A Knight of Cold Graves (The Revenant Reign Book 1)

by Clara Coulson

  “Two of those damn goblins got away,” Frasier spit, beating his fist on the corner of Roland’s desk, “because Montesano’s team compromised my operation.”

  Roland, seated in his big leather chair, elbows on the desktop, chin resting on his hands, was unmoved by Frasier’s complaint. “The way I hear it, you agreed to modify the operation to accommodate the rescue of Saul’s brother and the disassembly of the manticore. The fact that the operation’s original parameters weren’t completely fulfilled as a consequence of that modification is not the fault of Agent Montesano’s team. Also, you rounded up the vast majority of the goblins, including the ringleaders of the market scheme. I wouldn’t worry too much about some leftover crumbs. We can always sweep those up later.”

  “You know as well as I do that goblins aren’t crumbs. They’re tumors.” Frasier threw up his hands in exasperation. “If you don’t excise them all at once, you’ll wind up with more than you started with. Mark my words, we’ll have two more goblin markets on our hands by the end of the month.”

  “Then you can plan two more raids for the end of the month,” Roland said flatly.

  “So you’re not going to write up Montesano’s team?” Frasier pointed a beefy finger at Saul, who was lounging in the same chair he had sat in earlier, just before his fainting spell. “You’re not even going to discipline Reiz for causing a major exposure incident?”

  Roland rolled his eyes. “A few mundanes witnessed a small explosion. That’s hardly what I’d call a ‘major’ exposure incident. And Agents Napier and Ford came up with an adequate explanation for the witnesses, which our cover-up crew will disseminate to the local papers. Tomorrow, the general populace will read a story about a minor gas explosion caused by a faulty underground pipe, shake their heads at the city’s shoddy infrastructure work, and then go back to their regularly scheduled programming.”

  Frasier growled. “Your nepotism is getting out of hand.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Roland straightened up, and the faint sound of thunder rolled through the room. “Agent Reiz isn’t the one who nearly bungled the whole raid operation because he took off his hat and showed his face to a goblin he had arrested in the past. He also wasn’t the one who got incapacitated by a handful of paint.

  “On the contrary, Agent Reiz is the one who saved an imperiled civilian from being mauled to death by a manticore. And in so doing, stalled that manticore long enough for Agent Napier to dismantle it before it had a chance to attack anyone else.”

  Roland huffed, and the temperature in the room dropped five degrees. “So check yourself, Agent Frasier. You’re not the untouchable star you believe you are, and Agent Reiz isn’t the class clown you want him to be. And that is the end of this discussion. Now, if I’m not mistaken, you have goblins to interview and process. So how about you get back to work?”

  Frasier’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t dare push Roland any harder. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Roland pointed to the door. “Right now, I’m saying ‘Please leave.’ I have some important things I need to discuss with Agent Montesano’s team, and I’m on a tight schedule tonight.”

  Without another word, Frasier stormed to the door, shooting Saul a glare that promised painful retribution. Livid as he was though, he still opened the office door with a gentle hand, crossed the threshold with soft steps, and closed the door with nary a thud.

  Sandy wasn’t a fan of slamming doors. The last agent who’d made a habit of loudly exiting Roland’s office had been found hanging upside down from the courtyard flagpole the morning after. In late December. In the middle of a blizzard. In the nude.

  “I need to send that man to anger management,” Roland muttered as he made eye contact with each person on Saul’s team.

  Jack was sitting in a chair directly across from Roland’s desk, whereas Adeline and Jill had placed themselves at a small, inconspicuous table in the back corner of the room. Jack was never fazed by the explosive confrontations between Frasier and Roland. But the women preferred to steer clear, as those confrontations occasionally ended with freak lightning strikes that fried phones and set the carpet on fire.

  Saul had sat in his usual spot as well, but he’d done so automatically, not out of consideration for what Frasier might unleash by poking the bear. His thoughts were entirely absorbed by concern for Tanner.

  Every few minutes since he left the garage, he’d texted Laura for updates. She’d stopped replying after twelve texts, telling him to hold a candlelight vigil at Tanner’s bedside if he wanted to keep track of every heartbeat.

  Saul was tempted to do exactly that. But he couldn’t. He was still on duty.

  Roland cleared his throat. “So, moving on to the matter of Saul’s brother.”

  Saul tore his gaze from his phone, with much effort. “Yeah?”

  “Honestly, Saul,” Roland continued, “even if you never expected your brother to visit this part of the country, to say nothing of moving here, you should have told us that he was your identical twin.”

  “I thought you knew,” Saul said weakly. “Surely his birthdate showed up when you ran the background check on my family.”

  “It did.” Roland clicked his mouse a few times, presumably bringing up the specified report on his computer. “Unfortunately, whoever compiled the background info failed to flag his birthdate as a matter for review. Which I don’t blame them for. The implications of a PTAD agent having a twin is not something that we frequently have to consider, given that our division is quite small and exclusive.”

  “Basically, it slipped through the cracks. No system is perfect,” Jack said, eying Saul. “No person is either.”

  Saul lowered his head, abashed. “I’m sorry. I just…Honestly, when I first joined up, I really didn’t want to talk about my family. As time went on, I pushed them further and further into the back of my mind, until I practically stopped thinking about them at all. And no one ever asked me about them, so I never said anything.”

  “Fair enough.” Roland rapped his knuckles on the desktop. “And really, there’s no point in making your silence a matter of contention, since the consequences have already played out. We do, however, need to decide how to handle your brother from this point on.”

  Saul’s head snapped up. “What do you mean by ‘handle him’?”

  “For one thing,” Roland said, “he’ll have to be read in on the National Standard Preternatural Secrecy Agreement, like all humans who obtain the Third Sight. Secondly, we’ll have to work out some kind of security measures for him, to ensure that any future cases of mistaken identity don’t result in similar misfortunes.”

  “Do you think he’ll resist signing the NSPSA?” Jack asked Saul.

  “Unless his personality has done a complete one-eighty over the past decade,” Saul answered, “I doubt he’ll put up much more than an academic resistance. He enjoys a good ethical debate, but most of the time, he doesn’t actually push back against the establishment. I’m sure he’ll sign the thing—once he finishes pointing out all the ways it ‘violates the civil rights of American citizens,’ or whatever.”

  “So he kind of does have the same personality as you,” Adeline said, “minus the asshole part?”

  Saul flipped her off. “Anyway, about the security measures. What are you thinking? Some charms and wards?”

  Roland nodded. “We’ll have our best ward architects beef up the security of his apartment, and get him a few standard charms to carry with him at all times. An alarm charm to signal dispatch in case he’s in distress. A shield charm so he can protect himself. And maybe something with light offensive capabilities. We’ll hash all the details out once he’s feeling better, see what he’s up for.”

  “All right,” Saul said. “That sounds good.”

  “But you don’t sound good,” Jill pointed out. “You don’t look good either.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Everyone stared at him, skeptical.

  “Okay, I’m shaken up,”
he admitted. “I’ve never seen Tanner hurt like that before.”

  “You sure you don’t want to sit the rest of the night out?” Jack asked. “You’ve been through a lot today.”

  “Those missing girls have probably been through worse. So no, I’m not sitting on my ass while some monster has its way with them.” He rubbed his pounding forehead. He’d developed a nasty headache over the past half hour, probably a result of running on empty for much of the day. “I just need to eat and knock back some aspirin, then I’ll be good to go.”

  Roland gave Saul a hard stare, contemplating whether or not to order Saul to take an early day. Eventually, he said, “You can keep working, provided you do in fact practice some semblance of self-care. But don’t overdo it. I’m only acquiescing because we have a big problem, and I don’t want your team running into battle without their combat wizard.”

  Jack crossed his arms. “What problem?”

  Roland slouched in his chair, a rare display of vulnerability. “That spook I sent into Benton Court to dig up dirt on possible suspects for the abduction of those girls? Somebody found out she was snooping around, and she almost lost her head. Literally.

  “Some sorcerer threw a decapitation curse at her, and it slit her throat from ear to ear. She only survived because she’s not human. Her healing factor stemmed the hemorrhage just seconds before she would have lost consciousness, and she managed to activate a teleportation charm to ferry herself to safety.”

  “Shit.” Adeline shuddered. “Death curses like that are the hallmark of high-level dark magic.”

  “So there’s a skilled sorcerer in town, and they’re either behind the abduction or working for the person who is,” Jill said. “That’s not good.”

  “No, it’s not.” Jack wrung his hands. “Not only because we now have a powerful adversary, but also because sorcerers of that caliber don’t involve themselves in petty work. Whatever this sorcerer is planning to do, or was hired to help carry out, it’s something that will have serious implications for, at the very least, the entire preternatural community of Weatherford.”

  “And in the worst case,” Saul finished, “the effects will bleed into the mundane community.”

  Roland bobbed his head. “That’s my fear. Which is why I want you guys focused on solving this case, and absolutely nothing else, until we have the perps in custody.”

  Saul bristled, knowing that statement was directed at him. “I’ve got my head in the game, boss.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Roland said bluntly. “But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Because one, I know that when push comes to shove, you’ll protect both your teammates and any innocent civilians at risk with your life. And two, because you have the biggest energy store out of all the PTAD practitioners in the Castle, by a considerable margin, and so you’re the least likely to die if the resolution to this case boils down to a magic slugfest.”

  Saul produced a wan smile. “What a nice way of saying I’m a magical sledgehammer with a reckless disregard for my own life.”

  “Take the compliments, or don’t.” Roland shrugged. “I don’t care either way, as long as you bring down that sorcerer before they drop a pile of bodies on the streets.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  “And Saul”—Roland’s voice dropped an octave—“I’m sure this goes without saying, but your team is officially off the Witherspoon murder case, for now and forever. Cassidy’s team just arrived back in town, and they will take over from here. They will track down Muntz and his goons. They will make the arrest. They will handle the interviews. And that is final.”

  Fury flared to life in Saul’s chest. “But—”

  “But nothing,” Jack cut in. “Muntz is too personal a job for you. He was already too personal a job for you after what happened last year. Now that he’s hurt your brother, there is no way that you can act rationally or impartially when it comes to his arrest and interview. And you know that.”

  Jack’s tone grew firm. “First and foremost, you are an FBI agent, Saul. You must act professionally, and that includes recusing yourself from situations in which you are emotionally compromised and severely biased.”

  Saul gripped his pants legs so hard his knuckles turned stark white. “I know that, but…”

  “We get it, Saul,” Jill said, smiling sadly. “We really do.”

  “But you have to let this one go.” Roland’s expression softened into something as close to sympathy as a man like him could feel. “At the PTAD, we seek justice, not vengeance.”

  Saul thought of Tanner, lying on the ground in the pouring rain, broken and bloody. “Yeah,” he said evenly, “I completely understand.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Tanner

  Tanner dreamed.

  Of people he’d never met. Of places he’d never been. Of things he’d never done. Of powers he’d never possessed.

  Each dream lasted only minutes until it faded into the next, and Tanner struggled to follow the complex threads of each shifting narrative. It was like he was having a fever-induced hallucination, no rhyme or reason to its structure, no way to make any real sense of what he was seeing. Eventually though, after jumping from one vivid scene to the next over two dozen times, Tanner finally noticed that every moment he witnessed had something in common. Or rather, someone in common.

  A man with coldhearted eyes full of loathing.

  In some dreams, this man rode a gallant horse and wore a gleaming suit of slate-black armor. In some dreams, he wielded a bloodstained sword on a battlefield strewn with rotting corpses. In some dreams, those corpses walked like living creatures, and the man commanded this army of the dead.

  This man did not always have the same face, or wear the same clothes, or walk the same lands. But no matter how tall or short he was, no matter how pale or brown, no matter how lithe or broad, the look in his eyes always remained the same. His gaze bored into Tanner with such immense hatred that the emotion felt like a physical weight threatening to crush Tanner’s chest and pulverize his organs.

  In several dreams, Tanner confronted this hateful wretch. He trapped the man in magical circles that glowed bright gold and made demands of surrender, with the only alternative being death. He tricked the man into traps that bound and burned, that hacked and slashed, that maimed and killed in the most gruesome ways.

  Sometimes, the man died. Sometimes, he escaped. But never did he give in, not even once. And in every instance, he promised vengeance upon Tanner.

  “Mark my words, Merlin,” he said time and again, “one day, one year, one century, I will destroy you, and while the world weeps, I will laugh.”

  Tanner did not learn if the man ever accomplished his quest for revenge. During a particularly thrilling and frightening dream that involved the raid of a heavily defended castle, Tanner got blindsided by the collapse of a burning ceiling. The experience felt more real than any other dream Tanner had encountered.

  He felt everything. Every muscle. Every bone. Every nerve. He felt the agony of burning alive, skin peeling, fat melting. He felt the pressure of being pinned beneath hundreds of pounds of debris. He felt the horror of knowing his death was only seconds away.

  Tanner felt his heart stop—and jerked awake.

  Double vision revealed a muddle of confusing details: a blue curtain surrounding him, a blinking machine beside him, a ceiling with ornate crown molding above him. Ears that felt submerged in water heard things that didn’t make sense: a shrill beeping noise to his left, a hissing sound to his right, a rapid clack-clack that sounded like someone running in high heels. His skin sensed things in a distant way, like he was partially numb: a tight cuff on his arm, a dull pinch around his finger, the immensely uncomfortable sensation of something snaking down his throat.

  Instinctively, Tanner tried to lift his hand and tug the horrible thing out of his throat. But he found that his arm barely responded to his commands, refusing to rise above the railing of the…bed.

  Comprehension hi
t him like a truck. He’d been struck by the venomous tail of that creature, the manticore, and he’d collapsed on the outskirts of some kind of market. Just as the beast had lunged to devour him, a fireball shot out of that market and struck the beast down.

  Then someone had come running over to help him. No, two people. Two men. An older man with graying hair and a long scar on one side of his face, and a much younger man. A man who had Tanner’s face.

  Saul.

  Saul had come to save him.

  Tanner remembered only fragments of what happened after that.

  Lying limp in the grizzled man’s arms as he rushed away from the market, Saul not far behind. Being injected with a substance that burned—oh god, how it burned—but left in its wake the barest hint of the sensation that the manticore venom had stripped from Tanner’s body.

  After that torturous injection, Tanner had passed out. Now he was here, in a…hospital?

  The blue curtain drew back, revealing a woman in a white coat with a stethoscope around her neck. “What the devil?” she said. “You’re not supposed to be awake.”

  Tanner could only stare at her. Literally. He couldn’t sit up. He couldn’t wave his hands. He couldn’t talk. Even his eyelids barely worked.

  The doctor moved to his bedside and checked the readings on the beeping machine, which must’ve been monitoring Tanner’s vitals. She scrutinized the numbers for a moment, then tapped the screen with her fingernail like she thought the machine was on the fritz. “Okay, either this thing is lying to me, or you have abilities no one thought to inform me about.” She looked at Tanner again, a well-manicured eyebrow sharply arched. “Are you into healing magic, by any chance?”

  Tanner kept on staring.

  “The reason I ask,” she continued, as if Tanner had actually responded, “is because practitioners with a healing magic affinity tend to develop the mildly infuriating habit of autonomically healing themselves, which often results in a waste of other people’s health resources. I actually do it myself, but since I rarely go to any healer other than me, it never really becomes a point of contention.”