Stories from the Demons of Fire and Night World

by C. N. Crawford

  For six months, I’d been living here, curling up into a ball in the corner at night, sleeping among the rags and burning barrels. When the winter sun rose, streaking the freezing Hudson with milky white light, I’d leave to search for Hazel. The dragons wouldn’t care that she needed water by her bedside at night, that she had to read for twenty minutes before falling asleep. The dragons would not accommodate her nut allergy, or provide her with her asthma medication. They wouldn’t soothe her when she woke up from her nightmares at night, screaming for her parents, and they certainly wouldn’t give a fuck about the crippling menstrual cramps that laid her out every month. They didn’t care that every Saturday, we sat together on the sofa watching superhero shows and stuffing our faces with pizza and popcorn.

  I had to get her back. There was no other option.

  Every day, I roamed the ravaged streets of Brooklyn, Manhattan, Queens. Dragons had destroyed most of New York—most of the northeast, in fact, from Maine to Delaware. And then, as far as I could tell, they’d simply left.

  The last time the dragons had come to New York, they’d made their dens in the bowels of the city, taking up residence below the Statue of Liberty and beneath bridges. Not this time. Where they’d gone, none of us knew, but they’d probably taken Hazel with them.

  My decision to stay in the city had been the wrong one. Now, it was painfully clear I should have gone with the sun-demon when I had the chance, but I’d had no way of knowing that at the time. He’d have been a link to the dragons, at least. If I’d bided my time, maybe I could have learned something from him, found my sister again.

  Standing before the roaring fire, I rolled the thin, golden shaft of the feather around in my fingertips, watching the firelight flicker through it, mesmerized by its beauty. The feather almost seemed to glow with an inner light, even after all these months. It was almost as if it were made of light itself.

  While I stared at the feather, a bearded man slumped down next to me, staining the air with the scent of sweat. For reasons I didn’t understand, everyone called him Elvis. He was completely bald on the top of his head, with a long gray beard that always seemed to be covered in food.

  “I’ve seen you playing with that thing before,” he grumbled.

  “Don’t you ever touch this, Elvis.”

  “What’s so special about it, anyway?” He perked up, suddenly rising to peer at the feather. “Is it worth something?”

  “To me it is. Not to anyone else. This belongs to someone I want to find. That’s it.”

  He furrowed his enormous eyebrows. “It looks gold. Do you see that? Like it’s glowing.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  His eyes glistened. “Do you know what that is?” A sense of reverence tinged his tone.

  “It’s a feather, Elvis.”

  “It’s an angel feather.”

  I snatched it from his line of sight, secreting it in my pocket—a pocket with a zipper to keep it safe. “Don’t be ridiculous. Angels haven’t been to earth since the fall a hundred thousand years ago. They live in the heavens. They’re just spirits.”

  He shook his head. “Nah. You want my theory? An angel caused all this. They’re punishing us. We deserve it, too, after everything we’ve done.”

  I didn’t want to ask what he meant. I had no interest in his theories on the inherent wickedness of humanity.

  But maybe he knew something.

  “What do you know about angels?”

  He shrugged. “They hate us. That’s about it. Where do you think your angel went?”

  “I think he’s in London. And I’m not going to get there on foot, and probably not by boat, so it looks like I’m shit out of luck.”

  He scratched his beard. “There’s a man on Long Island running flights from his private airstrip to Europe. Getting people out of the hellscape if they can pay. He goes by Lord Bristol, though that’s not his real name. No idea what his real name is. Not a lord, of course.”

  “Right. So, how much does this cost?”

  “Only a million dollars. Give the cash to his secretary, and she’ll set you up.”

  “And where the hell am I going to get a million dollars? I have zero dollars right now.” Certainly no one was paying for burlesque shows—not in the ruined husks of buildings that were all that remained of Manhattan. “I’ve got nothing but a few knives.”

  “I’m sure you can find something else to trade him for.” Elvis grinned. “He likes pretty girls, and there aren’t many pretty girls left in New York. I like pretty girls, too, but I don’t got any money. Unless you get real lonely.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Elvis shrugged. “You’re an enterprising girl. I’m sure you can think of something.”

  I sat in the plush airline seat, my body deliciously free from grime. I didn’t know my airplane types well. All I knew was that it looked like a super-fancy private jet, with champagne-colored leather seats—enough to fit six passengers in the roomy seats, plus a leather sofa and a kitchen.

  While we waited to take off, I made three trips to the kitchen, fixing myself cheese sandwiches and grabbing fruit.

  For a moment, Marcus’s beautiful face flashed in my mind, and his loss hit me like a fist to the chest. Every day I remembered his beautiful cedar scent, his smooth skin. I’d never meet another man like him.

  Pushing my grief under the surface, I peered out a round window at the tarmac—the pale strip of pavement that stretched out over the glimmering blue water. After seven months in the Fortress, it felt amazing to be clean, with a full belly. I didn’t want to stop eating anytime soon.

  Getting the money for the flight hadn’t been as hard as I’d feared. First, I’d needed to identify the one person who might have a million dollars. And the one person I knew for sure who had that money was Lord Bristol himself. He’d been fleecing people left and right, people who were probably trying to save their families. So I went straight for him.

  As I waited on the jet, I bit into my apple, chewing contemplatively. I peered out the window, craning my neck to look back at Lord Bristol’s mansion. I could just about imagine him still tied to the chair in his room, blindfolded and gagged with silk. I’d told him that “naughty boys needed to wait,” and he really hadn’t noticed when I’d robbed him. The secretary hadn’t asked any questions.

  As the pilot made an announcement, I buckled my seatbelt. While the engines revved up, vibrating the jet, I pulled the copper feather from my pocket. Here it was. My one clue to getting my sister back.

  Fascinated by its inner glow, I held it up to the buttery light that streamed in from the window. The sunlight sparked over its feathers, gilding it.

  At last, the jet rolled down the runway, and a smile curled my lips.

  London. I was going to find the angel of death in London, and I would pick up the pieces of my life again.

  Angela Death is a prequel to Covert Fae.

  If you haven’t yet read Covert Fae, please check out the novel here by clicking the cover.

  Or use this link: Covert Fae: A Demons of Fire and Night Novel.

  Shadow Mage

  Introduction

  Shadow Mage is a companion short story to the Vampire’s Mage Series.

  Enjoy!

  * * *

  —C.N. Crawford

  Chapter 1

  Caine parked his motorcycle by the edge of the nature reserve. The morning sun hadn’t yet risen, and clouds hid the moon. It didn’t matter to him. As a creature of the night, he felt at home in the dark.

  He slipped between the trees, keeping his eye on the darkened valley below. Oaks and elms loomed high above him, and a vernal breeze rustled the leaves, whispering over his skin.

  There were many things he’d rather be doing than prowling a park just before dawn. Namely, he wouldn’t mind pulling Valerie into his silky bed again in Ninlil Castle. The nubile blonde vampire had been visiting his room every few nights, smelling of jasmine and dressed in increasingly reveal
ing lingerie.

  But as the leader of Ambrose’s army, Caine didn’t always get to do what he wanted. For the past few days, he’d been staking out the demon-hunters’ headquarters. Tonight, just past three a.m., he’d spotted something unusual: a large, white van pulling away from the gates. Caine had followed the windowless vehicle all the way to Belmont in the suburbs. If a pack of Hunters lurked in its rear, as he hoped, he could gain valuable intelligence about their weaponry.

  From between a pair of oaks, he watched as the van rolled over the open field of grass. At one point, he would have ignored the Brotherhood’s Hunters, but he couldn’t dismiss them so easily anymore. They’d grown stronger, more precise. Aided by modern technology, they were no longer the bumbling witchfinders of the seventeenth century. In the past few months, they’d managed to capture fifteen vampire soldiers—Caine’s soldiers.

  Moreover, they had Malphus.

  Whatever Caine learned tonight could help him save his brother’s life. And when he’d gathered all the information he needed, he could relish the dark thrill of slaughtering the Hunters.

  The rising sun pushed higher over the eastern horizon, tinging the periwinkle sky with pale ginger; the first blush of morning illuminated the golden dandelions that stippled the grasses.

  Sunlight—such a rare sight for one of Nyxobas’s creatures. These days, there weren’t many in Ambrose’s kingdom who could walk in the light as Caine could. Most in Lilinor were vampires, and they had the unfortunate tendency to burst into flame whenever the sun rose.

  There was a time when he might have found this morning scene beautiful—long ago, before the darkness had taken hold in the hollows of his mind. But now, it failed to seduce him.

  Sometimes he thought the frenzy of battle was the only time he truly felt alive. Even Valerie’s visits to his bedroom couldn’t get his heart racing the way it had in the last assault against Emerazel’s hellhounds.

  He leaned against an oak, crossing his arms. When had he last seen Valerie, anyway? It must have been a week ago, at least. Just after he’d returned from the last battle, soaked in hellhound blood, his body electrified by the fight.

  Chinks of amber light flecked the ground by his feet, dancing among the rustling oak leaves. The sight stirred sensations from the deepest recess of his memory: sunlight bathing sea grasses, the smell of briny air, the dappled light of the hawthorn groves...

  His chest tightened. He knew better than to give in to nostalgia, to delve into human memories. Among those beautiful glimpses lurked all the things he wanted to forget. In any case, he wasn’t truly human. He was a demon of the night—an instrument of death—as the Hunters would soon learn.

  He clenched his jaw, staring at the van. Why aren’t they getting out? He had to hold himself back from running into the field, tearing the doors off the van, and slaughtering them all. The thrill of battle called to him, and he grew impatient.

  The sun climbed higher, staining the field in honeyed light, and he squinted in its glare. At last, the van’s door groaned open and the driver stepped out. Caine’s fingers twitched, ready to snatch one of the swords slung across his back.

  The Hunter sported a neatly-trimmed black beard. As the man stalked to the back of the van, another Hunter—this one blond—stepped into the light.

  Both men were large and muscled—nearly as big as Caine. But Caine was part demon. It made sense that he was huge. What were they feeding these humans?

  Besides ambrosia, that is. Even from his perch behind the tree he could smell their sickly sweet blood. They reeked of Blodrial’s sacred drink. That meant two things. First, their mission was important. The Brotherhood’s leader wanted them protected; ambrosia cost more than its weight in gold. And second, with that much of the god’s blood flooding their veins, they’d be nearly impervious to Caine’s magic, and stronger than humans should be.

  The sun blazed over the treetops, dazzling Caine’s eyes.

  The van’s rear door creaked as Blackbeard yanked it open.

  The man pulled out a metal canister. Aiming it at the sky, he depressed a button. A blast of fire erupted from the top. Now that was a useful weapon against the vampires.

  “All right, my beauties.”

  Something in the Hunter’s tone put Caine’s teeth on edge.

  As Caine waited for the Hunters to file out of the van for training, Blackbeard stepped into the back. Caine held his breath, anticipating a good look at the Brotherhood’s new crop of soldiers.

  Instead, muffled screams broke the silence, and a chill licked Caine’s spine. What the hell is going on? Silently, Caine prowled closer to the valley, and his nostrils filled with the scent of burning flesh. A deadly calm spread through his body like a phantom wind. His own thoughts quieted, and strength surged through his muscles and tendons.

  For a split second, he considered turning himself invisible but decided against it. If he was going to slaughter the humans, he wanted them to look into his face before they died. He wanted to see their expressions as they gazed into the fathomless, midnight eyes of demon of the night.

  He reached over his shoulder, pulling a sword from its scabbard. I want blood.

  In the valley below, someone rushed from the van—a man with brown hair, arms bound behind his back. A cloth gagged his mouth. Caine calculated the man’s speed: too fast for a human. The bound man’s eyes burned with terror as he looked at the rising sun.

  Vampire.

  Another followed—a woman with pale blonde hair, her gray eyes panicked like a hunted deer’s. She stared up at the sunlight, and tendrils of smoke rose from her skin, and Caine felt a shock of recognition. Valerie. She’s here?

  He broke into a sprint as Blackbeard yanked another vampire into the sunlight. He couldn’t save them all, and the desire for Hunter blood slammed into him like a tsunami.

  A wave of wrath slammed into Caine, and he headed straight for Blackbeard.

  As he thundered down the hill, the Hunter’s gaze met his. Blackbeard pulled a gun. Caine pressed on, closing the distance over the grassy field, sword ready, even as Blackbeard pulled the trigger.

  Bullets slammed into Caine’s flesh, but battle fury blazed through him, numbing the pain. His eyes remained locked on his target. At the edges of his consciousness, he was dimly aware of the vampire’s torment—their screams and burning bodies—but he blocked all that out. Only one thought burned through his skull: slay the Hunters.

  A predatory sureness filled each of his muscles, guiding him closer to his target. As he closed in, he swung for Blackbeard. His sword sliced clean through the enemy’s neck, severing flesh and bone. Blood sprayed through the air in a high arc, and a dark thrill rushed through Caine’s body.

  Before he could swing again, pain pierced his chest. He glanced down—not bullets this time. An iron stake. His cold gaze landed on Blondie. Kill him. Caine stalked across the ground, ripping the iron stake from his chest. A few inches to the right, and he’d be dead now.

  His face blanching, the man turned to run, and the sight of his retreat triggered Caine’s most primal instincts. The Hunter only made it a few paces through the grass before Caine ran his sword through the Hunter’s ribcage. His body twitched, and Caine’s heart raced. A rivulet of crimson blood dripped from the man’s mouth.

  Caine pulled out his blade, and the Hunter crumpled to the ground.

  Caine turned to look at the field. Around him, vampires burned like torches. Most had fallen to the ground, but a few staggered around, limbs blazing. Agonized screams filled the air. It was too late for all of them.

  As Caine’s most violent instincts subsided, dread overwhelmed him. Among the flaming, blackened bodies, he couldn’t even identify Valerie.

  The sound of a muffled scream turned his head. Only one vampire remained—one who’d crawled under the van, cowering in the shadows of the wheel wells. Smoke rose from her skin, but she’d found her way into the shade. Thank the gods, Aurora is alive.

  He rushed to the van and
pulled her out, shielding her with his body, then ushered her into the back of the van. Eyes trailing over the blisters that covered her arms, he yanked a dagger out of his belt and cut the gag from her mouth.

  “Gods damn it, Caine,” she said. “It would’ve been nice if you’d murdered the Hunters before they lit everyone on fire.”

  He frowned, half tempted to put the gag back on her. As if he didn’t have enough guilt weighing him down already. He spun her around and slid his blade through the rope binding her wrists. “I thought they were bringing Hunters here for training. I had no idea what they had planned until it was too late. It’s not as though I could have predicted it. They haven’t been executing people in broad daylight since the seventeenth century.”

  “They’re regressing.” Aurora rubbed her wrists where they’d been tied. “And they don’t think we’re people. We’re monsters, remember? In the future, assume they’re going to slaughter everyone around them, and act accordingly.”

  Caine loosed a breath. “You do remember that I’m your General, don’t you? You don’t give me orders.”

  Suddenly somber, she traced her fingers over her blistered arms. “They carved up my back in the Chambers with iron. They’re torturing people. I’m pretty sure they enjoy it.”

  Horror coiled through him. Malphus is still in there. His brother could withstand a bit of torture, but Caine couldn’t let him die. “Did you see my Malphus?”

  She shook her head, her large eyes glistening. “They never let me out of my cell until today. All I know is, the whole building is rigged with iron dust and stakes. They scan their eyes to get in and out of the building. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but it’s a complete fortress.”