Altered: A Beyond the Brothel Walls Novel

by Ryans, Rae Z.

  Altered

  A Beyond the Brothel Walls Novel

  All people in this book are a work of fiction that were birthed within the author’s mind. Places, names, and everything in between are a complete work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places and events is purely coincidental.

  Published 2014 By Fictitious Publishing

  www.fictitiouspublishing.com

  Altered

  Copyright © 2013 Rae Z. Ryans

  ISBN 978-0-9916654-7-1 Electronic

  ISBN 978-0-9916654-8-8 Paperback

  www.raezryans.com

  All rights reserved, No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without prior written permission, except in brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews. For more information, contact Fictitious Publishing.

  Cover and interior design: Raven Tree Design

  www.raventreedesign.com

  Table of Contents

  front matter

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Teaser

  Ackowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Metatron

  In the realm of Heaven, Metatron grasped his glass cube and flicked his wrist, dispersing the clouds floating inside of his artifact. Sharp corners dug into his skin. His eyes closed, seeking the disturbance rumbling through his bones. A child’s image flickered into his mind, but as he studied the petite, dark-haired girl standing on the cliff’s edge, he sensed the wisdom and spark hiding behind her amber eyes.

  “Lucifer runs through you.” He stroked his white, wiry beard and peered at the open wall in his observation room. He lifted the cube and waved it. Her image transferred to the space before him, and the clouds reformed his connection to her mind. “Show me what troubles you, Lightbringer.”

  Though slight of frame and stature, the one causing distress was a young woman. She grasped her black hood and drew it over her head. Lifting her skirts, she strolled away, steps light.

  Smoke rose from crushed and torn metal haphazardly strewn over the whitewash. Antique train cars rested on their sides. Blood tainted the cargo littered snow a salmon hue.

  Two men wandered from the trees and flanked her: one blond gentleman wearing orange-tinted goggles and another, a rough-cut ginger wearing a red scarf around his face. A third man lingered in the lofty pines, bound by strong magic.

  Metatron clenched his fist and slammed it on the glass box. “Who let you out, Azazel?”

  Pressure inside of his head pushed Metatron from the vision: thwarted.

  “How can we win this war if our heroine consorts with the enemy?” He released a sigh and shook his baldhead. Footsteps echoed behind him, metal armor clinking and clanging into the observation room. He didn’t turn and said, “Michael, I didn’t summon you.”

  “Father called me,” the Archangel stated, and approached. “Another Lightbringer requires our assistance. That makes two—now.”

  “All Lucifer’s children cause is a throbbing headache.” One in particular concerned him over the rest, but Metatron would need to leave Heaven in order to take down Azazel—And Father wouldn’t allow it. “Do you wonder if they’re more trouble than they’re worth? The destruction—”

  “Where one sees destruction, another sees beauty, but it takes the wisest of all to see perfection.” Michael motioned to the glass cube.

  Metatron handed over his artifact.

  Michael shut his eyes. The screen dissipated the image, and a young man, striding through Halifax, Arcadia, replaced it. He glanced over his shoulder and peeked at the sky. What did he fear?

  “This boy…” Metatron stared, waiting for the recollection to register.

  “He hasn’t been a boy for over three hundred years.” Michael laughed.

  Metatron crossed his arms over his robed chest. As the Holy Scribe, he held an intimate knowledge of all births, deaths, and events. But time had passed since he last saw the child who had become a man. “He is my Keeper of the Seven Keys.”

  “Cain Westcott.”

  Metatron thought about the young woman. She, too, was special. His muddled mind opened. “I chose the family… Yes, they’re both mine.”

  “We’re not to interfere, though, only watch. Father doesn’t want a repeat of Gabriel.” Michael’s tone held steady, but he spoke the rule known to all in Heaven. A rule that many broke, despite its consequences.

  “Such a waste.” Metatron snorted at the loss of God’s Messenger, flitting around on Earth and wreaking havoc. Better on the Sundered Earth than there in Heaven.

  “What do those keys un—”

  “End times are upon us,” Father said, voice booming. “And you two are nosing about instead of winning my war against Asmodeus.” A mist-like cloud crept along the glass floor.

  Michael and Metatron knelt and lowered their heads. Demons, Angels, Eliouds, or any of the remaining races didn’t know what to expect from God—Father—including his Archangels. But Metatron watched Earth from Heaven. The end lay farther than they could’ve imagined because the prophecy, the word of Father, was law.

  Metatron’s stomach churned, and though he hadn’t proof, he trusted his gut. He glanced to Michael. Would he rise once again and battle his former brothers and sisters on the Sundered Earth to protect Lucifer’s lineage? Maybe questioning his loyalty felt odd, but he had fought, defeated, and imprisoned the famed Archangel eons ago, followed by a tiff with Father.

  “Michael, wait for me in the throne room,” Father commanded.

  With a nod, Michael rose and his armor clamored with every step.

  “He troubles you still,” Father said. “Let it go, Enoch.”

  Father seldom used his human name.

  “Michael is loyal, he is my son, and you’d do better putting your resources to work, to protect my flock from Asmodeus. You are my second in command, are you not?” His essence glimmered and retreated, but halted. “I’d like to know who released him from Hell. Nothing on Earth should be powerful enough to shield my sight.”

  Such a device, if it existed, would prove disastrous. But what if it wasn’t an object, but a person or place? So many questions and even fewer answers.

  Metatron stared into the glass cube once more, concentrating on the Keeper of Keys. He tapped his teeth. Who could he trust to protect Cain while he investigated? His fingers snapped

  “War, Pestilence,” Metatron harked the Archangels, and summoned them to the realm of Heaven. “Death, Virtue.”

  Red, green, and white radiance flooded the room. As it dissipated, the Archangels stood before him.

  “Where is Abaddon?” he asked the three out of four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

  “He is meeting a client for the ABDA.” War dipped his head. The Arcadian Bureau of Demonic Affairs policed Arcadia and played liaison to the government. “He sends his regards.”

  “Doubtful.” Metatron frowned at Pestilence’s lack of clothing.

  Virtue stepped forward, chin in the air. “Clients are a top priority for our brother. You’d know this if you ever bothered to slum it with the rest of us.”

 
How did Abaddon put up with them?

  “I have a favor to ask—”

  “No,” Virtue snapped. “We don’t work for you.”

  Ignoring the outburst, Metatron said, “His name is Cain Westcott.”

  They exchanged a glance.

  “You know this name?”

  “Dorian is meeting with Cain.” War scratched his chin, using Abaddon’s human name.

  “Perfect.” Metatron grinned and clapped his hands. “It is a sign. I’m on the right track.”

  Chapter

  One

  Cain Westcott

  Slavery survived the Sundering. I would’ve shouted the mantra years ago, but what difference would it have made? Back when humans reigned on Earth, they’d swept the truth under the rug and ignored the thousands sold into slavery each year. Arcadia wasn’t any different with its ignorance, flaming hoops, and countless red tape.

  Electricity hummed over my skin, and I glanced over my shoulder. Nothing. My gaze rolled along the depreciated streets of Halifax, my steps hastening and bringing me closer to the bar.

  “Try or die.” Would I have time to fulfill my mother’s last wishes before God destroyed those he’d left behind? I shrugged. Promises hung over my head and followed me, like the never-ending gray skies. Failure greeted me around every bend and whispered in my ear, as if a specter stalked my movements.

  I scratched my smooth cheek and searched the sky for Garland’s airships, skirting the unlined borders of the broken world. Boric Garland put a bounty on my head, but the men he sent, I turned to dust. Only a fool wouldn’t prepare himself against his enemy, and most warlocks weren’t stupid enough to let down their guards.

  History wouldn’t repeat again.

  Iced over, vehicle empty streets were nothing new in the frozen tundra of former Canada, but despite the treacherous conditions, my steps lightened. Empty hands swung at my sides. Vacant pockets lined my thrift store jeans, and patches mended the moth holes of my pea coat. But a glimmer of hope filled my heart. Centuries of imprisonment under the watchful eyes of the Garland King had changed me from a carefree youth into a cynical man. I didn’t take hope lightly.

  The six o’clock train whistled in the distance, releasing a hiss of fresh steam into the subzero air. I halted on the street and peeked over my shoulder, searching the sky for the capital G that haunted my dreams. I ran my hand through my hair and tugged. Still nothing there.

  “What’s it like to be a slave?” a passerby wondered. Supernatural creatures, not humans, tended to be assholes. It didn’t matter if they’d meant a streetwalker or me.

  Allowing a small family to scurry by, I stopped and stepped aside. “It sucks. Mind your thoughts if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Damn bloody warlocks,” the man muttered, but refused to look me in the eye.

  Warlocks and witches read minds, among other deviants and saviors. Part warlock, technically, but as strong as the others because of my bloodline. Too bad. If I removed the illusion spell, he would have seen the scars from three hundred years of captivity, but never would he understand the wounds inside of me, the ones magic couldn’t hide.

  History and all I had overcome were just that. Only the future concerned me. Mine didn’t trouble me, but my sisters’ futures were another story, for they were still Boric Garland’s slaves.

  Soon that would change.

  A bitter smile drew down my mouth. Shaking, my hands trembled from the frigid flakes falling endlessly from the sky. Thin lips pressed together; I forcefully whistled an old tune, its name long forgotten. I traipsed through the ruined city sectors and steadied my jagged stride over icy sidewalks, brushing away my thoughts and the man’s question.

  “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, the world belonged to us. What’s left of it.” I blinked at the silence of the street and in my mind. Hastily, I scanned up and down the road and searched for the source of the momentary serenity. The gray clouds parted. Light peered through, and the scattering snowflakes gleamed. A peculiar sensation tingled against my half-frozen skin, but still no signs of Garland’s men or his airships.

  In front of a distressed church, my steps ceased. An old iron bell hung in the steeple and clanged in the strong wind. Stained glass painted vivid biblical scenes and reflected the bold colors humanity would no longer create. Pieces lay broken in their frame, like me, showing the scenes of Revelation. I ignored the draw of muffled music from the corner pub.

  The ABDA would wait.

  In the final days, the humans had ascended, and the rest of us remained—demons, angels, Elioud, and so on. I laughed and shook my head. We were not all evil, but like humans, we were capable of both goodness and wickedness. The shrouded gray sky enveloped the light, and I recalled the exact color on the day of my escape years ago. Snow had blanketed the northern world, when my savior had brought me into then Philadelphia, and I, alone, had journeyed farther to Nova Scotia in search of my cousin Tomas.

  “Years later the world sundered.” My finger traced the line of the glass picture through the air, ignoring the fake and distorted reflection of myself. The young innocent boy had died the day my father lost his bet, and all that remained of me hid beneath a plain façade. Every scar blended into pale skin, mixing until I resembled everyone else. The same spell altered my eyes, making them change from the softest caramel to chestnut brown, opposed to the amber I had been born with.

  “Reverto,” I said, speaking Latin, and waved my hand over the image. The white scars marred my true-bronzed skin tone, and my reddish-brown eyes glowed, only in the replication my outer disguise held.

  God gave me this broken life, yet I couldn’t stomach the sight of it or me.

  “Abdo.” My façade smeared over the glass before returning to normal. “Better.”

  An urge to enter the church ruins rushed through my veins. With my palms held to the skies, its vibration reached through me to my booted toes. I shook my head and wiped the melted snow from my face.

  No prayer today.

  I jumped from the steps, sliding a foot along the ice. The draw wrenched at my heart, and my feet halted again, twisting me toward the battered entrance. I aimed quick glances over my shoulders. Although, I wasn’t certain as to why.

  Prayer and churches didn’t insinuate weakness, even for the eternally damned like me. As I pressed on the worn surface, the door squeaked and I slipped through the gap. A sneeze tickled my nose from twelve years of dust and moldy decay. My eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  Birds cooed, bunkered down in the rafters. God hadn’t ascended the animals; we required food. Pews and papers lay on their sides, as if everyone had disappeared.

  Oh right, they had departed the cruel world for a better place.

  My lips pursed. Soggy carpet squished beneath my feet as I found the sturdiest pew and sat, bowing my head and clearing my thoughts. I couldn’t have told anyone the denomination of the church, but it wasn’t Catholic. Depicted scenes bathed Jesus in a positive light, opposed to his crucifixion. No pictures of saints or the Mother Mary either. Protestant perhaps, but that hadn’t mattered in God’s eyes.

  “All that mattered rested in your heart and soul,” Mother used to say to the three of us, and I believed her, even after all I had survived.

  However, with my head bent, my lips repeated the same words I had said many times since departing Garland:

  “God, please protect my sisters. You and I both know firsthand what they do and the horrors they face. Please let your love fill them, so they never know hunger, and allow your light to protect their souls in their darkest hours. I have to believe they can heal where I haven’t.”

  Where I couldn’t. The wounds inflicted by my captors had never healed. Did they heal for anyone?

  I stared at the cross, focusing on the tiny splinters and rivets that the elemental exposure had wrought. A tear rolled down my cheek as I bloodied my lip between my teeth. After years of freedom, the nightmares had spilled into my waking hours, and no man alive would
ever love the real me. They saw either my birth name or the various scars before sprinting away.

  Bright light flooded the quaint church, and I shielded my eyes, but neither fully covered or averted them. A white clad woman floated to my side. Long, blonde hair flowed and billowed. A gold circlet adorned her head.

  “Warlocks don’t usually pray,” she said, and my head dipped until her light had dimmed. “I am Hallowed, the Archangel of Conquest and Virtue.”

  Her warm hand smoothed over my forehead, and heat spread throughout my body, defrosting my shivering limbs. The darkness of the master’s deeds skittered into the recesses of my soul, and my heart swelled from her gentle, motherly touch.

  “Great change comes for you, Cain Westcott. Will you be ready to accept it?” She smiled, flashing perfect, white teeth.

  “You know my name,” I whispered. My watering gaze met her sapphire eyes, and they glowed, sparkling like jewels in the dim lit church.

  Hallowed replied, “God heard your pleas and sent me.”

  My brow twisted, mirroring my gut. He still listened? Where was God when they’d beat me? When they… I swallowed unable to utter the words.

  “Go Keeper. Your future waits,” she said.

  My lips parted to speak, but Hallowed had vanished. Keeper? My frozen hands rubbed sleep deprived eyelids, and my neck craned forward. Had I imagined her?

  My watch ticked, and I removed the timepiece from my jeans pocket. I ran later for my meeting than I’d realized. A curse tickled my lips, but I dared not cuss in a sacred place. I stood from the pew and stepped toward the door, but I paused at the entry, turning, and stared at the barren cross again. He still listened.

  “Please, save Lilith and Angelica. Forget about me. I deserve nothing for the sins I have committed.” My eyes closed, picturing their smiling faces. Twenty years had passed since I last saw Lily. Twelve years ago, I saw Angel as Veric had handed her over to Julian Garland for safekeeping.