by Casey Lane
Her mentor gasped as the magic blasted through his midsection and caused him to completely evaporate before he could finish. The man who’d made her into a hunter had completely faded from existence.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lyra sat on a cold, metal chair 10 stories below the Hancock Tower. After a scolding from Rhea, Doug and Mace left her alone with her thoughts for a while. Even though she should be cursing his name and burning him in effigy, she couldn’t help but flip through old photos on her new phone that showed her mentor in better times.
She paused on one particular picture that showed the man with his arm around her at her thirteenth birthday party. Somehow, whoever had taken the photo had even encouraged him to smile. Her smile was beaming too. It was a happier time. A time potentially filled with coerced murder, but a happier time nonetheless.
She imagined that a regular person in a similar situation might cry, but she simply looked down at the photo and stared. "What did he mean it wasn’t a choice? Who were you trying to save? Me?"
She wasn’t sure how long she looked down at the photo before Mace cleared his throat to get her attention.
Lyra gestured with her head and he took the unforgiving metal seat beside her.
Mace looked down at her phone. "You were a cute kid. What happened?"
Lyra suppressed an urge to punch him hard in the shoulder. "What do you mean? I look just like that. I think I might even still fit into that dress."
Mace took one look down at her bosom before catching her eyes again. "Whatever you say."
Lyra sighed. "We would have died up there if it wasn’t for Rhea. What did you mean when you were talking about her up there? How could she be neither human nor unhuman?"
"What I’ve told you is everything she’s told me. It’s rare to see her use her power like that, but obviously, she came in at just the right time."
Lyra nodded and stowed the phone in her pocket. She took in the vampire beside her. A lot had happened in the last few days, but she hadn’t forgotten that the prince by her side had seen her naked, brushed his lips against her neck, and had sucked the blood from her body. It was a pretty intimate start to things.
He caught her eyes on his body. "I need to tell you something."
"If you’re going to tell me I’m not as cute as I once was, you can stow it."
His smile was infectious, but it faded quickly. "When I attacked Piers and drew his blood, I could see some of his past."
"And?"
Mace shuffled uncomfortably. "I could see that he did engage in some type of deal to get his powers. Whatever he lost in the bargain, it was major."
Lyra chewed at her cheek. What could it have been that Piers lost? Did whatever he traded change who he was?
Lyra pictured the dissolving man in her mind. "Can you see who it was with? Do you know what it is he traded?"
Mace shook his head. "There’s only so much you can tell through the blood. It’s just snippets of moments that you need to try to string together."
Lyra smiled. "And what did you see through my blood?"
Mace leaned toward her, the smell of his skin and the sweat from his body wafting over. "I saw a few regrets. Maybe a few dreams. Perhaps…a few desires."
Lyra’s heart beat faster as he tilted his head and moved his lips toward her. There was nothing more she wanted than to let him make impact. Before he did, she placed her hand on his shoulder to stop him.
She let out a deep breath. "If I’m truly going to join up with your little gang, I don’t want any reason to leave."
Mace pulled back sporting a confused look. "Kissing now doesn’t have to change that.”
Her grin remained internal. "It will though. It will. It can’t help but change things." She looked up into his eyes and wished the truth wasn’t the truth. "I’m sorry though."
He nodded. "Of course. I have to respect that." Mace slumped back in his chair and looked up to the high ceiling. "You do want me though, right? This is one of those tortured ‘you really want to, but your job is too important to let it get in the way–’"
"Shut up. You’re so full of yourself."
He smirked. "I’m pretty great, so it’s easy to be full of myself."
Lyra pursed her lips. "How do we know that Rhea isn’t just another Piers? How do we know she isn’t out for her own agenda?"
Mace’s look went from saucy to serious in a hurry. "I guess there's no way to really know. But she did just step in and save thousands of unhumans."
She looked up to the ceiling as well. "Piers saved people too."
Another wave of silence hit as they looked up toward the bustling city above.
Mace turned his attention toward her. "I have no way of knowing what Rhea really wants. But I know that I'm looking forward to working with you."
He patted her twice on the thigh and walked away.
Lyra looked down at her leg and then pulled her phone back out. When she unlocked it, it still remained on the picture of her and Piers from long ago.
She stared into the eyes of her dead mentor. "I'm not sure why you didn't have a choice, but I do. And I hope I'm making the right one."
Lyra put her mourning on hold and chose to get to work.
If you plan to continue with this series, there’s an epilogue…but I suggest you stop here if you don’t like cliffhangers and don’t plan to continue.
Thanks for reading!
Epilogue
A pale vampire wearing a long, red cloak shuffled through the darkness. If it weren't for the glowing, green magic of his eyes, he would've easily tripped over the rocks jutting from the ground in the musty cave. He dug his claws nervously into his palm and released them. He repeated the gesture several times as he guessed at his master's reaction to the upcoming news. He licked his lips, brushing his tongue against his fangs.
I hope he doesn't stake the messenger.
The vampire reached the base of a tall throne of rock carved into the cave floor. A massive creature sat upon it and looked down upon the lowly vamp at his feet.
The creature's words echoed throughout the chamber. "Is there news from Chicago?"
The lowly vampire bowed his head. "Your emissary failed. The unhumans remain. Things didn't go quite as planned."
When the creature upon the throne was silent, the vampire below expected the worst. If his heart pumped blood, he imagined it would be going faster than ever.
The creature's booming voice spoke up again. "And what about our second objective?"
The vampire removed his hood. "That was a success, my lord. The hunter has been drawn out of hiding. We have eyes on her whenever she's on the surface."
The creature was pleased at this, at least it seemed so, with him slapping his knee one or two times. "Good, good. Then the overall plan is still in place."
"Yes, my lord."
"The hunter will be dealt with soon enough. It has been foretold that she's the last of her line. If that's true, that either means the end of us, the end of them, or the end of all of us."
The vampire dug his claws into his palm once again. "There is another wrinkle."
"Oh?"
The messenger’s throat twitched as he spoke. "The hunter has sided with one of the gods."
The creature laughed so wholeheartedly, rocks fell from the roof of the cave and slammed into the watery pools below. "The gods? Even they can't stop us in the long run. Is that all?"
The vampire stuttered. "Act– actual– actually. There's just one more piece–"
"Really, you're doing so well. Just out with whatever it is."
The vampire nodded. "The god and the hunter aren't the only ones involved." He dared meet the eyes of his master. "Your son was there too."
The creature said nothing as he leaned forward, slightly moving into the light reflected from the cave's opening and the green of the messenger’s magic. As he moved, the lower vampire could see the grizzled scar from his master's deathblow coming into view. The Tuscan king had been
through much to return to this realm.
He smiled from ear to ear. "Thank you for the information. Don't worry, when the time is right–" The fangs descended in his mouth. "We'll have a family reunion my son will never forget."
* * *
The End
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About the Author
Bryan Cohen is a fiction and nonfiction author whose books have been downloaded over half a million times. He's also written over 500 book descriptions for other authors in a variety of genres.
Casey Lane has written or co-written six novels, including The Viral Superhero Series and Cinderella Dreams of Fire.
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When Darkness Falls
A Mage Tales Novella
Ilana Waters
When Darkness Falls © 2017 Ilana Waters
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please see contact information on the publisher’s website at ilanawaters.com
When Darkness Falls
A bloodthirsty general. A witch with a secret. And a cataclysmic force that threatens to destroy them both.
Rome, AD 79. Pompeii is burning. But out of the ashes, what will arise—hero or monster?
My name is Titus Aurelius, and I do not want to tell you this story.
But a certain mage I am acquainted with feels otherwise. He insists there is some merit to my tale, though I doubt anyone is ready to bear the weight of it. To hear how I came to be both witch and vampire. How nothing in my life turned out quite as I expected. I did not intend to have a son. I did not intend to fall in love.
I did not intend to die.
When Darkness Falls is a novella of approximately 33,000 words. It is Book 0 of the Mage Tales Prequels, but can easily be enjoyed as a stand-alone work.
Chapter One
“Darkness fell. Not the dark of a moonless or cloudy night, but as if the lamp had been put out in a closed room. You could hear the shrieks of women, the wailing of infants, and the shouting of men; some were calling their parents, others their children or their wives, trying to recognize them by their voices. People bewailed their own fate or that of their relatives, and there were some who prayed for death in their terror of dying. Many besought the aid of the gods, but still more imagined there were no gods left, and that the universe was plunged into eternal darkness for evermore.” —Pliny the Younger, in a letter describing the destruction of Pompeii
My name is Titus Aurelius, and there is one thing I must make absolutely clear, “dear reader”:
I do not want to tell you this story.
However, my son, the misguided, do-gooding mage they call Joshua, feels otherwise. He contends there is some merit to my tale, that I should put it down for posterity. That others might learn from it. I have to wonder if he insists on this as a way of finally getting me to tell the truth about my life. My past. Things that have happened.
Things I have done.
Personally, I find this memoir notion idiotic, tedious, and more than a bit self-indulgent. But, I’ve discovered that when one produces children, one has little say in one’s own life. And, though I did not intend to fall into the habit of addressing you so familiarly as “dear reader,” the way my son does, you can see I’ve done it already, damn him. Oh, well. Quo fata trahunt retrahuntque sequamur. “Let us go wherever the erring fates may lead.”
In fact, many unintentional things have happened in my life. Nothing really turned out as I expected. But I suppose I am no different than common mortals in that regard. I did not intend to have a son. I did not intend to fall in love, and certainly not more than once.
I did not intend to die.
Rome is dying, and so am I.
Not right away, of course. It took several decades, or even centuries, depending on whom you ask. And before Rome was dying, Pompeii was burning. The smells of charred buildings and charred flesh. Smoke that stung your eyes and throat closed. Like descending into hell itself. And my ears filled with the screaming. So much screaming . . .
To say “I remember it like it was yesterday” is at once a tired cliché and the absolute truth. No, more than absolute. I don’t remember it like it was yesterday. It was yesterday. It is today. It will be with me tomorrow. It is less an isolated event, and more an ever-living nightmare.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Pompeii’s destruction occurred twenty or so years after I met the person I thought was the only other witch in the world.
Of course, I didn’t know I was a witch at the time. I didn’t even know the word witch. The closest thing we had to it in ancient Rome was malefica, or perhaps incantatrix. And the rumors I heard—about such sorcerers bewitching crops, or causing a mother’s milk to dry up—didn’t come close to describing what I felt. What I could do. Like heal almost instantly from any injury. Rarely incur illness. Raise myself in the air without lever or pulley. Move objects with my mind.
But it was more than that. At times, I swore I could feel trees talk, hear the whispers of the mountains on the wind. When I was alone, there was a faint, distant humming that ran through me, underneath me. Like a secret river made of blood and dreams and fire song, coursing through my veins, through everything, forever and ever, in realms I could neither see nor fathom.
Then, it would vanish as quickly as it appeared, and I’d convince myself I’d imagined it.
But one learns quickly that, when one is different, the difference must be hidden—fast. History is full of all manner of frenzied mobs willing to descend on anyone they deem responsible for their ills. And mortals are all too happy to assign such responsibility to anything unfamiliar to them. I swore to myself I would suffer no such fate.
I don’t know the exact year I was born. My most educated guess would put it somewhere around AD 35 or so. This was past the time of Caesar, Virgil, and Ovid. Mark Antony had been defeated. Now was the age of Pliny the Elder, of Seneca. I was a sallow, wide-eyed child with hair that matched my overall pallor. Thin and gangly, I had to work hard to put on muscle, but don’t you dare tell my son that.
And unlike Joshua, who spent decades searching for his mother, I never met mine. There was, however, a blonde, hollow-eyed slave woman who lived next door at the home of a senator. That might have been her. She was probably from some northern province. Tall and slim, she would look at me from time to time with great sadness in her eyes. Then, one day, she was gone. Sold off or killed by her owner—our neighbor—for some trifle. Or perhaps she escaped, or was murdered. I never did find out. I heard a rumor my father was a senator; perhaps he was her master. Or he could have been an entirely different senator, at his colleague’s house for a visit. What difference does it make? He never bothered to give me his name—first or last.
But I am not one of those maudlin fools who weep over their terrible childhoods. There was never one to weep over. I was born a slave in Rome; it is that simple. Most slaves’ lives are terrible. At some point, I assume I was sold next door, or handed off there to pay some debt. The first difference I noticed between me and other children was
I did not have a bulla, the gold medallion worn about the neck, meant to protect the young of Rome. Free children around me played with marbles, nuts, dolls, and balls. Or, if they were wealthy enough, they rode in toy chariots pulled by goats.
I was not so lucky. As a slave child, my pastimes consisted of doing everything from disposing of human waste to cleaning boots to serving food. Beatings occurred regularly, and for the slightest infraction. Sometimes, they occurred for no infraction. And it wasn’t just the master who dispensed these punishments. Older boy slaves wouldn’t hesitate to cuff an ear or bloody a nose if one so much as looked sideways at them.
But, as soon as I was able, I put a stop to such nonsense. Opponents would oft find themselves naked in the courtyard at first light for all the house to see, with no recollection of how they got there. Or pots and pans would mysterious fall from high kitchen shelves onto their delicate, waiting skulls. A sinister smile was all it took to show them what happened to those who crossed me. But I always dispensed justice in a way that couldn’t be proven, that would sound insane if they tried to accuse me. I had no desire to incite those pesky human mobs I mentioned earlier. And, of course, those who attacked me also soon learned I could dish out a blow even more easily than I could take one.
No, since I had no bulla, I had to be my own defender. Hell, the only thing around my neck was a chain with a metal tag bearing my owner’s name. No one offered slaves protection. No one cared if a slave got maimed, fell sick, or died. Unless they were especially valuable.
After a while, I found out just how valuable I was to become. For the most part, I kept this a secret from my owners. I learned I was stronger than those around me. Not as strong as a gladiator, but powerful nonetheless. I only needed about four hours of sleep a night to be at my best. I could turn myself invisible, and read and control certain peoples’ thoughts.
