A Curse Of Glass And Iron (Dark Heralds Book 2)

by Lynn S.

  A Curse of Glass and Iron

  Dark Herald Series, Book Two

  By Lynn S.

  A Curse of Glass and Iron

  Copyright © 2017 by Lynn S.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: June 2017

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-124-1

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-124-2

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To Kendra Liz, Lysanel, and Ashutosh.

  The Court is halfway there and it wouldn’t have survived without the inspiration brought from

  a Rock Star, a Princess, and Faithful Friend.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  GET (5) FREE READS EVERY FRIDAY!

  Chapter I

  City of the Dead

  The Phantom Queens rarely left their home. They were content with living in the Spheres, away from the battles between Light and Shadows, and from that futile, mortal strife that consisted of trying to make it out of life with something other than crossing into the mystery of a grave.

  They were three, sisters since the universe gave its first steps, when the Earth was nothing but specs of dust dreaming of finding a star to hold on to. As sisters, they loved one another profoundly; as co-workers, the Morrigan found each other bearable. After all, a lot was asked of those who kept an eye on the paths of Agents of Light and Acolytes of Shadow. Their job of watching over a precarious balance was mundanely stressful and precise.

  They had but committed one mistake in the uncountable millennia of their existence. Once they started worrying for human kind, it wasn’t hard to get attached to such fragile creatures.

  Ephemeral by nature, humans were overprotected, though misunderstood by the Light and both hated and underestimated by the Shadows. The Morrigan understood humanity’s ability to harbor good and evil, to give birth to life and war, and they became fascinated accordingly.

  If only the major players, those who pretended to rule the universe, knew that human loyalty, devotion, and priorities, the whole existence of these transient creatures, actually fed and gave life and purpose to the gods, perhaps they might have been more aware of their affairs.

  A little over three thousand years ago—a blink of an eye for a Morrigan—two of them, maybe out of curiosity or trying to further understand and imitate the bond of love between human mother and child, lifted a frail creature from the devastation of the battlefield. It was a blob of pink, cool flesh, close to death, with wide blue eyes and soft platinum hair. The baby cried, just like the young ones of all species did, wielding their only weapon: the alarming call that indicated hunger, thirst, or cold, audible testimony to the misery of existence.

  They knew him for what he was: a leftover, a child abandoned after the transition of the Sons of Aval. A homeless fairy. In those days, humans had discovered the use of iron and, trusting in its might, challenged the last of the supernatural beings claiming a stake on the earthly realm. Many bloody battles ensued and in the end, humans no longer afraid of magic forced their preternatural overlords into exile.

  It wasn’t something to be fooled by. Mythical qualities or not, the world was about propaganda. And as much as history was said to be written by the victors, the fairies had managed to restore, in time, a reputation they never had.

  There should be no sympathy for devils, because they were not at all the benevolent creatures, second only to angels, they sold themselves to be. They were cruel and wicked, deserving of every meeting of iron against flesh.

  But this was just a child, a blank slate, innocent and deemed weak enough to be left behind. And when the twins, Bansit and Mikka, found him wailing his little lungs out, incapable of reaching the portal by himself, they embraced him in the warmth of their wings and placed him at the feet of Annand, the first among the Morrigan.

  Annand was the one who held the highest honor in the throne room: the seat made of polished bone. The engraved ivory of her seat of power was undiscriminating. The main Morrigan rested the weight of her body over bones of mere mortals, anointed kings, and gods alike. That throne room should have never been a place for a child, let alone a son of Aval. But Annand let the best of her take over.

  The first among the Morrigan picked up the baby, tracing the round form of his face with her long fingers. Annand was rendered blind because the Universe thought is best. The sacrifice of a precious sense was nothing compared to its reward: a life that extended into forever, being witness of all, and judge over nothing. It simplified her task—she’d raise her sword without question, always when needed, not missing a heartbeat.

  “What should we do with him?” her sisters asked in unison.

  Annand smiled. Though Mikka and Bansit sprung to life mere seconds after her, the twins would always have that spark of youth, a childlike curiosity that filled their amethyst eyes with wonder and their mouths with questions. The things she could never afford.

  “We’ll do what is required of these cases, sisters. We’ll watch the turn of the wheel, understanding that all reduces to chance. The child will stay. We’ll see what comes of it.”

  They could not feed him with mother’s breast milk, so they gave him what they had. Annand soothed the child, raising her right hand in which there was an open cut that never healed. The blood the Morrigan offered came from her body, but was not her own. Annand was the conduit to purify the blood of those dead in battle, blood that then flowed through her open palm like an eternal spring. In the hands of a Morrigan, human blood lost its taste of iron and salt, turning into sweet nectar fit for an offering. She let the thick drops slip off her fingers until they found their way into the lips of the child.

  Legends have misinterpreted this event, adding sinister details with the turn of each century. But something was undeniable: Francis Alexander drank his first offering of human blood from the hands of the Morrigan, creating a virtually indestructible bond with The Phantom Queens.

  Not only that, it was the sisters’ love and the value given to the little boy that forever changed his platinum strands into dark hair and his eyes, once ice-blue, into the dark of a moonless night. Fairies were parasitical creatures, adapting and adjusting to all that might bring them an advantage. Seeing that
the Morrigan were always in the company of crows, birds of dark feathers, Francis made himself into something they favored.

  The Morrigan tried to give the best of themselves to their unexpected son. At first, they were the center of that child’s universe. But children grew into men, and Francis had grown to be a most capable being, able to mimic humanity to the point of raising no suspicions. Eventually, their beloved child found his way back to the place and the people he was born into.

  The sisters didn’t stop him. They had no right. They watched him leave, knowing that once he crossed the gates of Aval, they’d lost him forever. He whom they raised as their own went looking for his destiny and started forging his future by means of a profound hate for a humanity he felt displaced his kind, and a thirst for power.

  Finding him extremely charming, yet chaotic and unpredictable, the overseers of Fae gave him the title of Dark Herald and assigned him back to the human realm. Some said with a mission, others because the Court could not abide his presence. No one knew for sure, but in the end, he betrayed all he ever stood for, be it Morrigan, Fae, or his own brood. Francis Alexander shed his daughter’s blood as a means to an end, destroying all that was sacred to the Circle. He lied while on consecrated ground, where no fairy could utter falsehood. The Universe paid attention, and in the end, its design further broke the heart of his three foster mothers.

  When someone broke a rule as boldly as he did, The Phantom Queens were given reign to claim justice. That was how the Morrigan were summoned to go on the hunt for Francis Alexander.

  Annand received the notice and considered that sending both sisters to the earthly realm might alert the elusive Sidhe to their presence. So it was determined that Mikka, the most impulsive of the twins, was to stay behind while Bansit, quiet and introverted, was to visit the oracle.

  That was how the shyest of the Morrigan found her way to the mortal plane, and on to the city of New Orleans.

  ***

  New Orleans

  Bansit kept trying to avoid crossing her hands over her shoulders. The worst thing about walking among humans was departing from her wings. It was nothing but a powerful illusion, but still it felt so foreign not to feel the soft ruffle of feathers encasing her. And walking wherever she had to…what a pain.

  For a couple of uncomfortable hours, her legs seemed to give from under her body. She looked clumsy, like a child finding her footing. Not that people would notice. In the eyes of all she might have been a half-drunk college student, one of many celebrating spring break in the city.

  People mostly ignored her, though some made a point of looking at the awkward, leggy blonde with an unwelcomed degree of perversion. Age-wise, she looked not a day over twenty, and the spell that kept her wings well-hidden also dyed her platinum tresses in beige, blonde, and golden highlights. Her eyes, however, were still an iridescent tone of amethyst, which forced her to wear dark glasses and further entertained the notion a hungover college girl.

  “Blessed Louisiana sun…” she hissed through her teeth while bouncing through a crowd of tourists to try to catch the streetcar on the way to the Garden District.

  The Garden District was one of many sites that helped New Orleans gain its well-earned reputation as a place like no other in America. It was not only the obvious opulence and beauty, but even Bansit, so used to observing the thin lines that divide Light from Shadows, couldn’t help but feel a little overwhelmed by the district’s supernatural pulse. The streets hummed an almost imperceptible song and it led both human and otherworldly energy toward a meeting point.

  The city had always been a corridor of souls, one of those points on earth considered a powerful crossroad. Whomever lived in this city long enough learned, at an unconscious level, that everything they have seen from the corner of their eye, those things that made the fine hairs of the neck stand on end and a drop of sweat slip hurriedly down a temple, existed. And those who died there would probably haunt it forever.

  The Morrigan patiently waited while the last group of tourists and mourners walked out of the gates of Lafayette Cemetery #1. A lazy afternoon had finally gotten an upper hand on that resilient sun and a soft shower brought gray clouds over the cemetery. The sky looked as gray as the tombs below.

  “Listen to my summons, Brigitte du Cimetière, Lady of the Graveyard. This is Bansit, one of the Three Who Wait. I need your help, for virtue of this being your city, and because yours is the power to travel the roads of both living and dead, and find things lost…”

  Cicadas hiding in the crevices of tombs fell silent. Blackbirds that had been chattering about the presence of a Morrigan in the city and rested on the branches of nearby trees took flight. Even crows knew there to be such a thing as witnessing too much. The strong presence of tobacco and rum was conjured in the air and Bansit followed that scent through the maze of the cemetery.

  It was to be expected of the Oracle to steer her away from the whitened tombs of the first phase of the graveyard—the resting places that double as tourist attractions. A right and a left, turn after turn, Bansit found herself in the section where graves showed bizarre marks of affection: Xs and Os for wishes made and granted, offerings and prayers of those adept to voodoo.

  It was there, where the concrete cracked and the earth started reclaiming the graveyard, beyond the magnolia grove, where the sweet scent of white flowers was infused with memories and skin and bones, that Bansit found her way to Brigitte.

  “Who goes there?” a half-annoyed female voice asked, as if minutes before Bansit had not identified herself.

  Annand would have given her an ostentatious piece of olden, cryptic wisdom. Mikka would have gladly broken through with a show of force. But Bansit, being Bansit, sheepishly repeated her name while entering the crypt, crossing a threshold that connected a rundown grave to a place that existed outside of reality as humans perceived it. The meeting place of all things visible and invisible, the true City of the Dead.

  “Oh! I should be running to grab a pitcher of sweet tea! At least one of you finally showed up, and expecting Southern hospitality, no less. Where were you, Bansit, when the waters carried more dead than the cemetery was meant to contain? Isn’t your job to fish souls or somethin’? Where the hell were you, musty blackbirds, when this city collapsed upon itself?” Brigitte’s eyes went from deep brown to shimmering topaz before her irises were lost to a furious white. It had been almost ten years but the aggravation and disdain were fresh on her lips and more than evident on her face.

  The lady spoke of Katrina, the most devastating storm recorded in the city’s history. It razed the width of the gulf, hounding New Orleans with winds so intense as to crash a wall of water against the city that effectively locked it between the river and the lake. The marks of a decade old devastation were still around for those who cared to see: foundations exposed, buildings exhibiting water stains and rot close to their roofs, neighborhoods emptied…and more than two thousand souls drifting in the void.

  Bansit was careful to answer.

  “Brigitte, you know our duty lies with those who fall in battle.”

  “And wasn’t it battle enough for you, girl?” Few beings were granted the right to treat the Morrigan as children and live, but Brigitte couldn’t care less. “Did you at least see them from up there where you perch? Thousands fighting against the roar of waters. Didn’t you see them goin’ for their lives, you goddam crow? Or perhaps because their lungs were full of water and not lead, their struggle was not as important?”

  Brigitte was no mere spirit, she was the tutelary guide of the city. Eternal, encased in flesh. The loa who watched upon the crossroads did not allow for her to leave the city. Not that she would, if given the chance. She did what she had to. Brigitte stayed and died ten times over, trapped under debris, her lungs filled with mud and sludge, again and again, until the waters receded.

  Though Bansit understood her frustration, she also knew that Brigitte du Cimetière dealt in strength, and she had been known to gobble
up major entities just because she could.

  “I am sorry, Brigitte, I truly am, but the Earth has a right also, doesn’t it?” The Morrigan spoke firmly while doing away with her dark glasses. “Winds rise, oceans turn upon the coasts, the ground underneath our feet trembles and swallows cities, forests burn, and we all have to watch while this tired globe cleans house. You say I was nowhere to be seen. Where was Wedo, your brother? Isn’t he supposed to be the guiding spirit of life in this city? Where were the angels, the elementals who draw their strength from the same source of all that destruction? Surely doing the same thing we had to do. Keeping silent. Observing. Accepting. Do not lay blame on me, Brigitte, there is as much reason in that as blaming the sun for setting in the west and not the east. Now, what brings me here…there is something coming toward your city, and we can help one and other.”

  Perhaps Bansit was right. Brigitte was notorious for not suffering fools or weaklings, and though her claim might have been genuine, it was a way to try to reel in the one she perceived as the most fragile of the Morrigan. Something in Bansit’s answer gave her, if not solace, at least some satisfaction.

  “For the love of Light ’n’ Shadows!” Brigitte’s voice came back at Bansit with a noticeable delighted twang. “Well, at least the youngest of the Morrigan seems to have some cojones.” The loa was known through all realms for her love of occasional vulgarity and well placed foul language. A return to her usual self denoted interest on whatever Bansit brought to her table.

  Brigitte leaned, relaxed, touching the wall of the crypt with the back of her chair and resting her feet on top of the table in front of her. She wore alarmingly red stilettos and her ankles were adorned with engraved silver chains and charms. Petite in all accounts, but dressed in order to make her toned legs her best asset, with pants that were a little too fond to be shorts. Batting her lashes, she allowed for a calculated smile.