The Opal Blade (The Ashen Touch Trilogy Book 1)

by Kristy Nicolle

  I feel my true self stirring beneath the layers of leather and skin, wanting to rip out the throat of any rival who so much as assumes she is his.

  This needs to stop.

  She’s not mine to protect. She’s not even any of the things I would expect to find attractive, like sweet or kind. She’s feisty as all hell and every single time she looks at me, I feel a part of my soul scorched black by her stubborn, single-minded, mean streak.

  Sighing, bored, I lean back into the too-bright faux leather of the seat, looking around the flashing multihued space. Things have certainly changed since I was a child. Back then, it was all swing and jive. Not this mashing together of skin and fluids which I find oddly repulsive.

  I watch a couple slamming their faces into one another and cringe. It takes me back to my first, to the way I had been so careless, or at least from what I remember. The only woman I have ever truly loved, the woman who I had decimated beyond what I had known was even possible.

  The flashes come in a torrent, unavoidable, reminding me once again why I never drink. I remember her face, contorted and terrified of me. Petrified of the one person she was supposed to be able to trust more than anyone else in a situation more intimate than any other. I don’t allow her name to come to me, too ashamed to even speak it as I am unworthy.

  As I’m dwelling on this, I notice that Sephy is now standing, finally having turned to face the rear of the room where I’m sitting across the seventies style dance floor. She’s unsteady on her feet, and her expression is aggravated as the disco lighting illuminates her too stark features intermittently. I feel my senses prickle at her uncomfortable posture and turn my attention to the man who’s standing in front of her, looking half desperate, half aggressive.

  Grabbing my jacket and throwing it over my shoulders, I lurch to my feet, taking the length of the club in only a few quick steps and spinning on a knife edge so I’m stood between Little Miss Sunshine and the guy who is seemingly harassing her.

  “Excuse me,” the guy with dark hair and limpid green eyes grumbles as I tower over him.

  “Yes, excuse you. Get lost,” I order him, and his expression turns heated with arrogance.

  “I’m just talking to this pretty lady. We spent last night together, so it’s not like I don’t know she’s easy. A real sparkplug… aren’t you honey?”

  Before I know what’s happening, my fist is balled and flying through the air toward his face. My knuckles connect directly with his nose, causing a spattering of blood to spray in spectacular slow motion as his head flies sideways, unable to stop the momentum of my enhanced strength.

  “Woah! What the fuck?!” he yells, looking around to see if anyone else has noticed the altercation between us. I feel Sephy push herself around my broad width as my heart pounds in my chest, and I try to get my spontaneous bout of rage under control.

  “What the hell?!” Sephy exclaims, moving forward to comfort the guy who I’ve just hit defending her apparently non-existent honour.

  I feel my rage spike at the entire situation, particularly her blatant disregard for her safety, and realise I need to get out of the club. I need to get into the cold, night air and cool off, but there’s no way in hell I’m leaving her here to do so.

  Launching forward I hook one arm around her curvy waist and heave her up over my shoulder. She’s heavier than she looks, no doubt packed with muscle beneath her taut silky skin. She protests, kicking my abs and screaming, but this is lost on me as I focus only on getting out of the building with her in tow.

  I pass the bartender who looks between us and smirks as I shoot him an unamused and tired glare, but I hear him begin to laugh under his breath.

  Regardless, I descend the stairs, and people moving up into the loft of the club stare at us as we pass. I, however, don’t care.

  Sephy continues to kick and scream, but I don’t care about that either. She’s going home, right now. Whether she likes it or not.

  SEPHY

  Stirring, I’m taken back to when I was a small child, a very small child, before the death and loss, to my birthdays. I had always loved waking up on the morning of the anniversary of my birth because I knew the day was going to be full of good surprises.

  My life now, though, is kind of like this but with a Russian roulette twist, partly because I could either wake up in bed alone after an amazing night or naked and chained to a lamppost. I honestly never can tell which it will be, but I guess that’s part of the fun.

  I open my eyes to find myself at home, surrounded by nothing but darkness. My shoes have been removed but my clothes from last night are still clinging to me as tight as they ever were. I look over at the clock on my nightstand… it’s four in the morning.

  Why the hell am I awake?

  It takes me a few moments to begin to understand why I’ve stirred from my comatose drunken stupor, realising quickly I’m feverish, with my heart racing in my chest and my pulse thrumming in my veins like a rapper’s beat. My head is pounding too, with the force of my blood rushing in a tidal wave of delayed intoxication, no doubt from the whiskey I’d put away like it was nothing more than the water Xion had so ridiculously ordered.

  I try to remember how I got home, how I have ended up back here so early and alone, but my mind is blank, filled only with fire and red mist.

  Getting to my feet, I can hear my heart still beating against the alabaster of my ribs, like an angry prisoner against cell bars, too loud in my ears. I start to panic, the gargantuan space I’m stood in suddenly shrinking.

  The walls press in as the air becomes stifling, and my breath comes only in shallow wisps, alluding me like a cheap and cruel magic trick.

  Not knowing what to do or how to stop the feeling that my chest is being shrink wrapped, I run from the room, my bare feet slamming into the hardwood of the landing floor as I descend the stairs in a flurry of panic and anxiety, which has come from nowhere, like a beast in wait.

  I almost trip over the length of my own legs as I reach the bottom stair, and my foot catches the edge of the velvet runner, stumbling forward and flying across the hall, my arms flailing at my sides in an ungraceful leap as the dark corners of the mansion’s lobby creep in closer with each passing second.

  I reach the front door, blood so close to the surface of my skin I fear I might start bleeding from all open orifices. I slam into the wood, praying that they’ve been left unlocked. As they buckle beneath my weight, I let out a shallow sigh and fall out into the cold rain of the night.

  The droplets fall like heavy bullets, merciless and yet exactly what I need as they cool my rabid, blood-flushed skin. I’m panting like a wild animal being hunted, mind racing, muscles aching, body shuddering as I stand on the driveway, and adrenaline refuses to cease its hold on me.

  I fall forward, my hands smashing into the white gravel laden driveway but not feeling any pain, trying to catch my breath but failing at every single inhale.

  After a few moments, I realise that the cold night air isn’t doing anything for my racing heart, and so stumble to my feet once more, pushing up off the ground like a slow-motion sprinter and putting one foot in front of the other with great effort.

  I don’t know where I’m going, what I’m doing, but I know that the gravel is hurting the bare skin of my feet, even if I can barely feel it. I hit the grass, where the slick glaze of rain cools my soles, as I continue to run with sodden hair trailing out in my wake. Dashing across the grounds I have no idea I’m running, but I’m terrified of stopping. Even worse, I’m terrified of the simple fact that in this moment I am operating under no logic only instinct, and so I push onward.

  I meet the line of the small forest which leads up toward the road, and trees rise on either side of me as the grass turns sparse and instead becomes wet soil which reeks of wintergreen and pine. My feet bury in the dirt, cooling as I run on and on, further and further into the dark, over roots and through thickets, past spiders’ webs and around fallen logs. I run until finally, I reach a
clearing I didn’t even know existed.

  The tree is enormous, charred like it’s been hit by lightning and terrifying in its twisted blackness as it silhouettes against the dim light of the sinking crescent moon. The base of it appears to be made up of two twisted trunks that bend into what could be a doorway but is instead filled in by whorls of solid wood. The roots of the tree sprawl, like snakes, through the dirt, and I trip over one, falling to the ground as it catches me unexpectedly by the ankle.

  “Sephy?” My name is called from the dark, a familiar and entirely unwelcome voice echoing from the dense shadow of the surrounding trees. Xion, still dressed in the same long leather coat, jeans and beater vest, reveals himself.

  “You know…” I pant, “This is starting to get creepy…” I breathe heavily, heaving on all fours as his voice brings me back to myself and my lungs expand, finally, taking in a substantial amount of air and making me sputter with relief.

  “What are you doing out here?” he demands, a suspicious look on his masculine face.

  “What are you doing here? And how did I get here?” I shoot questions back at him, standing up on bare feet and trying to calm my tattered nerves. The pounding in my head doesn’t stop; instead it gets slightly worse as I narrow my eyes, even the dim light becoming painful to me now.

  “You got drunk. A guy – he said his name was Brad – tried to take you home with him… I stopped him. Brought you back here,” Xion explains, and I exhale heavily.

  He clenches his fists as he takes another step forward, stilling as leaves crunch beneath his feet like he might scare me away, and I notice his central knuckle is bruised. Suddenly, I find myself wondering if Brad is still breathing.

  “Oh yeah, he’s a friend… well, sort of. I met him last night,” I explain, chest rising and falling in an irregular and painful rhythm.

  “I’m sure you did. Well, I don’t think you’ll see him around much anymore.” Xion smiles at me, though the sentiment doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “Is he… is he dead?” I ask, serious in my expression but unable to hide the absurd form of amusement in my tone.

  “No. Of course not.” He doesn’t act like this is an unreasonable question, startling me.

  “Look, I appreciate that you were hired and all, but really. I don’t want a security guard. I’m happy to pay you for your time, but I’d just be really appreciative if you could… you know, piss off.” I use the most British slang I can think of as I feel a second wave of alcohol begin to take effect.

  “I’m not the type of person you just dismiss. I’ll go when I feel it is time.” He is intimidating as he takes a few steps closer and grabs me by the elbow, trying to walk me back through the forest.

  “Stop manhandling me! Jesus! You’re an employee! You work for me! If I say you’re fired, you’re fired! Got it?” I yell this time, not feeling the cold of the surrounding air as I had done before. My internal temperature is rising again.

  “Sephy, you’re drunk and soaked. Let’s go inside before you catch your death. Come on.” He grabs me by the elbow again, and I shove him away this time, beyond pissed.

  I stumble, not expecting him to be quite as heavy as he is, and scowl.

  “How about you just get the hell out of my face and let me take care of myself? I was doing it long before you came along, and I’ll be doing it long after you’re gone,” I spit, not even thinking about how my words might affect him. He pats the inside pocket of his coat, feeling around for something and then seems satisfied as he lays his hand on a noticeable bulk beneath the leather just over his pectoral.

  He doesn’t say another word to me. He doesn’t look angry or upset. He just turns and walks away into the shadows of the forest, leaving me standing under a stormy sky, hot, bothered and jaded.

  Chapter Three

  Cold As Ice

  PANDORA

  Returning from the obsidian shores of the Sea of Shadows, I take my final few steps from the portal. The intimidating silhouette of the Fallen Kingdom’s only remaining building, The Halls of Antiqua, a sprawling, architecturally cathedral-esque structure, towers high overhead against the bloody red sky of mid-morning. It is nestled in the shadow of the ominous volcano, Mount Mallum, which rises at a steep incline, shrouding the dark colosseum on the opposite side from view.

  In the distance, beyond surrounding rotting gardens of native Mortarian flora, I can see the ruins of what had once been the beginning of a great and dark empire. Unfortunately for the residents, that empire has long since turned to ash.

  As soon as my feet hit the cracked stones of the ground, being transported in only seconds from the dunes of black crystal sand on which I have been stood for the last few hours, I continue to ponder the way in which the waves these days are becoming nothing if not choppy. They now shift at what can only be described as an ever increasing and spontaneously furious rate.

  It’s almost as if Leviathan is stirring, and Kraken, his servant in this place, is gearing up for something big; though what, I couldn’t tell you. I’m sure I’m not privy to the thoughts of such an old being, and even if I was, I don’t do meetings with anything sporting tentacles; sort of a rule of mine.

  Climbing the charred jasper of the crumbling steps, which rise from the edge of the building and ascend toward two enormous black doors, I hear Banshee screeching in the distance, causing me to roll my eyes. The way they complain, you’d think they were nothing more than toddlers. As it is, they’re powerful, primal beasts and really should know how to deal with hunger in a much quieter manner if you ask me.

  Behind the enormous African blackwood doors, which swing open upon my arrival at the minimal effort of two Abraxian foot soldiers in human guise, I hear the clicking of my heels ring out with an unending echo around the cavernous and dimly lit hall. It is high, with broken and dark stained-glass windows which had once depicted mortal suffering. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, holding candles burned down to the quick. They haven’t been lit for years, leaving a chill, dank darkness over the entirety of the building. Spider webs hang like grim party streamers between them, giving a thin veil of glistening white overhead.

  At the end of the corridor, the hexagonal room in which the Demon Lords meet, or should anyway, resides. That was the idea when they were created, but as with most creatures wielding great power, team work is far from a priority. Perhaps, this is yet another reason they are barely living.

  Yet again, I exhale at this problematic fact, knowing that if I am to ever truly seize my revenge I need to unify them under one cause, but it’s been centuries, and as yet, I’m being used as nothing more than meals on wheels. Patience has certainly become a virtue of mine, and I often wonder if I wouldn’t be better off taking my box and touring this widely interesting universe alone in search of better company.

  I have done it before, seen all there is to see some might say, but as many different skies as I have lain under, as many different suns as I have watched rise over various horizons, I cannot get rid of the burning within my soul. I cannot flee from the desire to destroy him.

  Striding the length of the ridiculously long hallway in quick time, I catch my reflection in the puddles of blood on the cracked and broken floor, left over from some Succubi lurking, I’m sure. It’s twisted and vermillion, but my beauty is unmistakable. Long black flowing hair, dark violet eyes, and a stunning figure made only more beauteous by my wide Victorian hemline and tiny corseted waist. I am a Goddess among mortals cursed bold, banished from where I truly belong by the most misogynistic meathead you’ve ever seen with lightning bolts instead of brains. The Higher Plains deserve better, truly.

  Reaching the central meeting room, from where the wing that each Demon Lord occupies sprawl out in multiple directions, I find myself surrounded by… well, myself. Every wall of the hexagonal space is covered in mirrors with gaps only for doors, as though the Demon Lords had known they’d need to watch their backs during meetings from the very moment they’d been blessed by dark ancient gods
.

  They’re a strange group, barely holding themselves together as a unit with the power-lust and blood thirst between them, but somehow managing to anger one another at every opportunity, especially now that hunger is the main enemy some are trying and failing to overcome.

  “Hello, Pandora.” Lilliana’s voice falls from the shadows which encapsulate the far end of the room, and I spot her alabaster irises which glow dull in the dark against what should be the stark whites of her eyes. The centre of the space is occupied by a round stone table, cracked in half with spider-webbing and bloodstains all over it, demonstrating more savagery than democracy.

  “Lilliana.” I greet her, nodding my head and trying not to blink. I know I’m superior to her. I know I had more power once, but as it is that power is gone, and all I’m left with is a lot of rage, a box, and my mighty wit.

  “How was the beach?” Katerina’s voice comes from the doorway behind Lilliana, as though they’ve both been waiting to pounce on me the second I arrive.

  “Brisk.” I recall the wind blowing my hair back from my face as I had scrutinised each breaking wave and surface ripple.

  “We were hoping you were going to kill something for us…” Lilliana gets to her feet, her neck wrapped in dark fur and her hair backcombed and wild. Her face is almost skeletal as the skin stretches too thin over her skull, and tiny animal bones hang from her earlobes and around her wrists, sick adornments of death.

  Katerina saunters forward next into the dimmest light, her low-cut burgundy corset pushing into her ribcage so hard that it looks as though her collarbone might burst from beneath her tumbling locks of glistening raven hair and become a weapon in its own right. Scarlet pupils illuminate her face in bloody hue, only exaggerating her pallor and deepening the shadows cast by her cheekbones and chasmic eye sockets, made abyssal by the onyx which surrounds her too bright irises. Her deep crimson lips pull back in an unimpressed grimace, revealing two jagged incisors as an instant threat.