Fae Kissed

by D. D. Miers

  Fae Kissed

  Alana Creed: Timejumper Book 1

  D.D. Miers

  Graceley Knox

  Chaotic Press, LLC

  Fae Kissed: Alana Creed: Timejumper Copyright © 2018 by Graceley Knox & D.D. Miers

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Edited by: Lorraine Fico-White - Magnifico Manuscripts

  Cover Design by: Fantasy Book Design

  Contents

  Alana Creed: Timejumper

  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

  Sometimes, it takes a pawn to dethrone a queen.

  The Kresova

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Also By Graceley Knox & D.D. Miers

  About the Authors

  Alana Creed: Timejumper

  My name is Alana Creed and bad choices are my specialty.

  Not that it’s all my fault. Fate chose me—not the other way around.

  I’m Fae kissed.

  What the hell does that mean? I’m not your run-of-the-mill, half-human, half-Fae. Only one in 500,000 half breeds are born with my gift. I’m a Timejumper. Able to travel into every realm but not quite fitting into any of them.

  It’s a lonely existence, but that’s okay. I’ve made a career for myself on the black market, obtaining what others can’t. I have been doing just fine, too, until I broke my own rule.

  You see, I asked questions, and those questions led me to answers I couldn’t ignore. So instead of turning in my latest job, I stole it.

  Like I said . . . bad choices.

  Unfortunately for me, the only chance I have to stop him is his brother Jaxon. He’s sexier than hell and the spark between us is undeniable.

  Now I serve out my term under the Temporal Bounty Hunter Unit (TBHU).

  Together we have to stop his brother from getting his hands on an artifact that could destroy this realm and start a war between the warlocks and the mages. To do that I’m going to have to plunge myself into the realm I thought I’d sealed and brace myself for the consequences, no matter what they may be.

  Never cross a powerful warlock.

  Chapter 1

  Alana was dead.

  Dead tired to be exact. After a grueling twenty-four hours, the phrase took on a new meaning for her. If she could die at all—at least from something as human as exhaustion—it would have been tonight. Barely able to stand upright, she stumbled into the one-bedroom apartment she shared with her younger sister, Taylor.

  Correction. Half-sister. Taylor always made sure to press that point. Sharing the same father didn’t entitle Alana to anything more than a place to crash when her irresponsibility had gotten her into trouble . . . again.

  And oh boy was she in trouble.

  She crept into the entry, pressing the door gently closed as she slid the deadbolt. Taylor had warned her about blasting through the door after 3:00 a.m. If Alana did it again, she’d be out on her ass. That couldn’t happen. Every muscle ached in impossible ways and her mental burnout had reached maximum levels. She collapsed onto the beige sofa just before her legs gave out.

  Beige.

  Everything in her sister’s place was beige. Beige and white. Absent of color, chaos . . . or life.

  The one-bedroom apartment had the persistent air of a hotel room. A place uninhabited, visited only temporarily. There were no knick-knacks on the pressboard budget bookshelf, no personal items forgotten on the coffee table, no family photos hanging on the walls, just bland inoffensive painted landscapes. Even the mug on the scratched white vinyl surface of the counter in the combined kitchen-dining-living area was blank.

  Not so much as a kitschy logo to give it some personality.

  Taylor had first rented this place years ago when she started at the police academy and always talked about how she didn't plan to stay here long, so there was no point in settling. But the nice house in the suburbs she'd always talked about never materialized. Taylor still talked about it, but the beige had consumed her. Even if she did get her house eventually, it would end up just like this . . . bland and lifeless, just a temporary stop on the way to a bigger, nicer house.

  Alana's blue-green streaked hair spread out along the couch cushions like a wild peacock’s feathers, vibrant against the dull, lifeless upholstery; some polyester microfiber nightmare in the same shade of beige. Those teal tresses were out of place, not just in her sister’s home, but the world surrounding her in general.

  She grabbed the zipper of her jeans and shimmied out, kicking them off at the ankles along with her boots. They fell over the wilted remains of the houseplant she'd given Taylor as an apartment-warming gift, long since mummified, brittle and dry. Alana was certain she, too, would be, if not the next victim, then one in the near future.

  She needed a vacation.

  She leaned back into the criminally understuffed throw pillows, floral in a plethora of shades of gray, beige and brown, and threw an arm over her eyes to block out the hallway nightlight.

  A slow, rhythmic ticking drew her gaze.

  Mounted above the kitchen island hung a double-sided antique clock with large roman numerals branded on its face. It had been a gift from Taylor's mother and was presumably a family heirloom. It was also out of place here, but in a way that seemed ominous, anxious.

  Tick . . . Tock

  Tick . . . Tock

  Tick . . . Tock

  Time. It came in a never-ending constant rhythm. And much like Alana, the clock never stopped going, never stopped running.

  It couldn’t. Too many things depended upon it.

  Time was relative, its significance based solely on which realm you lived in. For humans, time was of the utmost importance. They had such a limited amount of it—they constantly referred to time as precious. For those who were . . . different, time remained less relevant.

  Alana had never considered it much, at least not until three weeks ago.

  Now her life only knew two certainties: The clock always kept ticking, and she could never stop running. Not from him. She was Fae-kissed, cursed and blessed, able to travel into every world, but fitting into none.

  Alana closed her eyes and counted breaths.

  Inhale . . . exhale . . . Inhale . . . exhale. . .

  She counted until sleep claimed her.

  Sleep. Not rest.

  Never rest.

  His golden eyes blazed with rage, teeth bared, hair whipped into a frenzy around him.

  “You make this choice and I’ll destroy you.” He spat the words like venom, the sound hitting the air like a hiss, like a plume of nox
ious steam, his muscles straining as he leaned into the maelstrom that kept him from gutting her. “Not just you, but everyone you love. Everyone you touch. Everyone you look at.”

  Alana grabbed tighter onto the orb in her palm. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” She raised her right arm and commanded the storm to double in force. Lightning and a torrid current of air mixed with electricity slammed into Damon.

  He spoke through gritted teeth. “You’re not a hero, Alana. You’re a Reaver. A thief.”

  “People change,” she said.

  Damon looked to his brother beside him and laughed. “She thinks people change? We know better, don’t we, Jaxon?”

  The other warlock hadn’t spoken since Alana and Damon began fighting. He didn’t even bother to defend himself when she cast Gale Magic on them both. Instead, he took every blow in silence. Why?

  “This . . . is your . . . last . . . chance.” Damon said, each word forced out.

  The option to go back and change things had long passed. For the first time in too many years, she’d decided to ask questions. Now she knew the answers, the possible repercussions, and she couldn’t walk away.

  Alana placed the orb into her pack and raised both arms toward the sky. Her irises glowed iridescent as her element channeled through her. She focused all of her Gale Magic into a binding curse, an order to shackle Damon and Jaxon within Que-theran’s tomb.

  As she climbed out of the cavern and into the Fae’den jungle, she glanced back. Two figures disappeared in the distance as a rift swallowed them up. A last declaration on the wind unsettled her.

  “Today you sealed not only your death, but those of anyone else you loved.”

  All beings, wholly mortal or not, needed sleep. There was something restorative, necessary, about the lull in life, the slower, shallower breaths, the quiet of the mind.

  Alana had only succeeded in securing herself barely four hours. Not enough to feel rested, but just the perfect amount to leave her somewhere between delirious and crazed. Taylor’s voice echoed from the kitchen and she rolled onto her side. The sunlight from the living room window fell pale through the Venetian blinds directly into her eyes.

  Her baby sister stood in front of the coffee maker, hip resting against the counter. The perfectly ironed tan pantsuit and crisp white blouse matched her impeccable ponytail. The suit itself was cheap, but meticulously well cared for. It was Taylor's frugal, precise personality compressed into a polyester three-piece.

  “I don’t care if Deacon doesn’t agree. This is my case, my witness.”

  When Alana rose to sit up, the couch creaked and Taylor looked to her. She offered a single nod and turned back to her brewing chai-tea latte. A man’s stern voice murmured from the receiver. Whatever his response, Taylor didn’t look happy.

  She grated her teeth—as she always did whenever frustrated—and waited for him to finish. “No— Yes, sir— I understand.”

  A second later, she hung up and slammed her phone down. Taylor kept her back to Alana as she rubbed her temples. Finally composed, she spun toward the living room and Alana.

  “Morning.” Taylor’s entire face screamed the exact opposite of the pleasantry she offered her sister.

  Alana smiled and joined her at the kitchen table. “Bad day already?”

  “More or less.” She shrugged. “What time did you get in last night?”

  “About four.”

  “Hmm.”

  She never asked what Alana did for a job. Or if she even had a job. Taylor stopped asking questions years ago. There was something futile and grating about those kinds of questions, for both parties involved. Taylor avoided it like the endless sea of poison ivy it was.

  Together, they ate breakfast in silence, carefully not looking at one another across the worn vinyl table. Alana grabbed herself a bowl of crispy cereal while Taylor spooned yogurt from a small container. After rinsing dishes, Taylor slipped on her suit jacket. Alana watched her sister walk toward the door then spin on her heel.

  “So, are we finally going to talk about it?” she asked.

  “About what?” Alana knew exactly what Taylor meant but keeping her sister in the dark was imperative to Taylor’s survival.

  “Seriously, Alana? You drop back into my life a week ago after a six-year absence, and you don’t think I’ll have questions?”

  Six years to her. Only three months to Alana.

  “I . . .”

  How do you explain the impossible to your human sister? That you’re not some fuck-up, but someone who had to hide.

  Taylor sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know why I bother asking. Why I bother letting you do this all the time.” She grabbed her travel mug and pulled a set of keys from her purse. “You need to grow up, Lana. Stop all of this acting like some generic, foolish teenager. No one can be a wild child forever. This is it. It’s the last time I’m letting you stay here.” Key in the lock, she stilled. “You’re selfish and a user and a liar, and I refuse to enable you anymore. You need to be gone by the end of the week.”

  The door slammed and Alana stared after her. Alana wanted to tell Taylor the truth, to confide in the only real flesh and blood she had. But would Taylor believe her? Highly unlikely.

  Alana returned to the couch for an extended nap, when the phone on her hip buzzed.

  Shit.

  The only person who had this number was the last person she wanted to hear from right now. Her plans to pass out until the evening slowly evaporated. He couldn’t possibly need her back this quickly. She pulled the phone from her pocket and glanced down at the text message, hoping and praying it wasn't what she knew it had to be . . .

  Briefing now. No excuses. Urgent.

  Double shit.

  Chapter 2

  Alana did have a job—but not necessarily one she could explain to her sister.

  Her official title? Temporal Bounty Hunter.

  Technically, Alana only consulted for the TBHU, aka the Temporal Bounty Hunter Unit. They were a small sector of the larger conglomerate of agencies that protected the supernatural and human realms known as the Department of Supernatural Affairs (DOSA). It was part of her probationary agreement. The one she’d negotiated two months ago.

  Her other alternative was The Tombs. A maximum-security prison located within an underground cavern in the underworld. She’d never see the light of day again—no matter how long she lived. And as a Fae Kissed, Alana needed the sun, the earth, the Fae within in her demanded it to survive.

  There was a lot of paperwork and fine print, but she knew enough to get by. In exchange for clemency and a clean record, she would devote the equivalent of 500 human years to them. It was a moderate sentence for someone in her particular predicament.

  When she’d betrayed her last purveyor, the master warlock Damon Drake, she knew her days as a Reaver were over. Not one of her last contacts came near her after that fiasco, not that she wanted them to. Alana had committed the vital sin to all Reavers—she’d grown a conscience. The TBHU was the last place anyone would expect her to end up, herself included.

  Pushing through the large glass doors of an unremarkable downtown business complex, she crossed the vacant, hollow lobby, her shoes clicking and clacking on the desert of a gray tile floor. The sound echoed so off of the vaulted ceilings. Somewhere in her gut she expected to spot a plethora of gargoyles lurking among the rafters up above her.

  She supposed it was the effect of the solemn, church-like décor. Or maybe less like a church, she thought, and more like a mausoleum. Either way, there was a sense of reverence, stillness, and an ever-present sense of not-quite-alone-ness here. The silence was more deafening than usual, drawing her attention to the clock on the far wall. Hopefully she wouldn’t be the last one to stroll into the briefing.

  She was.

  A handful of agents were already scattered around the unremarkable conference table in the equally dull, windowless meeting room. It wasn't beige here. Not wholly. There was gray, a dull silver
aura to the world around her, like a perpetual tarnish coating every surface. Barely sparing her a glance of disinterest, they returned to studying their phones or the pattern of the tile floors.

  It was precisely how she’d wanted it. Being close to anyone meant ignoring the warlock’s warning. She’d already made an exception in favor of her sister.

  Sliding along the length of the room quietly, she pulled a lone chair out with an ear-cringing scrape of metal on tile.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, before sinking into the chair under Mason’s narrowed gaze.

  “Nice of you to join us,” he said.

  Mason Reinber was the director of her unit and a regular irritable bastard. His voice was dry and dull like the rest of the room. Alana wondered how old he was and how long he’d been part of the Bounty Hunters. Even in the face of potential immortality, the man’s dark hair was tinged with stray grays, lines of silver, whose origins distracted her when the meetings, unfailingly, turned boring.

  “That’s everyone, right?” Mason asked, turning his gaze to an unfamiliar face. Within seconds the door was shut and the lights snapped off, leaving them all to stare at the mirrored screen of Mason’s laptop on the wall. “Numerous rifts have been reported within the last hour across the city. This first grouping contains an energy signature we’ve seen before and shouldn’t be difficult to deal with.”

  Several images flashed across the screen. Locations where the rifts had been felt, along with a few shimmering images that looked to the untrained eye like nothing more than a lens flare.