Rain Dance (Sunshine & Scythes Book 1)
Page 1
Rain Dance
Sunshine & Scythes (Book 1)
D.N. Erikson
Copyright © 2018 D.N. Erikson. All rights reserved.
Published by Watchfire Press.
This book is a work of fiction. Similarities to actual events, places, persons or other entities are coincidental.
Watchfire Press
www.watchfirepress.com
www.dnerikson.com
Cover design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design
www.bookflydesign.com
Rain Dance/D.N. Erikson. – 1st ed.
Contents
Also by D.N. Erikson
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Also by D.N. Erikson
THE HALF-DEMON ROGUE TRILOGY
Half-demon Kalos Aeon lives by a simple code. Don’t screw over people who don’t deserve it. Talk is cheaper than a fool’s gold. And always deliver what you promised.
Demon Rogue (Book 1)
Blood Frost (Book 2)
Moon Burn (Book 3)
The Half-Demon Rogue: The Complete Trilogy (Books 1, 2 & 3)
THE RUBY CALLAWAY TRILOGY
After twenty years in supernatural lockup, bounty hunter Ruby Callaway finds the world she once knew has changed. And this one’s not so friendly to magic...
Lightning Blade (Book 1)
Shadow Flare (Book 2)
Blood River (Book 3)
Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection (Books 1, 2 & 3 and All 4 Side Stories)
THE SUNSHINE & SCYTHES SERIES
Con artist turned FBI consultant Eden Hunter has a little secret that could get her killed. Again. Maybe paradise isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Rain Dance (Book 1)
Heat Wave (Book 2)
Cold Spell (Book 3)
1
It was a quiet night, the exact kind of night where everything seemed like it was going right, but where, somewhere deep in your soul, you knew everything was about to go wrong. I tossed and turned on the leather sofa, staring at the slanted ceiling that stretched twenty feet above my bare living room. Sleep refused to come, just like most nights, so I reached for the whiskey bottle and took a pull.
The sharp burn of the fumes rushed through my nose, but they weren’t accompanied by any liquid. The bottle was empty, and had been for hours. I let it slip out of my fingers and drop to the bamboo hardwood floor, which resulted in a thunderous crash that reverberated through the villa like an apocalyptic earthquake. With my cheek smooshed against the arm rest, I surveyed the room. Other than my sofa, a lamp and a few articles of clothing—torn jeans, a few vintage t-shirts, a couple pairs of low-top sneakers—strewn about the floor, it was as empty as a grave-robbed tomb. Just as I liked it. A girl doesn’t buy herself a place on the edge of the jungle for no damn reason.
A scritch-scratch came from outside, and the hair on my arms stood on end. Live on the precipice of the known world by yourself for too long, and every small noise tends to get the imagination turning. Killer warlocks, coming to learn my secrets with mind control magic. Vampires ready to cut my throat to gain access to what only I knew. Or maybe just an ambitious and morally bankrupt alchemist, looking to see if the island’s only Reaper had a stash of souls hidden under her floorboards.
They’d all be out of luck. The only things I had on hand other than the couch were whiskey and black coffee. The scratching outside didn’t stop. I glanced out the living room’s big bay window, but couldn’t see anything in the darkness beyond the winding marble staircase leading up from the beach. I reached beneath the couch for my Reaper’s Switch, feeling the cool plastic handle brush against my fingertips. The noise intensified, which meant whatever lurked in the darkness was coming closer.
I tried to convince myself it was just a monkey, or a tree sloth who had bumbled in from the jungle. But then I heard the unmistakable, guttural howl of a beast answering the call of the moon, and I had confirmation that, no, on this night, my paranoid fears were coming true.
There was a werewolf outside.
As quietly as possible, I rose from the couch, clutching the Reaper’s Switch. The rough fabric of my stiff jeans chafed against my thighs. They needed to be washed, badly. My small silver necklace bobbed against my chest. I touched it for good luck and hoped that my sister was doing better than me, wherever she was. I stole across the shimmering floor into the adjacent foyer. The living room merged into the entrance almost seamlessly, with only the slightest of stubby walls sticking out to delineate the two areas. I pressed myself against the door, feeling the thick, hearty oak against my cheek as I stared out the peephole.
The man’s head appeared first, coming around the glimmering marble stairs with a wild-eyed, manic stare. His transformation wasn’t yet complete, but he was grunting and shaking in a manner that no human—other than a meth-head—ever would. The thick, knotty veins covering his arms would make the most prodigious of steroid users jealous, signaling that he possessed the kind of rough, primal strength such primordial beasts were known for.
A werewolf was one of the oldest magical creatures to exist on Earth. As such, many of their instincts were of a baser nature, and they still possessed the raw genetic physical skills necessary to survive in a world that made nasty and brutish seem like paradise.
The ugly, scarred man howled at the moon again as he started sprouting thick brown hair on his face. The rest of his body soon appeared into view, his clothing hanging in tatters around his semi-bare body and he marched across the short porch, hunched over like a giant trying to duck beneath a door. His nose twitched fervently as his head jerked through the night air.
Shit. He could smell me. Should’ve thought of that.
Before I could back away, his full weight smashed against the door. The thick oak cracked at the hinges, sending the door slamming against my forehead. I stumbled backward, dazed from the sudden blow. Blood pumping, my senses told me to run.
But I had nowhere to go.
After a second effort from the wolf, the door caved in, groaning like a dying man heaving his last breath. I hoped that wasn’t foreshadowing what was going to happen to me. The half-transformed wolf stepped over the cracked wood, hurling aside the shattered debris like it cheap plastic.
“Eden Hunter.” His eyes blazed with a fierce red glow. Thick brown hair now covered most of his body, and his jaw had taken on the snout-like appearance of a wolf. A few more minutes and his feral nature would take over.
Then I’d be really screwed.
“I don’t remember inviting company.” I stood my ground and gave him a confident smile as the words drifted into silent nothingness. Outside, the sounds of the jungle and the waves crashing against the shore filtered through the broken door on the warm breeze.
M
y mind bounced between my options, each worse than the last. The front door was out—he blocked my escape. The only way out of this was up, but between the whiskey and my restless night, I’d arrived at that obvious conclusion far too late. Trying to outrun him up the stairs would be a fool’s errand.
The wolf stalked forward, but I resisted the urge to run. Fleeing would just trigger his primal instincts. I’d need to slow him down before I could make a break for it. He had a strong, musky odor, like he’d spent the night sleeping in his own pee—and then rolled in it for good measure. His manic red eyes became more filled with bloodlust with every second.
“So, to what do I owe this astounding pleasure?” I asked with a defiant smirk.
“Consider this notice of your early termination.” His fur-covered hands hung by his sides. I watched his nails grow into yellow, talon-like claws as clock ticked by. “Any questions?”
How nice of a murderer to ask. But he’d clearly been given orders by someone who outranked him—and, as such, he was obliged to follow their instructions, much as a dog felt inclined to obey its master’s commands.
“Just one,” I said, bringing my eyes up to meet his gaze. A jagged scar raked through his matted fur, zig-zagging from his half-formed snout to the corner of his left eye.
“Which is?”
“Would you like something to drink?”
As expected, his eyes narrowed. Confusion washed over the remaining human features of his face, and he looked away, staring at my picture-less walls for answers. It wasn’t much of an opening, but it was enough.
The Reaper’s Switch deployed with a snap, and I slashed him in his right shoulder. Blood sprayed against the wall, and he reeled backward, stunned by the sudden attack. I didn’t stop to see how hurt he was.
I just ran, straight for the staircase hugging the wall of the living room. I took the clear glass steps two at a time and cut a right into what would’ve been the guest bedroom, if I’d ever decided to have guests. It was so empty I could still smell the drywall and paint from when I’d fixed it up four years ago.
The window was straight ahead. Downstairs, I heard the wolf gargle and roar, his transformation accelerated from being attacked. I jammed my fingertips beneath the plastic windowsill and threw the window open. A pleasant sea-breeze met me, but I didn’t have time to reflect on the night.
First order of business: don’t die.
Second order of business: figure out who the hell had sent this assassin to kill me.
2
I tossed the Reaper’s Switch out the window first. It hit a rock close to the window with a crack and bounced into the foliage ringing the villa. Great. Well, at least I knew where not to jump. With a deep breath—and a silent prayer to my goddess, just to let her know assistance of any kind was more than welcome—I followed suit and took the plunge.
The wind streamed through my air on the short two story drop. I hit a dense grove of bushes and rolled toward the sand, breaking my fall without injury. Through the open window upstairs, I heard the werewolf give one last howl. After scrambling for the Reaper’s Switch, which I mercifully found without too much effort, I turned up the dark beach and began running like hell.
I gripped the magical switchblade tight in my right hand, the broken plastic handle cutting into my palm as my bare feet pounded over the moonlit black sand. The beachy aroma of sea salt drifted through the warm late summer air. Monkeys and toucans chattered in the nearby jungle, awakened from their midnight slumber by the disturbance on the beach. Slivers of starry light glinted off the four-inch stainless steel magical blade stained with a thin wet crimson veneer.
So, you know, just your average romantic night in paradise. Add a couple candles, an expensive red from a great year, and you’d have the perfect set-up for a slow-burn kiss. The kind every little girl dreams about.
Luckily, that had never been my thing.
Unluckily, one other thing shone in the gleaming metal—a reflection of the snarling werewolf determined to remove my head from my neck. Bastard transitioned quick. I’d have claimed to see my life flashing before my eyes, but that would’ve been a poetic embellishment of the truth. Far be it from me to disappoint everyone, but that wasn’t what happened. There was no tunnel. No lights. I’d died once before already, and I’d seen nothing but black—until I hadn’t. As such, I had little intention of visiting the Elysian Fields—and their Dante’s Inferno inspired worlds of hierarchical hell—ever again.
All things considered, however, I wasn’t sure how much say I would get in the matter. My legs were churning at top speed, stiff denim rubbing my legs raw as I sprinted toward the service road. I just needed to make it to my bike. But my would-be assassin loped up the deserted beach in hot pursuit, eating up a yard of real estate with each bound. Behind us sat the isolated villa, where this chase had begun only minutes before. It was then, as I ran, that I realized there were pluses and minuses to living on the fringes of a jungle, on an uncharted island appearing on no known map.
Plus: no one gets up in your shit. No hey, Emma, I saw your obituary in the paper. They found your body by a dumpster in a Bourbon Street alley, next to a couple broken forties, a banana peel and three centuries of piss. No explaining to them that no, I wasn’t Emma Miller any more, but a Reaper named Eden Hunter. I could only assume what people back home would say if they knew I was alive. I’d never been back, and couldn’t return for a long while yet.
As far as I was concerned, that last part was a big friggin’ plus.
Minus: no one was there to save your shit, either, when disaster thundered through your front door after midnight.
After a moment of reflection, I think the situation remained heavily weighted toward the plus column, even if the negatives were rearing their ugly head far too literally for my taste right then. It’d never been some secret desire of mine to finally solve that age-old riddle about trees and forests. Because when a girl screams in the jungle, and no one else is there, she most definitely makes a sound—a loud, raspy, ear-shattering kind of sound.
Or I would have, had I been able to even catch my breath. All those nights running alone on the beach had paid off, but my top-speed stamina was little match for a wolf. My footsteps sank into the wet sand, further slowing my escape. The service road where I kept my bike parked in the flora was still a half-mile ahead—too far away to be a viable lifeline. The wolf was gaining fast, his footsteps crashing against the dark sand with the ferocity of a typhoon induced tide. With the endless Pacific stretching out to my left, and the darkness of the jungle bounding me in on the right, I had only one option remaining.
And it sure as hell wasn’t escape.
I exhaled sharply and turned around, holding the knife out in a defensive stance.
“Who the hell sent you?” I yelled, trying my best to sound fearsome. But when you’re under five-six, and your attacker is six and a half feet of primal sinew and bone, bluffing rarely gets you very far.
The wolf howled in response as the moon reached its apex over the perfect aquamarine waters. It wasn’t a full moon, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t dine on my entrails. A single razor-sharp claw to the jugular would cut my borrowed life short. I silently cursed the magical bonds forbidding me from wielding weapons—my pitiful Reaper’s Switch excluded. The knife had all the stopping power of a fly-swatter against a full-grown wolf.
Not just any wolf, of course. From the markings on his scarred pelt, and the way he carried himself, I could now see he was an alpha. His soul tasted blackened and corrupt, like a poorly grilled steak. I tried to spit the taste out, but it was futile. I didn’t have a say in my ability to feel a creature’s magical presence—nor how that information was delivered. It was a Reaper’s lot to sense and analyze the souls within others. And, sometimes, even taste how they had lived.
It was a potent trick, whatever god had dreamed it up. Because I tasted the cold, violent desolation this creature had wrought more potently than a novel’s worth of words could e
ver convey. As acrid as a nuclear snow, and twice as unpleasant. And now this ray of sunshine had his sights set on me for reasons unknown.
The wolf marched forward, his chestnut fur bristling as he puffed out his thick chest. Saliva dangled from his bared fangs. There was no trace of the man now, only beast. I backed away toward the ocean. Out of options, I pulled out the final proverbial rabbit remaining in my hat: the light show, as I liked to call it. The lantern sigil on my right wrist throbbed and began to glow as I called upon the only spell in my arsenal.
“Last chance, asshole.” The light flowed from my wrist, forming a manic ball of fury around my fingers. The colors jumped from an apocalyptic orange to the greenish-blue of a mid-Pacific storm, then back again.
I brandished the glowing ball of energy at the werewolf, expecting him to jump back. He didn’t move, despite being only twelve paces away. If I were a sorceress, his fur would be roasted and cooking like a chicken on a bonfire spit before he could take another breath.
Instead, he laughed. The bastard knew it was all a trick—like a venomless snake adopting the markings of its far deadlier brethren. The light show made me look like a sorceress, but it didn’t give me real fangs. The gambit usually worked, though, because few knew what my sigil did.
In fact, no one outside of my current employer and the ink master who had done the work four years ago knew.