by Carmen Caine
Spellfinder
A Cassidy Edwards Novel – Book Two
By
Carmen Caine
Published By
Bento Box Books
Edited By
Louisa Stephens
Cover Art By
Lind
Copyright © 2015 Carmen Caine
Ebook Edition
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Dedication
To Mr. Josiah Powell:
Someday, when you are an old man rocking on your porch, maybe then you’ll understand the joy, life, and laughter you brought into my life when I needed it the most. I am so glad you are part of my family. I love you, little guy, just like you are one of my own. Now, get out there and soar to the stars. I expect great things from you.
Love,
your Great-Auntie ‘Carmen’
Table of Contents
The Seed of Revenge
The Bother of Table Salt and Garlic
It’s Cassidy … Not Cass
Case Closed
What is Revenge, Really?
Green, Pink, and Blue-Haired Trolls
A Catnip Surprise
Nice Haircut
The Price of Impatience
Answers in the Mists
Game Begin
The Charmed Mafia
Revenge or Folly?
To Betray or Not Betray … that is the Question
The Fringe
The Unexpected
Branded
An Engagement
More Than a Black, Empty Hole
Help from Whom?
The Thing
Bait
An Unexpected Find
Darling
War
The Mindbreaker’s Daughter
The Key
The Hell Stone
A Scottish Highlander of a Vampire
The Orb
The Sweet Taste of Revenge
About the Author and Other Books
The Seed of Revenge
Revenge comes in all shapes and sizes. It hides behind many masks. It waxes and it wanes through its many stages.
For me, I’d soon come to realize that my revenge was more of an idea, really. It was a fantasy, a mere whisper of what revenge should be.
It was a seed.
But it was time for it to sprout.
The Bother of Table Salt and Garlic
Irritation. Supreme. Rank. Irritation. I dashed through the chill November streets ringing New York’s Central Park with one emotion running rampant inside me.
Irritation.
One of my six-inch heels caught in the cracked pavement and twisted off of my black leather, faux-Italian boots.
I scowled.
Make that irritation with a dash of anger.
Swearing under my breath, I hobbled on one foot around the corner of a red-brick bagel shop. With a swift kick to the curb—and a vow to never buy cheap knockoffs again—I whacked the heel from my other boot to match. Problem solved. Or at least that problem, anyway.
I was being followed.
Four humans. I’d caught the briefest glimpse of a woman, but I’d smelled her unique life-force, her mana, along with that of her three companions. They weren’t garden-variety human, and yet, they weren’t magical—or Charmed, as the supernatural preferred to call themselves. Whatever kind emitted the odor pursuing me, it made me want to run. Fast. I was still new to the Charmed world, but my gut told me that letting these guys anywhere close would be an unhealthy mistake.
Breathing in the crisp air, I sifted through the various mana scents floating my way. I’d made progress. My pursuers lagged even farther behind. They probably didn’t suspect I was onto them. One more sprint to the subway and I’d end their chase. If we were going to have this showdown, it would be on my terms.
“Hey lady, need some help?” From across the street, I heard a man’s voice rise above a sudden chorus of catcalls and whistles.
Lifting my head, I saw a familiar sight. Construction workers. Classic. I gave them a quick once-over. A harmless lot. A red-haired burly fellow wearing a battered hard hat surveyed me with a brotherly thread of concern. Amusing. Yes, he was tall, masculine, and beefy with paint-spattered jeans, and I, the opposite: petite, dressed like a glamor girl, and a helpless one at that. But I was easily stronger than a man double his size.
I flashed him a sultry smile. His snippet of concern disintegrated, and he saw me how I wanted him to—as a provocative young woman with highlighted auburn hair cascading down the back of her catsuit and form-fitting leather jacket, every curve accentuated to the max—designed not for viewing pleasure but for maximum distraction.
And just like that, he fell into my trap.
“What’s your name, gorgeous?” he called.
“Cassidy,” I replied with a flirtatious bat of an eye. “Cassidy Edwards. But ‘gorgeous’ will do.”
They all laughed. A few whistled again.
Never burn a bridge when it comes to food, I say. Once I’d ditched my tail, I just might swing back. I was hungry and needed mana. If I hadn’t been on the run, I’d have moseyed on over there to their corral, flirted a bit with the dude and indulged in a late afternoon snack. He’d have gone home feeling a little more tired than usual but probably with a healthier self-esteem.
A gust of wind caressed my face, updating me on the progress of my followers. Odd. I’d lost my lead. They were gaining, and quickly. Almost too quick to be humans. It was time to move. I cast a wistful eye at the construction site. I’d found more than one good meal in such places over the years. They were my version of human hometown delis, offering a variety of lean meat and firm buns, and there were several appetizing morsels in that bunch smiling at me now. Strong men. Vibrant. Men who worked outside in the fresh air, exercising their muscles all day long. Prime Man-a.
“Sorry, boys, maybe later.” I let them down gently. “Gotta go.”
The red-haired man winked as I turned away. A few scattered drops of rain stung my face as I discarded my useless heels into a nearby dumpster and took off. Low whistles of appreciation interspersed with more than one astonished “Woo-ee! That girl can run!” followed me as I headed for the Columbus Circle subway station.
If only I could really run. But it was still daylight. I had to hold back and limit myself to human speeds … which made evading my followers a bit cumbersome.
Hence the irritation.
The day was a dreary one. A continual drizzle oozed down from the gray sky. The storm from the night before had saturated the masses of soggy, decomposing leaves that besieged the sidewalks, turning everything into a slippery, squelchy mess. A car sped down the street, its tires aiming a fine spray of mud and grime straight at me. I shot them a venomous look. Maybe it was time to move to California.
Threading my way through a convoy of texting teenagers and past a rail-thin man in a yellow raincoat walking his eerily similar yellow-ponchoed Azawakh sighthound, I’d just entered the crosswalk when a white cargo van materialized out of nowhere.
It was a scene right out of a movie.
They were quick; I had to grant them that. The van’s side door slammed back as half a dozen men dressed in black body armor sprang out like spring-loaded G.I. Joe Jack-in-the-Boxes. I could have escaped them. I should have escaped them—I’d inherited nearly all of my mother’s vampiric speed, after
all—but the sudden onslaught of objects propelled my way startled me into a distraction that lasted just one moment too long.
Salt. A variety of the stuff. Sea salt. Table salt. Fine-grained mixed with coarse. Cripes, but it stung.
And garlic. The smell annoyed me even more than the cloves bombarding my skin and clothing like pungent rubber bullets.
“What the—” I began, but before I could finish, they’d manhandled me into their vehicle.
I was shoved facedown onto the matted floor, and no sooner had my abductors piled in after me than the driver jammed his foot on the gas pedal. We took off, the van lurching forward with such force that the side door slammed shut of its own accord with a resounding bang.
A knee jammed into the back of my leg, and that was it. The proverbial last straw.
Losing my temper, I rolled over, sending bodies flying in all directions.
There was a lot of grunting and swearing, but one voice rose above the others. “Get that thing handcuffed, and use the silver-plated ones!”
Thing? Warding off a fresh garlic-and-salt blitzkrieg, I jerked free of the grasping fingers attempting to snap handcuffs around my wrists. Just who were these characters? They weren’t associated with my shadowers—at least, not by scent. A quick scan of the faces surrounding me revealed young men, plain humans. My area of expertise. Perhaps I’d escape this clown van faster if I pretended to cooperate.
Reigning my temper in, I stopped struggling and began in my huskiest of voices, “Hey, there’s some kind of mistake here, fellas—“
Someone stabbed me with a needlelike object. “She bleeds!”
Immediately, my audition for the part of Miss Mistaken Identity was over. “Alright, I’ve had enough of this,” I snapped, head-butting the two nearest men backwards with full force.
They pitched headlong into their companions.
“Stand down, beast from Hades!” someone yelled as several others promptly doused me with cold water.
“Holy water?” I snorted a guess, rankled. Severely hurting misguided nincompoops was never my preference, but I was dangerously close to unsheathing the knives safely tucked in my boots.
“Don’t let it talk!” a raspy voice ordered.
My eyes flashed. “It?” I knocked another two body-armored men to one side.
Out of the sea of flailing arms and legs, the owner of the voice who’d called me “it” emerged. A man in his thirties. Thinning hair. Black eyebrows that looked like caterpillars perched above his eyes. “Get the blessed oil!” he shouted at his henchmen.
My nostrils flared in outrage. “I think not. Do you know how much these clothes cost?” Waving a hand at my designer jacket and catsuit, I bared my lengthening fangs at the men reaching for me.
My fangs tended to grow when I was angry. And I was getting downright ticked off.
“It is a vampire!” someone hissed.
“Can’t be.” The caterpillar-browed man paled. “It’s broad daylight!”
As if suddenly realizing that being sandwiched in a van with an unshackled vampire wasn’t the best place to be, the men fell back, smashing themselves against the driver’s seat. I smiled, lengthening my fangs to the max. They didn’t need to know my pearly incisors were essentially useless.
“It’s a vampire!” they all gasped in agreement.
I simply nodded. They also didn’t need to know that I was actually a one-of-a-kind mutant, part vampire, part human—and maybe something else that I didn’t even understand myself yet. But I decided to confirm their worst fears by saying, “Yes. I’m a monster. One of the Damned.”
The man stuck at the front of the pack gasped and choked. I wondered what he’d done to his buddies that they would sacrifice him as their shield. A rosary slipped from his fingers.
With a smile, I bent over, picked it up, and offered it back. “Nice beads. From Mardi Gras?” I asked, taking care to showcase my elongated teeth even more. “You might want to hang onto them.”
In spite of my initial anger, the situation was proving to be more entertaining than anything else—provided they didn’t douse my clothing with oil before I could escape. They were a jittery bunch, but they seemed pretty petrified, huddled in a pile as far away from me as they could get. Maybe they’d leave me alone now.
Moving to the rear of the van, I reached for the door handles when the vehicle suddenly screeched to a halt, knocking me against the side. The rear doors wrenched open, and the sudden rush of air that blasted my face made the hair on the back of my neck rise.
They’d found me. My followers. Three men. One woman. There was no mistaking that uniquely chilling scent, and from such a close proximity, it smelled far stronger, far more disturbing, and startlingly … evil.
In that instant, I knew with certainty that the balance of power had shifted out of my grasp.
I was in real danger this time.
I didn’t hesitate. I catapulted myself out of the cargo van. Daylight or not, I moved, summoning every iota of speed, strength, and agility that I possessed. But I’d only gotten about ten feet before they threw a net on me, a fine gossamer version of an old-fashioned fisherman’s net but clearly some form of a hex net like the Terzi one I’d encountered in Venice months before.
So much for escape. It was kill or be killed.
Before the net’s fine mesh of energy-infused cording could render me incapacitated, I unsheathed and launched my blades—all three of them. They found their targets with flawless aim. Two men and one woman went down, crashing back into a parking lot surrounded by a cluster of rusted corrugated metal buildings. An abandoned factory of some kind.
But that was all I could take in of my surroundings before the hex net encased me, and I succumbed to its power. As it sliced through my jacket and the catsuit underneath, digging into my flesh like a living thing, I fell to my knees onto the wet, cold asphalt, struggling to breathe.
One pursuer remained. A man. And I was powerless to stop him as he stalked forward to push the barrel of a gun against my forehead.
“Impressive talent,” he observed in a hostile tone before glancing up at the stunned men still crouched in the van. “Tell that reprobate who hired you to stay out of official business,” he warned roughly. “Now, get out of here, or I’ll hunt you down next.”
They didn’t need to be told twice.
As the van squealed away, I squinted up into my captor’s face, my eyes flooding with tears of pain. He was dressed in a gray overcoat. Black hat and gloves. A plaid scarf. He was of medium height. In his fifties. His leathery face a virtual canvas of deep lines, pits, and wrinkles. And his eyes were brown, filled with hatred.
“We’ve been tracking you for a few days now,” he said in a clipped southern accent. Throwing a quick, dispassionate glance over his shoulder at his dead companions sprawled on the asphalt nearby, he shrugged and added, “I didn’t believe it at first, but now, I see they’ve succeeded in breeding vampires.”
I spat in response. It was the only thing I had strength left to do.
His dark eyes contracted into angry slits. Reaching down, he squeezed my jaws in a vice-like grip, forcing my lips apart as he bent close to peer into my mouth. His unique scent was overpowering at this close range. It made me want to vomit. He definitely wasn’t like any creature I’d met before—Charmed or human.
Whatever he saw in my face amused him. With a smile I couldn’t interpret, he shoved me back, roughly. I fell, striking my head and biting the inside of my cheek. The salty tang of blood filled my mouth. I wanted to attack. I wanted to summon the strength of whatever had possessed me in Venice, whatever had enabled me to annihilate Dougall, but I didn’t know how. And the hex net had drained nearly all of my mana reserves. I could scarcely move.
I settled for a snarl.
“Fangs, but small, dull ones. Look useless to me,” he said to no one in particular. “However they created you, it didn’t quite work out like they wanted, eh?”
He took a small round disk ou
t of his shirt pocket and held it up. The hex net responded the instant he clamped his thumb down on the small red button embedded in the center. I gasped in agony as the thin filaments burrowed deeper into my flesh, slicing my skin like razors and sucking every last drop of mana it could find.
“It doesn’t matter what you are,” my aggressor grunted. As I curled into a fetal position, he knelt beside me, grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking my head back, hard. “I’ll stake you first and then we’ll do a bit of dissecting, eh? In the interest of science. I’ll get my answers. I’m quite handy with knives, myself.”
I could hardly concentrate on what he was saying. The pain was approaching the unbearable.
From somewhere, he produced a red stake with a silver tip. “This should do the trick.”
“I’m afraid it won’t,” a sudden voice cut in, a familiar deep voice, one tinged with a slight British accent. “Not a proper job, anyway. It won’t last.”
One moment, I hugged the cold asphalt in agony. The next, I stood blissfully free of the hex net and safely in the protective circle of Lord Lucian Rowle’s arms.
And I stayed there—for about three seconds.
It’s Cassidy … Not Cass
Lord Lucian Rowle towered over me, as sexy as ever. Penetrating blue eyes. Superb form. Gray jacket. He’d pulled his dark hair into a sleek ponytail that provided a perfect view of his firm jaw which was graced with a five-o’clock shadow. I’ve mentioned before that I have a thing for jawlines. His never failed to distract me, even in such circumstances as these. I indulged in a millisecond of ogling, but I was soon again furious at the man who’d just sliced and diced my jacket, catsuit, and skin with a hex net.
It was time to teach him a lesson.
As my attacker lunged for his gun, I shoved Lucian aside and, pivoting, struck my heel forcefully against the leather-faced man’s groin. He flew back, landing hard on the asphalt, his weapon skittering out of reach.
