THE RECKONERS
Doranna Durgin
Blue Hound Visions
Tijeras, NM
Book I of the Reckoners Trilogy
“Heart, adventure, and buckets of wonder.”
—Julie Czerneda, author of Rift in the Sky
“The Reckoners is certain to carry readers along at a break-neck pace...”
—Jennifer Roberson, author of the Karavans series.
“Ghosts, aliens, danger, romance, and a non-cat. As Lisa McGarrity might say, what’s not to like?”
—Anne Bishop, author of the Black Jewels series
“Durgin takes the reader on a wild ride...”
—SFRevu
Copyright & Dedication
Copyright © 2015 by Doranna Durgin
ISBN-10: 161138513X
ISBN-13: 978-1-61138-513-7
Published by Blue Hound Visions, Tijeras NM, an affiliate of Book View Café
October 2015: The Author’s Cut Edition
Cover: Doranna Durgin
Original Copyright © 2010: first published by Tor Paranormal
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously — and any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
License Notes:
Even with a professionally edited book such as this one, typos and other errors can make it through to the finished manuscript. If you notice such an error, kindly bring it to the author’s attention by emailing [email protected] so that it can be corrected. Thank you!
The author has provided this ebook to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. You may not print or post this ebook, or make it publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this ebook, other than to read it on one of your personal devices. If you would like to share, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this efiction and it was not purchased for your use, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for helping the ereading community to grow!
~~~~~
With thanks to:
My original editors Heather Osborn and Melissa Frain, agent Lucienne Diver, glossary assistant Adrianne Middleton, and early readers Julie Czerneda and Kristen Britain. Extra thanks for the Author Cut editing go to Judith Tarr & Pati Nagle, and to Jim Hetley & Becky Kyle for helping me clean up the, er, tyops. And then there was Jim Davidson & Natasha Leong, brave readers who tackled the ebook formatting glitches. If silly spots remain, it’s definitely not because those eagle eyes missed them! (Wait, that leaves ME as the culprit... )
Not to mention thanks to cats for being cats.
Author Note
This book is an Author’s Cut. It contains a significant amount of new material, and is completely rechaptered to accommodate that material.
The Winchester Mystery House is the most fascinating place ever — a unique chronicle of one woman’s struggle to come to terms with the events of her life. It is not, however, completely open to the public or even to curious authors who want to get things right. So while I looked into the house’s public areas with glee, you know what I did with the rest of it? No, seriously. I made it up. Also with glee. Just so you know!
The Reckoners Cast
Our Heroine: Lisa McGarrity; Garrie. A natural Reckoner, once mentored by a ghost named Rhonda Rose.
Our Hero (or is he?): Trevarr, half-human bounty hunter from another dimension
Our Hero’s bond partner: Sklayne, an energy-based creature of curiosity and appetite, often appearing as an Abyssinian cat.
The Bad Beings: The Krevata, a clan of semi-ethereal rogues dabbling in powers beyond their control. They have a big hate for Trevarr.
Reckoner Crew:
Lucia Reyes - spiritual empath
Drew Ely - ethereal historian
Quinn Rossiter - researcher & trivia master
Guest Location: The Winchester Mystery House
~~~~~~~~~~
Prologue
Kehar: Once a Very Long Time Ago...
“Nevahn! Nevahn!”
The cry came piping high and thin, breathless enough so Nevahn found it barely identifiable. But not quite alarmed, either, so Nevahn gave the new smokehouse hinge a swipe of oil and tucked the cloth into his tool kit.
“Nevahn! Come and see what we found!”
Nevahn patted the various pockets of the tunic over his ample torso, finding and retrieving his favorite glyph knife as young Ardac barreled around the corner of the smokehouse, bare feet pounding on packed soil. “No need to shout, child.”
“But Nevahn!” Selikha’s youngest came to an uncoordinated stop, one hand braced on rough wood siding. Dark hair tangled wild to his narrow shoulders, his scrawny upper half bare in the ever-present sultry heat and his hand-me-down trousers barely clinging to his hips. The boy’s deep complexion hid any flush of excitement, but Nevahn knew it was there — it showed in black eyes, full of sparkle and pride. He had, after all, snagged the honor of bringing this news to Nevahn.
Whatever it was.
Nevahn set his short, pointed blade to the door, refreshing the glyph just enough to reveal new wood and grunting faintly in satisfaction as a smooth shaving curled away. “What news, child?” He spared the boy a meaningful glance. “From one still village-bound at that.”
Too many dangers lurked in these thick fir woods for any youngster to wander unescorted. And there was nothing new in this tidy village of Solchran to be found.
Ardac had been beyond the boundaries. No doubt about that.
“But I’m fastest.” Ardac thrust his tubular chest out with all the pride a boy could muster. “And I’m going to be your ’pprentice! So come and see!”
“A moment, then.” No point in asking for details; Ardac clearly wanted to see the expression on Nevahn’s face at first sight of this exciting find. A deft twist of his wrist to renew a final glyph and Nevahn tucked his knife away, rubbing his thumb over the freshened carving.
Ardac stepped back as Nevahn gathered energy from the receding morning tides, a dark fog now barely visible around the base of the nearby firs. The fog was heavy and slow this morning, and Nevahn took no more than necessary, pushing it into the glyph with another little grunt.
The angular symbols flared to brightness and subsided to plain wood, protections renewed and reset. No being, physical or ephemeral, would raid this drying meat.
Nevahn hefted his tool kit. “Show me this thing, then.”
“We captured him!” Ardac burst out, unable to censor himself.
So. Something of import after all. But not so much of a threat that they’d hesitated to send a youngling for their head elder. Still, Nevahn’s tone went sharp. “Not Krevata?”
“Not!” Ardac skipped along at Nevahn’s side, happy with his secret and just old enough to stop his hand from creeping into Nevahn’s along the way. They passed from the outskirts to the crowded center of the mining community, moving between wide-spaced homesteads to the central gathering bell and prayer stone, and the village treasures hidden beneath.
Surrounded by towering firs, craggy peaks rising behind them and their alluvial deposit field spreading out to the east, Solchran had carved itself a secure place in this hostile world. The forests held food along with danger, their gardens made way for tough root vegetables and crawling vine fruits, and the fields held enough precious metal so they could afford to buy protections and comforts. If the Krevata blustered and threatened and made ugly noises...
Well, that was more about who the Krevata were than the chance they’d gain a
nything from it.
“There!” Ardac pointed most proudly to a cluster of villagers at the edge of their holdings, and Nevahn immediately understood what the child had not. Danger here. For the adults of Solchran were far less sanguine than Ardac about the nature of what they’d found. Their body language said it all — stiff shoulders, wary posture, the glimpse of a scowl.
Nevahn hurried his pace, a rolling and somewhat bowlegged walk that scattered the receding tide of black fog. When he reached the gathering, he knew something else that Ardac had failed to understand.
No one had caught this intruder. If anything else, the opposite. And in so many ways, his people were right to fear what had come to them.
Even if he was but a child.
Older than Ardac, perhaps by several years. Wilder than any child of Solchran would ever be, with nothing tame hidden in that perceptive pewter gaze and nothing weak in his stance — all defiance, black hair long and tangled... and the first of his k’thai braids already glimmering within, woven by skilled and careful fingers. His face was smeared with dirt, and his bare arms bore lingering scratches that looked like they’d once been much more. He carried a satchel far too large for his wiry frame and wore only rough-out leather trous and privacy flap.
And his features...
Nevahn made a puzzled noise in his throat.
Selikha turned to him, her hand at the knife on her sturdy hip. “You can see why we sent for you.”
For all reasons, obviously. But there was also something in the boy’s brow, something in the defined shape of his eye and nose...
Selikha responded to his hesitation, an uncharacteristic compassion in her voice. “Yes,” she said. “You see your long-mourned daughter in him, Nevahn. So do we all. Illekha.” And at Nevahn’s startled expression, added, “Go ahead. Ask him. Ask him why he’s here.”
The boy didn’t wait. “My mother sent me,” he said. “But I don’t need you. I came for her, and now I can leave.”
“Your mother,” Nevahn repeated.
“She’s dead.” The boy’s voice held firm, but something gave way at his sharp little chin — a bit of a wobble, quickly steadied.
Illekha. So long lost to them, and now lost again.
But she’d given him a grandson.
Nevahn made himself speak beyond the turmoil in his heart. “And your father?”
The lift of a bony shoulder. Not a boy inclined to words, were they not demanded of him.
“You already know who his father is,” Selikha said, the compassion vanished beneath determination. “What his father is. This boy is none of ours, Nevahn, no matter his features. He is nothing but trouble.”
Drekhar snarled the deep bass condemnation as if in accusation against deeds already done. “He’ll never be tamed. And you can bet that the tribunal wants him.”
Nevahn spat a response without thinking, his deep voice gone sharp. “I wouldn’t send my blood oath enemy to Ghehera!”
“Nevahn.” Kriskha spoke with understanding, and compassion — as well she might. She’d been cradle-friends with Illekha, and had mourned longer than anyone at her loss — at what the kyrokha had stolen from them, huge and powerful and unstoppable in the night, piercing Illekha’s heart and body and soul to withdraw and wait for her in its den. “Nevahn, this boy is more than just Illekha’s son. He’s half-breed, probably rekherra at that. He has power — unpredictable power. Even if we could handle him, Ghehera will never allow it.”
The boy looked back at Nevahn as if he already understood whose word held the most sway in Solchran. “I don’t need you.”
But his ribs were stark along his sides, as well they might be — a half-bred kyrokha would require food above and beyond any normal child. And the tangled forest at his back was filled with predators of every kind, a food chain of physical and ethereal beasts all far more effective at surviving than this small being. All just as hungry.
And his eyes, as wild as they shone — a clear hint of inner power reflected in their rising brightness — couldn’t hide a son’s grief at his mother’s passing.
“She lived all this time?” Nevahn asked him.
His chin came up, looking more stubborn than defiant. “She lived well.”
“And you with her,” muttered Drekhar. “The farking beast that sired you no doubt helped. Go to him, why don’t you?”
A small fist tightened around the satchel strap. The boy shot Drekhar a look that said this was only what he’d expected. He’d come here out of respect for his mother... and now he turned to go.
“No,” Nevahn said. “You might not need us —” He did. He very much did. Even a half-breed had to grow up. But the boy wouldn’t be able to hear that just now. Nevahn sought the right words. “We loved your mother, too. If she sent you here, it was a request to us. We need to honor it just as you honored her wish that you come to Solchran.”
Drekhar scowled. “But — Ghehera!” He didn’t need to say the rest of it aloud. What Ghehera would do to them if the council discovered they’d harbored a boy of such rare blood, of such potential power. What Ghehera could do to them from its hollowed-out mountain fortress, glyph-charged and unyielding. Uncaring, except that its edicts were obeyed and its rule respected.
Nevahn flattened his mouth on blunter words and said, “Ghehera will not know.”
At least, not for many years yet. After the boy was made a young man, and tamed as much as he might be. After he’d learned what love — beyond that of his mother — could mean.
Hopefully by then, he’d be able to protect them from Ghehera’s wrath. And to protect himself.
Nevahn gave his fellow villagers a quelling glance, making the only decision to be had. He held out his hand — not as one did to a child, but a beckoning gesture such as one might make to a friend. “Your name?”
That request earned him a wary look. “Trevarr.”
“Come with me, Trevarr. We have welcome for you here.”
The boy came.
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 1
Albuquerque Haunting
Underestimate an angry spirit only if you want to become one.
— Rhonda Rose
Here, little ghosties...
— Lisa McGarrity
Lisa McGarrity eased into the brand spankin’ new patio home in northern Albuquerque. The ultimate in desert chic, still unfurnished and unoccupied. Even her breath seemed to echo.
It also steamed. No matter the summer night’s heat in Albuquerque. Never a good sign. From within the house, something went plop. There was a gooey quality to the sound.
Not a sound the average person should be familiar with.
And since when have you been average?
Never. Not since Rhonda Rose had found her. Not since she’d realized she had an inside track on things dead and things dying and things that shouldn’t have been there at all. Or that she had the responsibility to protect not only the living, but much of the once-living and even the never-living. Once upon a time, Rhonda Rose had opened the door to her power... and taken away her innocence, all in one fell swoop.
Once upon a time.
And now..?
“I’m getting out,” she said over her shoulder, lingering inside the doorway of the distinctly haunted new house.
Lucia Reyes quite sensibly stood just at the threshold, her flashlight bouncing off the high ceiling. In this business, unexpected problems often came from above, and Lucia had been on Lisa McGarrity’s team long enough to know that lesson well.
Lucia was slender and leggy and gifted with exquisite angles beneath Hispanic features, a tidy J-Lo ass, and the generous budget to clothe, adorn, and otherwise showcase her attributes. She said, “If you’re getting out, you’re going in the wrong direction.” She tossed back her hair, a naturally haughty gesture, as she glanced meaningfully behind herself.
Lisa — Garrie to her Reckoner team — raised a self-conscious hand to her own hair — dark nut brown streaked with electric blue, short
and spiky. Not a bad look, actually, if only those spikes had come from styling instead of the lamentable habit of clutching her hair.
Inside the house, something else went plop. It sounded bigger than the first.
Lucia said, “Still going the wrong direction for getting out.”
“After this.” Garrie shot her a quick scowl, extending her awareness into the empty house along with her flashlight beam. “This is the most exciting gig we’ve had for weeks, and that’s just because we’ve got our spooky flashlights.”
“Well,” Lucia murmured, glancing around the spacious house, “it’s got the actual ghostie vibes going on. That’s a big step above knocking water pipes.”
“Exactly the point.” Never mind her twinge of guilt, or the familiar, starchy voice of Rhonda Rose reminding her this is what you were born to do.
But I’m not doing it, Rhonda Rose. I’m not doing it.
Not really.
Lucia was scary-good sometimes. Her tone dry with self-awareness, she asked, “And what are you going to do, walk away from yourself?”
Point to Lucia. None of them could exactly walk away from their unusual skills, Garrie least of all. As a reckoner, Garrie could absorb and manipulate the ethereal breezes of the spiritual world; she could see the entities who lingered to trespass on the living. She could help them find resolution, encourage them to move along... and enforce the matter if they wouldn’t.
Drew Ely shadowed the doorway just behind Lucia. “Hey, chicas, c’mon.” Lank hair of an indeterminate color fell over his forehead, shadowing eyes to match and a complexion just getting over the whole becoming a man thing. Of late he’d been experimenting with the one-day stubble look, and it really wasn’t working for him.
But he was a true wizard at reading environmental and architectural history. And he’d just saved Garrie from mustering a response to Lucia. Cautiously, Garrie moved into the house, making room for Drew to enter with Quinn Rossiter on his heels.
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