the way you track, I doubt it. I also doubt it'll take long to find your mate once the competitions start. You'll probably have every unmated woman in Satorala cheering your name and fighting each other for a chance to meet you.”
An arrogant smirk lifted his lips, and Nevan shook her head, announcing, “So I'm leaving before your ego gets big enough to push me out of th
e house.”
Watching her walk to the stairs, he countered, “My ego's not as big as some parts of me.”
“Ah yes, and you're so modest about one of those parts in particular.”
“You never complained before,” he called as she descended the stairs, grinning over her laughter coming from the landing while latching his sword belt around his waist.
But despite their playful banter, Nevan was wrong about his desire to have women fawning over him. Perhaps that was the case in years past, but now, there was only one he cared to impress.
It was just a matter of finding her.
CHAPTER ONE
♦
Chesterfield, Appalachian Mountains, North Carolina
Three Days Later
“I hate conspiracy theorists.”
Jennifer Kivsey nodded in complete agreement with her partner's statement, his words punctuated by the incensed yells of a man several yards away demanding to know what the police officers arresting him were trying to cover up.
Not that he wasn't right to suspect—there was definitely a cover up taking place. But Kivsey worked for an organization called The Bastion established to keep humans from learning the truth of the supernatural—a difficult task when supernatural beings themselves had mishaps that exposed their existence.
Yet she and her current partner, Tyrone Chapman, knew from experience that dealing with human conspiracy theorists who thought they knew it all, but had no idea just how far the supernatural extended, was ten times worse.
And the small group being loaded into police vehicles across the way were a prime example.
Currently, they were arguing about their right to inspect the abandoned coal mine nearby. Why? Because the recent disappearance of a young reporter was obviously caused by The Hag.
Kivsey rolled her eyes at the thought. The Hag was an urban legend about an evil creature who possessed the head and upper body of an old woman and, possibly, the legs of a goat. She abducted people to steal their skin since hers was in a constant state of decay, and these conspiracy theorists were searching for evidence to support their theory.
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