The Warlock King (The Kings)

by Heather Killough-Walden

  It was beyond unfortunate. It was also something Jason needed to rectify immediately.

  Suddenly, one of the men raised his right hand, and Jason saw the flash of a gun barrel reflected in the firelight. “We’re fuckin’ done here, you godless bastard.”

  Jason wasn’t a fan of guns. This was the case for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that guns were the projectile weapons capable of firing the one thing that could kill a warlock unfailingly: silver bullets.

  Humans were not only potentially vile creatures; they were confused as well. They didn’t believe in vampires or werewolves or warlocks, but they passed around rumors of how these nonexistent creatures could be killed nonetheless – and they got them all wrong.

  Jason knew this from experience. A silver bullet had once taken his own life.

  Donovan turned away from Jason to face the man aiming the gun at him now. His expression went stone cold. If you don’t stop me Alberich, I swear I’m going to kill every last useless, undereducated, intolerant one of them.

  There was a note of calm resolution in his mental message now.

  The fire that had by now eaten every dry leaf on the bushes in front of the house suddenly went out in a cold, dark breeze. Wind chimes hanging from neighboring porches began to chink and clatter. A second light further down the street flashed bright, popped, and went out.

  The sound of a bullet firing split the night.

  But Jason’s magic had already been released, whipping out into the yard like a Cthulhuan monster made of midnight substance. Tentacles of his power wrapped and grasped and choked and writhed, speeding in an unseen frenzy through the mass of murderous mortals.

  A now-frozen bullet, freshly discharged from its weapon, was snatched from the still air around it and crushed to dust. The gun itself came next.

  With ability other warlocks did not possess, the Warlock King moved through time and space with such speed, all else seemed to have slowed or stopped. The scene appeared frozen to Jason and his power.

  He focused on the important things first, searching the clothing and bodies of the frozen men for more weapons and destroying them with a simple thought. Swiss Army knives disappeared from back pockets, a second handgun vanished from its place in a shoulder holster, and second cartridge for a Colt 1911 transported from its place in a jacket sleeve – all to reappear in the air in front of Jason, where he promptly zeroed in on them with his glowing green eyes. The weapons disintegrated, breaking down into their individual molecular parts before being caught up on the magical wind and whisked away into nothingness.

  Jason wasted no time, focusing on the humans’ minds next. He slipped into their heads as normally only a vampire could do and ripped away the offending memories. A storm came through and destroyed their satellite dishes. A storm. Not a jealousy-inducing handsome atheist professor with wavy hair.

  Jason’s magic continued to work. The bushes at the front of Donovan’s house began to repair themselves. Jason reached into their molecular structure, forcing an accelerated growth on the few buds and stems remaining un-burned. These sprouted into new greenery, filling out the destroyed spaces until they appeared once more full.

  The sound of chinking glass echoed in the unnaturally slowed night as the streetlamp several yards away flickered, buzzed loudly, and became whole to shed light on the odd, frozen scene. The light further down the street came next, until the road was once more awash in halogen illumination.

  His most difficult task, Jason had no choice but to save for last.

  With focused concentration, he isolated Donovan from the others and turned to face the other warlock. Let’s step inside and talk, he told his subject.

  Donovan Savvant glanced from his king to the others. Then he glanced up at the lights – and the bushes behind him. He turned a still-upset but now also impressed expression on Jason. Then he nodded, just once.

  Jason gestured for him to enter the house first. Donovan led the way; they stepped through into the ranch-style home, closed the door, and Jason released the men outside from his spell.

  Donovan stopped at the front windows and popped two of the blinds apart. He peered from between the slats. Jason knew what he would see. The men outside jolted as if waking from a dream. They looked at one another, confused and quiet. Then someone spoke, and another. They mumbled in soft camaraderie, looked up at Donovan’s house, and rubbed their hands on their jeans, unsure of how they came to be standing there, what they were talking about before, and whether they should mention this loss of memory to their buddies.

  Choosing not to, they made something up. That was a nice walk. See you at the game. Gotta get back home. Wife’s throwing a tantrum about the trash.

  Etcetera.

  One by one, they left the yard, heading to their own respective homes.

  Donovan released the blinds and stepped back, allowing his arms to drop to his sides. He looked down at the floor, appearing for all the world as lost as one of the kittens regularly brought into the pound.

  “That was some deal you made with the devil, Faust,” he whispered, referencing the enormous, unnatural power Jason had just displayed. He looked up, meeting Jason’s eyes. “I hope it was worth it.”

  Jason hesitated before replying, “So do I.”

  Then he approached Donovan and placed a hand on the other warlock’s shoulder. “How did Plato die?”

  “They told me he’d been accidentally pulled up into one of their tractors.” He shook his head, his brown eyes reflecting the pain he felt. “But Plato never went anywhere near those tractors. He hated them. They were far too loud for him. There’s no way he would have been pulled into one.” He paused, then added, “And I saw fresh claw marks on one of their arms.” I know they threw him in.

  Jason’s gut clenched.

  A warlock possessed the ability to bring the dead back to life. It was by far their most profound ability, and because of the spell’s complexity and its potential to go very wrong, warlocks were required to go through Jason for permission.

  When Donovan had told him the men killed his cat, Jason had wondered why he hadn’t asked to perform the ritual. But now he understood. There wouldn’t be much left of the cat’s body. Resurrecting the animal would have been impossible.

  It was a hopeless situation.

  “I’m sorry, Donovan,” said Jason.

  Donovan nodded, looking stricken. “I know.” He turned and left Jason on the lawn, returning inside to shut and magically ward his front door.

  Jason looked up at the house – and then turned to stare down the street where the men had departed earlier. He let loose with one final, private spell.

  It wouldn’t bring Plato back, but it helped satisfy Jason’s sense of justice.

  The men who had killed Donovan’s cat were going to have a devil of a time explaining to their wives – and their pastors – why they all suddenly possessed the same curable but highly uncomfortable sexually transmitted disease.

  *****

  Out on the lawn, a male ginger cat that no one could see sat watching the house with a quiet intelligence.

  His tail flicked.

  A moment later, a second cat stepped tentatively from the shadows. It was black as night, with bright green eyes.

  The ginger cat tilted its head and slowly blinked.

  The cat with the green eyes meowed.

  No one in the mortal realm heard it.

  Chapter Four

  A meeting had been called.

  Jason was going from one extemporaneous and pressing situation to another without pause, and was beginning to feel tired. Amazingly, he felt little to no drain on his power, even after having cast up so much of it in order to fix Savvant’s problem.

  He supposed his tiredness was more intangible and esoteric. It was fundamental. And though he would never admit it, he had a feeling it was ultimately based in a profound loneliness.

  So as he stepped out of his umpteenth transportation portal and into the pred
etermined meeting room of the kings, he was focused on Chloe Septeran and on the possibilities she presented.

  The Vampire King Roman D’Angelo took one look at him and quietly asked, “What is her name?”

  “Chloe,” said Jason, not bothering to hide anything. There was no point with D’Angelo. “Chloe Septeran.” He took his place at the table and sat back in his chair.

  D’Angelo’s black brow rose inquisitively. “That’s an interesting last name. It sounds familiar.”

  “It’s an old name,” said someone else at the table.

  D’Angelo turned to look at the man who had spoken. It was the Seelie King, Avery. As usual, Avery, who was one of the two sovereigns of the fae kingdom, sat across from his brother, the Unseelie King. The rings that protected them both from the iron in the building and the city beyond glinted under the overhead lighting.

  “You always volunteer more than is strictly necessary,” said the Unseelie King, who was also sometimes referred to as the Leanan King, and in the more grave historical references, as the Unholy King. His accent, though preternaturally old, was decidedly British, as he’d spent the majority of his incredibly long life sequestered in the realms parallel to what had come to be known as the United Kingdom.

  The dark fae lord’s vivid purple eyes were flecked with sparks of fervent green, and they flashed with untold power as he softly accused his brother. His tone was as icy as was the air to his right, which had been unnaturally cooled by the presence of the Winter King, Kristopher.

  The table grew silent as the two fae kings glared at one another.

  “Under the circumstances, I think it safe to say that any information either of you can offer would be extremely beneficial,” said Roman.

  “Especially if it concerns a queen,” volunteered another voice.

  This one belonged to Arach, the Dragon King. He was one of the eleven powerful men at the table who had yet to claim his queen for one reason or another. And his irritation at the thought of anything obstructing his eventual claiming of such a prize was understandable.

  Several months earlier, a very respected and elder member of the supernatural community, a high witch by the name of Lalura Chantelle, had dreamed a very telling dream. She saw a chessboard, and atop the chessboard rested 13 kings and 13 queens. Shortly afterward, Roman D’Angelo had found his queen.

  Just after that, The Phantom King Thanatos had done the same.

  Now the other kings were veritably chomping at the bit, hopeful that for once in their endless existences, the attempt to take a bride would not fail miserably but would instead see them with eternal companions, best friends, and lovers.

  Jason looked over when he felt the weight of D’Angelo’s gaze once more upon him. “We will discuss Miss Septeran in a moment,” said Roman. “By now you have all heard of the attack on one of our safe houses, which put both myself and my queen in danger.”

  “You don’t really think she was trying to kill you, do you?” asked the Unseelie King. His deep, accented voice slithered through the room. “Ophelia reached out to you,” he said softly. “She spoke to you, and to your bride. She all but literally assured you that her ‘master’ had plans for the Vampire Queen.” The Unseelie King, who went by “Caliban,” sat back in his chair, an air of incredible self-assurance surrounding him like a cloak of office. “He had no intention of killing you. This was a display of power and nothing more.”

  “I agree,” said Roman. “And in truth, it is not the sole reason for my calling you all here tonight.” At that, he stood, pushed out his chair, and faced the door that led from the meeting room. It slowly opened, to the expectant silence of everyone at the table, and in walked Lalura Chantelle – a woman with whom Jason was very well acquainted.

  As if she could sense his thoughts and emotions, the high witch zeroed her blue, blue eyes in on Jason like laser beams. He gazed right back. She smiled, her expression amused.

  “Thank you Roman,” she said, her voice scratching like a pencil on parchment.

  The ancient woman’s air of importance did not surprise Jason. She was 115 years old at the very least and the most powerful witch in any coven. She was a seer, a counselor, and a wise woman.

  She was also not the only one to walk through the door.

  Jesse Graves was the Council Overseer for the werewolf population. The late Alexander Kavanagh had granted him the position, and there was truly no werewolf more capable of filling Kavanagh’s shoes. Graves was a giant of a man, and as he walked in after Lalura, the difference in their sizes appeared comically preposterous.

  Graves’ massive African American frame nearly filled the doorway. He’d once been an enforcer, which meant that he’d already been one of the strongest alphas in existence. He’d been made a guardian next, adding to his sway. Now as Overseer, Graves held absolute dominion over the wolves of the werewolf nation.

  Yet despite this immense power, a more unassuming man did not exist. Graves appeared uncomfortable in the tailored suit he wore. His presence felt impatient. As he easily met the gazes of every King there, aside from that of the Shadow King whose face remained hidden in his cowl, Jason was struck with the impression of a man who kept quiet not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he was accustomed to the world not listening. Which made him perhaps one of the wisest men in the room.

  Graves nodded at the men, and as one they nodded back. A fourteenth chair that had been kept empty for the Overseer was now taken.

  As for Lalura, she remained standing at the head of the table, her sky colored eyes scrutinizing each of them in turn.

  “It isn’t you he’s after,” said Lalura without preamble. Jason blinked. The room grew absolutely still. “He isn’t interested in the 13 Kings, not any more. He has what he wanted from you. Rather, it is your queens he desires now.”

  No one said anything, but Jason could practically hear their supernatural spirits sitting up and growling.

  Lalura sighed wearily and sat down, taking D’Angelo’s large leather-backed chair and leaving the Vampire King standing. D’Angelo’s lips curled with amusement.

  The powerful vampire glanced at the tabletop in front of Lalura. His eyes flashed a bright, glowing red, and a tea tray replete with sandwiches and biscuits appeared before the ancient witch.

  Lalura picked up a sandwich as the water and cream pots magically concocted her the perfect cup of tea.

  The kings waited as the high witch slowly chewed.

  They waited a bit longer as she noisily sipped from her dainty porcelain cup. D’Angelo’s smile broadened. The powerful vampire was enjoying this.

  When Lalura took another bite of sandwich rather than continue speaking, a few of the kings fidgeted in their seats. But no one dared interrupt her.

  Now Jason was smiling as well.

  Finally, she swallowed the bite she’d been chewing, took another sip, and placed her cup in its saucer. “The queens on a chessboard are more powerful than their male counterparts in spades,” she said. Her quaking voice carried easily across the room, despite its weathering of age. “The one responsible for the attack on the pier a month ago has what he wanted from all of you. You played directly into his hands, and now he will use what you’ve unwittingly given him to go after the women you love.”

  A ripple of disquieting darkness passed across the table and through every King seated around it. It was anger, and it was fear. And it was strong.

  No one questioned where Lalura had obtained this information. Everyone at the meeting was well acquainted with her abilities – and with the fact that she was never wrong.

  “What occurred with Evie and the safe house,” continued Roman, “was merely the stirring of the pot. It has yet to be heated, much less come to a boil. Our enemy stands as a leader with an army of unknown minions, not the least of which is Ophelia’s previously mentioned ‘master.’”

  He moved around Lalura’s chair as she refilled her teacup.

  “Mr. Graves, would you care to fill
us in?” Roman asked as he paced to the wall on one side of the room, leaned against it, and slid his hands into the pockets of his expensive suit.

  Jesse Graves nodded. “At the moment, I can tell you that the Hunters have switched sides again. We’ve captured and questioned a number of them. Months ago, they fell under the influence of a man who called himself Ramses and who displayed a disproportionate amount of power. However, when he ceased leading in the slaughter of werewolves, he fell out of favor with the vast majority of the Hunters.” He paused, letting the information sink in before continuing. “Little by little, the Hunters trickled away. Now no one knows what has become of ‘Ramses,’ and the Hunters appear to have re-grouped under the leadership of a force none of them can identify.”

  He leaned forward, folding his hands on the polished wooden surface of the table. His amber eyes sparked with warning. “Dannai Caige, one of our female werewolves and a high ranking witch in her own coven, seems to have won the attention of the former Hunter leader, Ramses.” Here, Jesse broke off and met Jason’s gaze. Unspoken messages passed between them. Jason was all too familiar with this recent “attention.”

  “Or rather, her children have at the very least,” Jesse went on. “Based on the results of several informative spells and the visions of Lily Kane and other seers, we’ve come to believe that ‘Ramses’ may actually, for lack of a better term,” he smiled wryly, “be on our side.”

  “Why do we care?” the Shadow King asked, his deep rumbling words reverberating off the meeting room walls. “If he is nowhere to be found?” It was the first time Jason had ever heard him speak. It was unnerving.

  However, Jesse hid any discomfort he might have felt very well. “We care,” he said calmly, “because we’ve also come to learn that Ramses may in fact be connected with the one who is responsible for the attack on the pier.” He looked up at Roman. “And for Ophelia.”