by Jaci Miller
Mr. Callan reached out and squeezed her hand. “You must also tell me the rest of what you and Dane came here to disclose.”
“The rest?” She rubbed her aching head. What had she told him during their frantic phone call?
“I’m aware of the prophecy Stevie, and your connection to the ancient bloodlines of Thanissia. Although much of what you told me on the phone was incoherent, I connected the dots enough to recognize that my father’s suspicions, at least about Dane, were correct. How far has the prophecy progressed?”
“Enough to understand we are involved—me, Dane, Kai, Gabby, Elyse, and Marlee.”
Mr. Callan’s attention shifted towards the dark sky. “And the old worlds, are they awakening? Is the ancient magic getting stronger?”
“I believe so. All the Druidstones except one has been reignited. The others have gone with the immortals to the Air realm. Dane and I are supposed to meet them.”
“Immortals?”
Her shoulders sagged. “It’s a long story but there are others from the realms. Survivors who’ve been waiting for the prophecy to pass.”
Callan nodded. “Interesting, I would never have guessed any of the ancients would have survived this long.”
“A few did.” Stevie shuffled the snow with the toe of her boot. “There’s something else.”
“What is it?”
“Dane. She’s bound to one of them.”
Mr. Callan’s green eyes widened. “Bound?”
“A magical intertwining of emotions that connect two people, I mean immortals together. It’s an intense experience and apparently exceedingly rare.”
His face paled, and she wondered if she’d divulged too much. “I thought you should know.”
“Have you met this person.”
“I have. His name is Rafe and he is very interesting. He’s an ancient warrior, a Warlician.”
Mr. Callan’s breath hitched. “A Warlician warrior from the ancient realms bound to the ancestor of the Warlician line. That is interesting. I’m sure even my father couldn’t predicate that.”
“Dane’s grandfather?”
His eyes softened noticing Stevie’s confusion. “Yes. It seems my father knew of this prophecy and Dane’s connection to it. He’d been researching it for years. Connecting our family lineage with the myths passed down through generations. I suspect he intended to pass on the information gathered to Dane, but never got the chance.”
The edges of the night sky began to brighten, an indication that dawn was not far off.
“You will need to go to the Air realm.”
“I can’t. The portal key is with Dane.”
“How did the others get there?”
“Through the portal in Braemore Woods. A tree. An Elder Oak.”
“Then that is your answer.”
“What about Dane?”
His green eyes flashed once again with the sorrow he desperately tried to hide from her. “Only Dane has the power to change her destiny.”
Nathan Callan scrutinized the brightening sky. “Dawn will break in a few hours, we must hurry.”
As if on command the others appeared from the shadows and walked without pause toward the dark house. A muscular blonde man with pale skin and ice-blue eyes waved his hand and a ripple interrupted the dim. He pulled the hoodie of his black jacket over his head and knelt on the snow-covered ground.
As they passed him, the soft-spoken words of an incantation drifted toward her ears. “What’s he doing?”
“Jon is what we call a visualist. His ability allows him to create illusions and make people see something that isn’t real by physically altering the energy around an object. Jon will ensure the house looks normal and empty while we work. Just in case any of my neighbors pass by.”
Stevie followed Mr. Callan and the others into the dark house. The metallic scent of blood wafted down the stairs, suffocating them in its appalling odor. Bile rose in her throat, and she choked it down willing herself to ascend the stairs.
Steeling her nerves, she entered the master suite after Mr. Callan. His shoulders sagged at the scene inside—his wife butchered and left to bleed out like a slaughtered animal. The room spun as she tried to quash the overwhelming feeling of horror rampaging through her. Blood pounded in her ears. Her eyes drifted to the corner of the room where the young man, Dane’s father had sent in earlier, knelt his fingers sliding across the bloodied floor.
“What did you find, Alistair?” Mr. Callan asked, clearing his throat.
“Traces of the usual ritualism powders and dark alchemy are present but no hint of daemonic energy. This atrocity wasn’t committed by someone or something not of this world. Whoever killed your wife, was human.”
“Are you sure?” His voice deepened, stress and grief straining his attempt at calm.
Alistair shook his head. “Regrettably, yes.”
“So, one of our own broke the covenant.”
“It would appear so.”
“Can you track them?”
“It will be difficult, but I think I can.” He hesitated. “Nathan, there is something else.”
“What is it?”
“Some of Ella’s blood is missing.”
Nathan flinched and a somberness surrounded him. “He took it.”
Alistair’s golden gaze flashed, and he nodded.
Stevie scanned the macabre scene in front of her. Blood spatter coated the walls and saturated the bedding. “How can you be sure of such a thing?”
Alistair cocked his head. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at her as if bored. His nostrils flared. “Call it a gift or a curse, whatever you like. I know things. I can sense anomalies in others.”
He walked to where they stood and kindly placed his hand on Mr. Callan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry Nathan we all loved Ella. If it’s of any solace, she didn’t suffer.”
Alistair’s eyes locked on Nathan Callan’s, and something unsaid passed between them. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
“When would you like the cleaners to come up?”
Mr. Callan sighed. “Send them up in ten.”
Alistair’s golden eyes pierced the room’s dimness as he eyed Stevie.
Shivers crept across the back of her neck as his eyebrow raised and he mouthed FIRE as he passed her and exited the bedroom.
The echo of his footsteps followed him as he retreated to the floor below. Confused by their interaction and perturbed by his insolence she shifted uncomfortably. His piercing gaze left her unsettled. Pushing the image of Alistair’s face out of her mind she stepped toward Mr. Callan. “What is Alistair going to track?”
Nathan Callan’s sad green eyes turned toward her. “Alistair is a hunter and is most effective in tracking daemons. In the right circumstances, he can track almost any type of magic. Alistair is part witch and part daemon, so his senses project on multiple levels making him highly intuitive—an effective tool in our line of work.”
“Daemon?” Stevie gasped.
He smiled. “You’re new to this world and there’s much you don’t understand. For now, you will have to accept it as is as I don’t have the time to explain. Alistair may be a little brash, but he is a talented hunter and loyal friend.”
Mr. Callan’s lips quirked, and his green eyes flashed.
“So, you’re the ancestor from the fire realm.” He saw the confusion shadow her face. “Alistair is perceptive and sensed your energy when he brushed by you. I can feel a difference as well. Immortality suits you, my dear. Knowing your current family, it doesn’t come as a surprise that you’re born from the Dragon Gypsies of old.”
Stevie forced a smile. “You seem to know a lot about the ancient realms.”
Mr. Callan’s green eyes softened. “Myths told to me by my father. Bedtime stories of make-beli
eve lands. Or so I thought.” He pulled his shoulders back. “I am sorry you have to carry this burden. Destiny is not always kind.”
I He brushed her cheek affectionately then turned and walked toward his wife. His hands shook as he placed them on either side of her head and bent over her grazing his lips across her pallid ones.
The tenderness of the moment left Stevie feeling uncomfortable, and she averted her gaze.
He pulled back. A frown deepened his brow as his tongue swept over his lips. He lifted his fingers to his mouth running them over the skin and then sniffed the tips—concern evident on his face.
“Do you recognize anything specific about this ritual?” Nathan Callan turned abruptly back to where she stood.
Her hands trembled and her mouth went dry as tears began to sting her eyes. “No, how would I?”
“Your ancestors were great alchemists. It’s in your blood. Look beyond the obvious. What do you see?”
A wave of nausea battered her stomach, and she rubbed her clammy hands on her jeans trying to calm her nerves.
Mr. Callan motioned for her to stand beside him. “Use your gift.”
Stevie moved on unsteady feet toward the bed unsure of what exactly he meant for her to do. The acidic aroma of dried blood engulfed her, and she held her breath against its pungent scent. Her hand shook as she moved it toward Ella Watts’ lifeless body. A tingle crept through her fingertips as they touched cold skin. Her magic surged, the ancient energy flowing through her. Like in the old mill, when she’d first encountered the daemon pods, her blood began to race. It pounded in her ears, the roar deafening, as its curiosity came forth.
“Belladonna,” she whispered.
“Yes, and plenty of it. I can taste the bitterness of the poisonous plant on her lips.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means Alistair’s correct; my wife didn’t suffer through a torturous death. Her assailant gave her a peaceful one prior to desecrating her body.”
“Why?”
“My guess would be they genuinely didn’t want her to suffer. Her death was one of necessity; to make a statement.”
“For what purpose?”
“I’m not sure. The timing suggests it might have everything to do with the prophecy and possibly all of you. Someone wanted to send a message.”
Stevie cringed as she stared at the wall, where the word WRATH, written in blood, had begun to dry and crack. The word obviously meant something to the killer and defined this horrific act.
Whatever message they tried to send it was personal and directed at Dane—but to what end?
Chapter 3
Ash swirled languidly around her and Diego as they sat atop the massive ethereal beast. The wings of the smoke dragon flapped noiselessly, propelling them through the dissipating night sky. The cold air bit cruelly at her cheek before the warmth of the whispering smoke vanquished it back into the darkness.
Diego lifted his head, glancing at her before he shifted his weight and returned to a comfortable sleep. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the bleak gloom enshrouding the world prior to the break of dawn. The dark houses dotting the landscape below were visible in the muted light. They sailed silent overhead; their presence oblivious to the mortals still asleep within those dim structures.
The emerging sun began coloring the distant horizon in a palette of morning hues. A subtle rainbow of purple, deep oranges and mottled blues appeared as the dawn heralded the beginning of another day. The waking daybreak calmed her frazzled nerves, and she closed her eyes allowing her mind to wander back through the last few hours.
Naomi and Stella, the cleaners, had used a specific type of old-world magic to ensure the bedroom no longer looked like a crime scene. Miraculously, they put Ella Watts’ mutilated corpse back together, leaving her with a belly scar that could certainly pass as a cesarean incision.
Eli, the third male in the group of five was nicknamed ‘the doctor,’ because of his unique abilities. He could manipulate the bodies organs, blood, chemistry, even DNA to replicate any disease he desired. After the cleaners finished, Eli simply changed Mrs. Watt’s symptoms so the medical examiner would, during the autopsy, conclude she had indeed succumbed to a heart attack.
From the time Nathan Callan and the others arrived, everything had happened so fast. By the time he told her to leave, minutes before the emergency responders came, absolutely nothing looked unusual. The Syndicate ensured everyone involved would concur, Mrs. Watts died of natural causes. As the flashing lights from the emergency vehicles woke up the neighborhood, the witches disappeared into the shadows of the fading night. Mr. Callan remained—the grieving widower.
Stevie opened her eyes as a shift in their trajectory drew her mind away from the grisly happenings of the night.
The smoke dragon began to descend on Brighton Hill. It glided soundlessly through the twilight, staying on the shadowed side of the rising sun as it made its way to the Elder Oak.
As they flew toward the clearing, she wondered again where Dane had gone. Her calls and texts remained unanswered and the deafening silence from her best friend concerned her. She’d never seen such visceral anger like that from Dane and Stevie was apprehensive about what she might do—and to whom.
The bulky shadow of the old mill stretched upward into the early morning sky, a stalwart silhouette standing in contrast against the rising color heralding in a new day. Its interior loomed dark and forlorn as Dane stood with her back against a tree, watching the first strands of light creep over the horizon. Her hands shook as the rage churning through her blood caused her magic to behave erratically. She flexed them trying to gain control.
Her eyes searched the darkness trapped inside the old mill, but no visible light penetrated any of its windows. Her eyes scanned the façade, searching for any indication that the redhead dwelt somewhere inside the mill’s depths.
Dane had come here for one reason—revenge.
Lilith mercilessly slaughtered her mother and now must pay for her sins. The empathy Dane once had for the young woman was now consumed by grief and hate. The ancient dark would no longer have its puppet. Lilith may be under its control, but it didn’t matter her death was imminent and as a result, the dark witch would finally be free of its daemonic clutches.
Dane couldn’t save Lilith in life but maybe in death, she would find some peace.
“The stillness of the breaking dawn is hauntingly beautiful, is it not?”
Dane whirled at the sound of the voice, energy balls bursting from her palms at the unexpected intrusion.
“Easy.”
The voice echoed from the dark still unaffected by the early morning light. Her eyes searched the gloom behind the tree looking for its source, but the shadows exposed nothing.
“Reveal yourself,” she demanded, lifting her magic-laden hands higher. Shadows shifted as something in their midst moved within them. The snow crunched underfoot breaking the stifling silence surrounding the mill as a man emerged from the darkness, his pace tentative. He was tall and well-dressed. His dark blue suit and polished brown shoes oddly out of place in the snowy field.
“I mean you no harm,” the man said lifting his hands in a nonthreatening gesture.
“And who exactly are you?” Dane hissed. Green energy spit from her palms as her powers reacted to the change in her emotions.
With profound confidence, the stranger moved seductively toward her until he stood mere inches away. Like a snake stalking its unwitting prey, his mannerisms were poised and unabashed. He looked down at the energy churning in her palms, but no indication he feared her power reflected in his blue eyes—only curiosity.
His lips quirked, as the cold night air dissipated around him. The subdued light of dawn flickered across his perfect features. His piercing eyes locked on her own as a smug smile played on his lips.
“Someone who’s been l
ooking forward to meeting you for a long time,” he replied.
A strange sensation spread with his words. A serenity that extinguished her rage, lulling her into a sense of euphoria. His proximity disarmed her, and Dane lowered her hands. Her mind whirled at the sudden retreat of her fierce emotions as she unwillingly submitted to the tranquility emanating around him.
Her eyes drifted over his features, studying the stranger standing before her. An intentional unkempt shave highlighted his square jaw and his hair was cut short on the sides but kept longer on top. It swept upward off his forehead and away from its perfect side part. Thick dark brows lifted in amusement.
“And does someone have a name?” Her voice tightened as she frowned at his insolence. Her body tensed a reaction to the bizarre energy wafting around them.
He smiled again; his lips parted. Lifting his hand, he caressed her cheek. Flinching, Dane glared at him. She wanted to retreat, to step away from this stranger, but her ability to break from the provocative trance holding her in its grip did not seem important.
She waited for his response, seething at his brazen attitude.
“Lucien. Lucien Beck.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Not yet.” Lucien lowered his hand and took a step back. His aqua eyes flashed as he continued to stare, his head tilting as he studied her. “So, I finally get to meet the incomparable Dane Watts-Callan.”
“How do you know who I am?” She questioned, the unease creeping back.
“Let’s just say, I’ve done my homework.”
“What does that mean?”
His eyes penetrated hers. “Do you believe in destiny, Dane?”
Her breath hitched as the beating of her heart increased.
“I assume you are here for Lilith,” he continued, not waiting for a response.
“What do you know of Lilith?”
The tranquility encapsulating her dispersed and an intense rage surged inside her.
Lucien put his hands in his pants pockets and nonchalantly looked toward the old mill. “She’s my sister.”
