Unchained: Feathers and Fire Book 1

by Shayne Silvers

  I nodded slowly, thankfully. Because the monster was some flavor of werewolf, or shifter. And I was a wizard. As was Roland. I already struggled with my feelings, my place in this world. I felt stained, unclean, because we weren’t like anyone else. We were different from the Regulars — the term we had applied to those who didn’t have magic in their blood. But some of us did have magic in our blood. We were Freaks, as some of the conspiracy theorists called us — those who did believe magic was real. They considered us abominations. Nightmares.

  We were outcasts.

  Roland was studying me, looking ready to chastise me further. Or to comfort me. I didn’t want either. I decided I wanted out of here. And Roland was hurt. He needed to be out of here. What was I doing sitting here feeling sorry for myself?

  I climbed to my feet, reaching out a hand towards Roland. He looked from my hand to my face. “Search him. He was our target, not the other one. I never heard anything about a wolf with a notched ear. Lord willing, he has what we seek.” I let out a shaky breath, meeting his eyes. I saw only resolve. The eyes of my master giving a command that he expected obeyed. Or else. I turned, walking up to the wolf. He hadn’t shifted back to human, and the blue daggers still flickered with icy heat, the blood burned to crust around the edges of the wound.

  I turned, frowning at Roland. “Do wolves wear fanny packs?” I asked, sarcasm trying to replace my disgust and anxiety.

  That brought a faint smirk. “Check his neck. Under the fur. He wouldn’t have risked leaving it out of his sight.”

  I turned back to the wolf, frowning as I carefully stepped around the bloody mud puddle. The flickering blades vanished, and the wolf crashed to the ground, right into the puddle, splashing me with dirty, bloody water. All over my fucking boots.

  “God—” I began to curse, knowing he had done it on purpose.

  A flicker of pain tugged at my ear, changing my curse to a yelp.

  “We do not use the Lord’s name in vain,” Roland recited, voice full of practiced warning.

  I pulled my hand from my ear, expecting to see blood. It felt hot to the touch, but he hadn’t broken skin. I locked angry eyes on him. “You could have dropped him before, or given me a heads-up.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” he asked. I turned my back on him. The monster was now a naked man, lying at the base of the tree. And I saw that he was wearing a leather necklace with a small key below the gory hole where his jaw had been. I bit back my tongue, and quickly snatched it, giving it a sharp tug to break the cord, avoiding looking above his neck at the grisly wound.

  I shivered, walking urgently back up to Roland, very aware of the uncomfortable, wriggling sensation in my stomach that was trying to persuade me to vomit for a good half-hour straight. I handed him the key, and he let out a sigh of relief before pocketing it. “Good. At least some good came of this cursed night.” I reached out a hand, and he accepted begrudgingly. I tugged him up so he could support at least some of his weight on his good leg. He growled a lot, grunts and hisses escaping his lips, but I managed to get his heavily muscled arm draped back over my shoulder, and began shuffling us back to his car. It wasn’t that far. Half a mile, maybe.

  “Let’s get you to a hospital. Then we—”

  “The church,” he corrected. “No hospitals.”

  “But—”

  “The church,” he repeated with grim finality.

  I sighed, leading him into the darkness. “You owe me a new shirt.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Perhaps you will dress better next time, girl.” Stubborn old man, I thought to myself.

  But I listened.

  After all, one must listen to one’s elders…

  Chapter 3

  Abundant Angel Catholic Church was an old, old building, made entirely of stone, brick, and mortar. It stood out from its neighbors on a hill between downtown Kansas City and the Plaza. A fifty-something year old man sat behind his desk, listening to Roland. Father David was a good guy, and although his office was clinically bare, it felt warm and soothing. I — as usual during meetings between these two — sat on a couch to the side of the room, doing my mime impersonation while Roland chose what to share.

  And what not to share with the good father.

  Because Roland was a man of the Catholic Church, one of the Vatican’s fabled Shepherds. I was just here to learn from him. His student. Despite spending the better part of a decade training with him, I had never felt truly comfortable in churches. I wasn’t against them, per se, but I wasn’t entirely open to them either. Well, after tonight, it seemed I did work for the church. Even if only as a temporary employee. Because I had no desire to become a Shepherd like Roland.

  Up until this evening, Roland had simply been training me, for personal reasons, or so he said. The wolves tonight had been the first time he had taken me out on a job where I was allowed to participate. I had been his driver before, even able to watch hunts from a distance, but never to stand by his side.

  I had thought we were going for ice cream tonight, a celebration of me being his best student, or something. But Roland was old school, and he had silently, sneakily taken me on a trial by fire. To assist Kansas City’s Shepherd on a hunt.

  The Vatican had twelve Shepherds, and their job was to wander the earth, from church to church, helping to serve those in need. Usually with an Old Testament-flavored hug and a kiss. They took care of all the dark stuff: exorcisms, abductions, vampires, possessions, monsters, and anything else that didn’t fit well into the mainstream narrative. Not that the typical Priest believed in these things, but when the Vatican sent an order, the church and Priests obeyed. But Father David did believe. He knew there were monsters out there, but only because Roland had spent close to a decade here. Longer than most Shepherds spent in one particular church.

  And that was all because of little old me.

  He had saved my life once, and I quickly discovered that the price of my salvation was to become his student. He had decided to stick around town after that, rather than hopping all over the world like his brother Shepherds. And he found his home in Abundant Angel Catholic Church with Father David.

  But Father David had been no stranger to me. Because he had also saved my life once when I was a very, very small child.

  I had spent years thinking of conspiracies that could have brought these two men together, intermeshed in a secretive plot to save my eternal soul, but had given up years and years ago, finally admitting how crazy I sounded. Simply put, I wasn’t that special. After telling Roland about my experience with Father David, he had simply said, ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’ And since Roland would never, ever lie about anything related to his god, I dropped it, and accepted that I was the luckiest woman in the world. Father David had once saved me, just doing his job, but Roland’s arrival almost fifteen years later had brought us crashing back together like magnets. Maybe Divine Intervention was real, but that was more than I wanted to think about.

  “You found it?” Father David asked, snapping me out of my reverie. He had short, thinning blonde hair and light eyes. He was as tall as a door, and sported no muscle to speak of, but I knew he jogged religiously. Ha.

  Roland grunted, shifting slightly in his wooden chair. He was a big man, built like an aged blacksmith, complete with black buzzed hair, a short, thick beard, and scarred knuckles. His face was hard, but kind. Loyal. Steadfast. He had bandaged himself up in his office before we came up here to talk with Father David. I had no idea why we were wasting time up here, though. Roland should have been at the hospital or something. Shepherds were immune to things like werewolf and vampire venom, but he was still leaking his holy wine all over the Father’s chair. But telling Roland what he should be doing was a good way to learn firsthand the various uses of the word smite.

  Understanding this from experience, I picked up a magazine and leaned back into the couch, pretending to read, and silently betting on how long it would take for Roland to pass out from his injuries
. That would show him.

  I heard him set a metal object on the desk, and glanced up over the rim of the magazine. The key I had grabbed from the wolf. My Detective Comics hat came on as my mind rehashed the questions that plagued me since our meeting with the wolves. Where had the other wolf gone? Had the injured one attacked us to create a diversion so the other could escape? But the injured one had held the key, so that just didn’t make any sense…

  Father David’s lips tightened, but he made no move to touch the blood-stained key. “Have you checked the contents of the box?”

  Roland shook his head. “We were… preoccupied.”

  I snorted at his understatement. “You almost had your damned leg torn off,” I muttered under my breath, but I knew Roland had heard me, if not the Priest.

  “We…” Father David repeated slowly. “Is Callie officially working for you, now?”

  “No,” I said at the same time that Roland said, “yes.”

  We locked eyes with each other, and Roland chuckled before turning back to Father David. “Your magazine is upside down, girl,” he called over his shoulder. I scowled at his back, tossing the magazine back to the table with a whispered curse. “In a way, she works for me,” he amended.

  “I… see.” It was clear that Father David didn’t see. I didn’t see. Because I wasn’t going to be a Shepherd, bowing and scraping to a bunch of dusty old skeletons in Italy. Never. If Roland hadn’t been injured, I would have shoved one of my energy sticks down his throat. Well… I would have tried.

  “We will attempt to see if the key works after we leave here, but I wanted to speak with you first. The Vatican needs to know that there was more than one of them tonight, and that one escaped before justice could be delivered. They need to know that their information was faulty. Which caused me great harm,” he added in a tone as dry as gravel. “From now on, I do this my way. They will be notified once I’m finished with my good work, and will not interfere,” he leaned forward slowly, hulking over the desk, “until I say they can.”

  Father David shivered, licking his lips, even though it had nothing to do with him, because he wasn’t involved with Roland’s work. They were two arms of the same being that was controlled by the Vatican, and neither was in charge of the other. Father David was likely imagining sending that threatening message to the Vatican, and them possibly taking out their displeasure on the messenger rather than Roland.

  “I will do as you ask, but… couldn’t you have sent that message yourself? Perhaps you want to call in assistance,” he said nervously.

  Roland met his gaze, unflinching, but Father David’s shoulders stiffened. “Do you question me, Father?” he asked softly. Very softly. Like the sound a katana makes when leaving the sheath. Or a lone dead leaf dragging across concrete on Halloween night.

  It wasn’t a threat. It was just Roland’s way. He had one person who questioned him. His old master. The only other one he listened to was God. Or, I guess the Vatican. But even they couldn’t control him completely, and judging by his track record, they saw no need to press the issue. He accepted and denied jobs at will. No one questioned why anymore. Everyone else was not worthy of his time. Even if on the same side. Hell, he was the only Shepherd allowed to set up a permanent base rather than travel the world on call.

  “My apologies, Roland. I’m just trying to understand. Surely, you could have called them on your drive, and you could have seen to your injury before coming to me. I meant no offense, old friend.” And I knew he hadn’t. But something that wasn’t said by Roland was that this was a big extension of trust, a silent statement of his opinion of Father David. Neither said anything, but I knew Father David would eventually see that.

  But, like a depressing number of stupid, hairy men in the world, Roland just sat there in silence like a moss-covered boulder in a stream, unrelenting. It was almost laughable.

  Not feeling like dying today, I didn’t laugh, though.

  Roland pocketed the key, and staggered to his feet. “Keep this talk between us and the Vatican. And lock the doors, Father. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  Father David opened his mouth, but Roland was already shuffling away, fiery eyes latching onto me as he jerked his head for me to follow. I shot one last look at Father David, shrugged apologetically, and then followed my mentor.

  Chapter 4

  “Somebody’s grouchy today. Need a Band-Aid? Or do you want me to kiss it—”

  “Enough, girl. Let’s get this over with.” We stepped out of the church to stare up at the full moon through a haze of light rain misting down on us. We were already soaked, so I didn’t really care at this point. “You’re driving this time. I’ll have one of the sisters clean my vehicle.” Because he had bled all over it, and now he wanted to bleed all over mine. But I very wisely didn’t say that part. Still, I did let my mouth run a little. I had a little more leeway than others when it came to speaking my mind to Roland. And I wanted to avenge his unfair treatment of Father David. And because it was fun pestering the old hawk.

  “Of course,” I said. His steely gaze locked onto mine, and I put on my best mask of innocence and obedience, something all daughters learn from manipulating their fathers. “It’s just that old men can’t see well at night. You said you wanted to get there quickly, and you don’t have your glasses with you,” I added in a syrupy tone, patting him on the shoulder before I quickly slipped away, sure to stay on his bad side so he couldn’t pummel me with a Bible or something.

  “One of these days, girl…” he muttered, but he was smiling to himself, shaking his head. He couldn’t argue with me, because I had slipped in a little rationality. Arguing that would only make him look ignorant. He knew my moves, though. I would pay for it later. But that was our relationship.

  I winked at him, climbing into my Chevy S10 pickup truck.

  He collapsed into the passenger side, much less gracefully than usual, and I saw that his bandage featured a large crimson stain. “We should probably get you checked out before—”

  “Drive, girl.” Before I could ask, he spouted off the address — which was in a questionable section of town — and then stared out the window with a stubborn grimace on his face. Likely of pain. Rather than argue, I drove. Because the faster we got this over with, the faster we got him taken care of. And I was still shaken up about the night. The fighting. The death. The fear. They were coming back to me now that we were heading back out into danger.

  I turned up the music, dipping my head to the bass as we drove. I could listen to anything with a good beat. Except Country music. For whatever reason, it made my skin crawl. I could acknowledge the skill of the singer, but would still forever hate the music itself. Even though I lived in Missouri, where everyone seemed to love it, I couldn’t stand it. At all.

  Roland slammed a hand down on the volume knob, shutting it off as he shot an incredulous stare at me. I frowned, but turned my attention back to the road. “What?”

  “Do you even listen to the words?” he managed, grinding his teeth.

  I frowned, replaying the song in my head. A slow smile crept onto my face. “It’s called rap, Roland. It’s not 1940 anymore. Rittz is one of my favorites. I like the beat. Keeps me focused.”

  “Not when I’m in the vehicle. We’ll listen to good, wholesome, quality music.” He began fiddling with the dial. I rolled my eyes as I navigated a left turn, mentally tracing the address in my head. I was pretty good with driving in the city. Only rarely did I need to use my phone or GPS. Because I had been Roland’s driver for quite some time, now. And sometimes that entailed fast escapes from surviving monsters.

  Everything was going well until he stopped fidgeting with the radio, and leaned back with a contented sigh. I jerked the wheel to the right, carelessly bumping up over the curb on the side of the street as I shoved the truck into park. I ignored his gasp of pain. “No,” I said flatly.

  His gaze darted around the truck, searching for threats. Seeing none, he turned back to me. I met his
eyes and slowly reached down to the volume knob. I pressed it all the way in, shutting down the stereo like he had. I let out a slow sigh, overly dramatic, and then turned back to him. “That will never happen again,” I whispered.

  “Country music?” he asked, voice incredulous.

  “Never again, Roland. Or I’ll buy you a walker right now. With tennis balls on the legs for safety. And you can shuffle your handicapped ass down to the storage units by yourself.”

  “Language…” he warned.

  I pressed the unlock button on the doors, folding my arms over my breasts. He shook his head at me in disbelief for a few seconds, and then began to bark out a deep laugh. He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. But no gangster music either. We’re not drug-dealing hoodlums.”

  “And we aren’t inbred, drunk rednecks.”

  “Just because someone listens to Country music does not make them inbred, drunk, or a redneck,” he shook his head, eyes full of judgment.

  I smiled at him, batting my eyelashes as I flashed my teeth victoriously. “By that logic, listening to Rap does not suddenly make one become a drug-dealing hoodlum…”

  His scowl hardened, seeing his argument turned back on him. He grunted, neither in agreement nor disagreement. “Fine. No music.”

  “Damn right,” I said, pulling the truck back out into the street.

  “Language,” he repeated, “and I’m telling your father about this. Terry will not be pleased to hear his daughter is a drug-dealing hoodlum.” He was smiling.

  “The Vatican wouldn’t like to hear that you’re a drunk, inbred redneck, either.” His light laughter changed to a hiss as the truck bounced off the curb, pressing his injured leg into the door. “Sorry,” I murmured, actually feeling guilty as I glanced down at the growing crimson stain. It was my fault he had been injured in the first place, and my fault I hurt him further with my careless driving. The familiar teasing was helping me avoid my own fears. And other worries bothered me as well.