The Awakened World Boxed Set

by William Stacey

  "Strong enough for polar bears," Andrej said. He looked to Char for confirmation, but she spoke to Erin instead.

  "We shall take that chance, wolf daughter." She faced Andrej. "You should leave now, my love."

  He kissed her on the cheek before departing the concrete pen.

  Char faced Erin again. "It would be best if you removed your clothing first, yes."

  Erin lifted her blindfolded head, sighed, and nodded. Tec turned away as Erin stripped naked. Erin, Angie noted, had a perfect body, with long, powerful muscles defined by outdoor living.

  Char held the talisman before her, and once again, Angie felt her work her magic through it, directing it at Erin this time.

  The change was abrupt, far faster than Angie imagined it would be. Erin fell to her hands and knees, lifting her head as she cried out in pain. Her cries became howls as her face transformed, growing out and becoming that of a monstrous wolf, with a muzzle filled with long, sharp canines. Her body transformed as quickly, growing and rippling with cable-like muscles. A thick, bristly coat of reddish fur sprang out all over her body, inches long and gleaming. Her arms grew longer, corded with thick muscle, and her hands turned into huge paws tipped with long, gleaming claws. In moments, her size increased, and her weight seemed to double.

  She ripped the bandage away, revealing eyes like those of a wolf, a cross between gold and green, but undamaged, healed once more, just as Char had claimed they would be. Erin, now standing at least seven feet tall, lifted her wolf head and howled, the primal scream stopping Angie's breath with terror.

  She really is a werewolf, Angie told herself, only now really accepting it. Seeing was believing.

  Erin threw herself at the bars, smashing into them with unbelievable force. Concrete dust sifted down from the ceiling. One of the bars had bent outward.

  Erin danced back, preparing to charge the bars again.

  "I would not wait, Chararah Succubus," Tec warned.

  Char didn't bother to answer. She was already working her magic through the Anasazi talisman. As Erin prepared to launch herself forward once more, she stumbled, falling to the concrete floor. Her werewolf form rippled with change, as if living creatures moved beneath the fur. Her form shrank, and the fur receded and became unblemished skin once more, her limbs and body those of a woman. Long red hair covered Erin's face as she crawled on hands and knees, shaking her head.

  When she looked up, Angie saw Erin’s eyes had completely healed.

  "I'm really, really hungry," Erin said in a cracked voice.

  Char unlocked the door, and Angie rushed in to help her friend, to hold her in her arms.

  "Eat, sleep, rest," Char stated, a weary look on her face. "Because tonight, I'll use my magic to divine your brothers' location. Then we can plan a rescue mission."

  "You'll need my help, Chararah Succubus," Tec stated.

  "I was counting on it, Jaguar Knight."

  Chapter 21

  If I'm not careful, if I make a single mistake, it'll be me it kills. Rayan Zar Davi’s fears grew as she stalked down the cool, dark concrete tunnel, her hands clasped before her. The old halogen bulbs flickered overhead, casting moving shadows, and the echo of her footsteps, as well as those of her entourage, four strong men and one woman, Ixtil’s replacement, rang down the corridor. It was late in the day, almost sundown. Hours earlier, the damned Knight had forced her to flee—her, the high priestess of the Tzitzime. It was beyond galling, but when the sun set in a few minutes, she would have her revenge. Night was coming and with it blood and horror. There would be a price to pay, but she wasn’t the one who would pay it. I do not make mistakes. Gouger of Faces will be bound to my service.

  Her new aide, Patzin, followed a step behind her. She regretted Ixtil's demise just as she would the loss of any prized tool, particularly a mage. Even with the gifts of the twins, there were never enough of those born with the aptitude to use magic and bond with a shade. And she had only brought her best servants to this infernal land. Damn that Ritter woman! Damn the Knight!

  "All is prepared?" she asked Patzin, trying to force her mind to other matters.

  The woman, her eyes painted dark, bobbed her head obsequiously, reminding Rayan of the striped hyenas of her old homeland in the Kandahar desert. "The chamber is exactly as you ordered, Mother Smoke Heart."

  "It better be."

  The two sentries at the door at the end of the corridor saw them coming and moved aside, unlocking the steel door. These men weren’t hers, but they knew enough to fear her. Rayan swept past them without a word. In their eyes, she saw their thinly hidden disapproval, but such as these were not worth the time to correct. In time, they'd learn the error of their ways—if they weren't just killed outright. To save the world, she’d first need to baptize it in blood.

  As she walked through the open door, the smell of the prisoners swept against her: sweat, days of isolation, blood, and bodily waste intermingled, creating a heady miasma that would have offended the sensibilities of anyone made of lesser material.

  But Rayan Zar Davi was not such a person.

  She faced them, her hands folded atop one another.

  "Who's there?" one asked—no, demanded, without a hint of obsequiousness.

  Such warriors for the twins they’d make if they could be controlled.

  But that was not their fate.

  The one that had spoken, she thought, was Rowan, the eldest. It was hard to tell them apart with their eyes burned out, their limbs secured with silver chains. Yet there remained a hard core of anger in his voice. Yes, that's Rowan, she decided. She briefly considered using him but decided against it. He wasn't just the eldest but also the dominant alpha, the leader of the pack, and thus could be used to control the others. She let her gaze take in the rest. The youngest, Jayden, a tall, good-looking man in his twenties, might do well and would resist the least.

  The second eldest, Lewis, a stout and grizzled man of middle years with his hair shaved into a crew cut, managed to sit up in his chains. "Hey, whoever you are. You may not understand, but pretty soon you're going to wish you had killed us when you had the chance."

  She sighed. Bravado, always the bravado, right up until the moment the knife cuts them open. "I'll take my chances," she told him in a condescending tone. "And I understand your condition perfectly."

  At the sound of her voice, the fourth, the tall, bearded one with the powerful shoulders and unruly red hair and beard, turned his face toward her, although he could see nothing with his eyes a charred ruin. Casey Seagrave, she knew. "Hey, you," he said, his voice broken by thirst and pain. "Miss, please. I need some help, please help."

  She smiled at that. The biggest weren’t always the strongest. “How can I help you?”

  "My balls itch. How about you come over here and scratch them for me, you piece of shit."

  They all laughed at that, jeering and throwing more insults. A roomful of blinded werewolves bound by silver chains, and they mocked her! Her face flushed with indignation and anger. "That one," she said, pointing at the youngest, Jayden, his savaged face distorted by laughter.

  Her men swept into the room and separated Jayden from his brothers. They began to yell, understanding something was happening.

  "They're taking me," Jayden said as they hauled him to his feet, two men on either side of his bound form.

  "Leave him alone!" Rowan yelled in fury. "I'll kill you. I swear it."

  "Your time will come soon enough," she told him. "Bring the boy."

  "Wait!" Lewis said. "Take me instead."

  She hesitated, knowing the value of a life freely given far outstripped one taken. "You would give yourself to us?" she asked him. "Willingly?"

  "I would," Lewis said.

  "Bullshit!" Jayden began to resist the men holding him.

  Now the other two began screaming to take them instead. Rowan was nearly apoplectic, and for a moment, she feared he might break his silver chain. "Bring that one then." She pointed a finger at Lewis. "Suc
h bravery deserves merit."

  The other Seagraves were still screaming as her men hauled Lewis Seagrave out of the cell.

  Rayan stood before the demon, trembling despite the fact the ritual had gone flawlessly. Its stench was like a mouthful of raw sewage and sulfur.

  It was bound to the protective circle, set upon the bloody concrete floor with occult markings and lit candles until such time as Rayan sent it forth. And even then, after it had fulfilled her orders, it would once again be drawn back here, where it would await further commands. Two days. She would have just under two days to use it. After that, far more powerful cosmic forces than she could ever muster through blood magic would pull it back from this world, where its presence was an open wound against reality.

  But two days would be enough.

  "SPEAK, MORTAL," the demon known as Gouger of Faces, one of its myriad names, demanded, its voice reverberating in the chamber. "WHY HAVE YOU DRAGGED ME TO YOUR SAD LITTLE WORLD? WOULD YOU TAKE ME AS A LOVER? I'D SPLIT YOU IN TWO, LITTLE HUMAN."

  It had yet to take a physical form and was only a dark shape wavering in the air over the corpse of Lewis Seagrave, his chest cut open, his heart removed. But as it spoke, it began to coalesce and form more solid substance, albeit one too large and bestial with eyes that glowed crimson. A million flies buzzed in rage, their droning so loud she wanted to cover her ears.

  "I would have you kill my foes," she said, forcing strength into her voice, a strength her trembling limbs belied. Careful, Rayan, she told herself. The slightest misstep with this thing...

  Its laughter was like locusts devouring a soul. "WHY BOTHER? YOUR KIND IS SO SHORT-LIVED, THERE SEEMS SO LITTLE POINT. I TURN MY ATTENTION FROM YOUR WORLD, AND WHEN I LOOK BACK AGAIN, YOU ARE ALL DEAD."

  "Not all of us," she said.

  "YOU THINK BECAUSE YOU LIVE A FRACTION MORE OF YOUR MISERABLE EXISTENCE THAN THE REST OF THE CHATTEL THAT YOU ARE SOMEHOW MORE WORTHY?"

  "Worthy enough to command you."

  She felt its hatred, a physical force that caused her to step back in fear. But it couldn't break the circle. It had to obey. No matter how badly it wished to devour her soul.

  "SPEAK, THEN, YOU TOY OF GREATER MASTERS. WHAT CORPSES DO I MAKE THIS DAY?"

  When she told him, the demon laughed once more and then vanished, followed instantly by the flies.

  But it was done.

  Patzin stepped forward, shaking even more than Rayan. "Why ... why waste such a thing on targets like that?"

  "You question my wisdom, Child?" she snapped, angry with her own fear.

  "No, Mother, of course not. I just don't understand."

  She sighed, running her fingers over her face, forcing herself to calm. "We need our host's help to take the she-wolf, even with the demon. I need to demonstrate the demon’s power to him. Then we can go after the girl."

  Patzin stared at the corpse of Lewis Seagrave. It would remain there, untouched, within the circle. No one would break that ward, not without releasing the demon to do as it willed—and such a creature would do very great evil indeed if free. "Yes, Mother. It just seems like ... overkill."

  Rayan had to agree, but these deaths would also serve as a lesson. And, at the same time, they'd remove a thorn from the heel of their host.

  Once that was done, the demon could serve its true purpose.

  Chapter 22

  Erin sat on the edge of the wooden fencing arena, her legs dangling as she watched the flamingos clustered near the edge of the pond. She absentmindedly picked at a sandwich one of the fairies had brought her, throwing pieces of bread to the birds. She had never seen such beautiful creatures. Their bright-pink feathers were mesmerizing, and watching them play and swim was a joy, a respite from the hell that had been her life since the night her brothers had gone missing. It was late, almost midnight, but Char couldn't cast her divination ceremony and locate her brothers until much later, and there was no way Erin was going to sleep before then; she was simply wound too tightly.

  Can she really do it, really find them? Angie seems to think so. God, please, let her be able to do it. I need to find them. I'm lost without them.

  All her life, even before the Awakening, family had been everything. After her mother and father had died, the importance Jay and the others held in her life had expanded, filling the void left by her parents. Her brothers weren’t perfect; they could be insufferable, childish, petty, and at times immoral, but she loved them dearly. And they accepted her many flaws without the slightest pretense or hesitation. Family. Family was everything. This pack mentality held them more strongly than glue ever could. Rowan could be too much sometimes, too stern and inflexible in his demands, but she never doubted he always chose what he believed best for her and the others.

  Lewis, the second oldest, was a less severe version of Rowan. He could be just as demanding but also more open and caring—even if he hid it behind a hard-as-nails Marine Corps persona. If something ever happened to Rowan, Lewis would become the new pack leader. He'd hate himself for taking Rowan's place, but he'd do it just the same.

  Casey was ... well, Casey was Casey, and she loved him, warts and all. And oh, God, there were warts.

  Jay was the odd man out among his older brothers. Too young, too good-looking for his own good, Jay was a lover, not a warrior. His older brothers, his father, had all been soldiers in one capacity or another. Rowan had been a Navy SEAL, Lewis a member of the Marine Corps Special Operations Command, and Casey, despite his childish temper and, quite frankly, his immaturity, had been an Army aviator for the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment—the famous Night Stalkers. By all accounts, Casey had been one of the best. In fact, all three brothers had been superb soldiers.

  But Jay... She sighed. Jay was born to a different lifestyle, one more suited to raising cattle in Montana or skiing. It wasn't just that Jay had been too young to have served—he had been—but he also just didn't have that kill-or-be-killed mindset. By necessity, he had adapted, and so had she; there had been no other choice; but fighting and killing did not come easily to Jay. She couldn't bring herself to tell Rowan or the others, but she felt certain that all the fighting was killing Jay's soul. When this was over, she resolved to have that discussion with Rowan. Maybe Lewis would help. He had always been more—

  The sandwich fell from her nerveless fingers, and she gasped as a weight settled on her heart.

  Lewis!

  Where...

  Somehow, she was on her feet, stumbling dazedly among the squawking flamingos. She dropped to her knees, tears blurring her vision. She threw her head back and wailed, crying out, a part of her soul ripped away. She was barely aware as the others found her, the strange Fey who stared wordlessly at her. And then Angie was there, holding her. She screamed and cried, pleaded and begged. She gasped for breath, her heart ripped apart.

  Lewis was dead.

  Jester peered past the bars on the upper-level window, watching the strip bar's entrance below. It was early yet, ten thirty on a Tuesday night, but there had been a steady stream of customers coming into Hurricane Joe's. The best nights were always Saturdays, because Sundays were a half day for the city's workforce. Once, a lifetime ago, people had taken the entire weekend off, both days, all day, but that had been a different world. You don't work, you don't eat: the unofficial mantra of Sanwa City.

  Mads cleared his throat, an undercurrent of annoyance in the gesture, and Jester turned her attention back to her boss. "Sorry?"

  He sighed. "I said the one from New San Fran had been full of shit. The sword did nothing when he touched it."

  "Really?" Her puzzlement was sincere. She had seen that one do ... things, things that could only be magic. In fact, she had brought him to Mads herself, certain he'd fit the bill nicely—a mage lacking in morals.

  "Tricks," Mads said from behind his desk, the sword, Nightfall, lying atop it. He leaned back, his office chair squeaking softly under his weight. "The others were just deluded and honestly thought they were mages,
but that one was full of shit, a charlatan. It was all deception, ‘look over here while I pull off a sleight-of-hand move.’"

  "I'm sorry, boss. That prick fooled me, too." And she was sorry. And angry. She was going to kill that lying prick.

  When she said as much to Mads, he waved her offer away, implying he had already taken care of the matter himself. Unlike some bosses, Mads didn't mind getting blood on his hands. In fact, he was quite skilled at the killing bits. No one would ever see that fake mage again.

  "Don’t blame yourself. He fooled a lot of people. The good ones do. The test is the sword. If the glyphs don't light up—like when Angie Ritter held it—then they aren't a real mage."

  She nodded, biting her upper lip and letting her fingers caress the handle of her six-gun, a nervous tell that she needed to break herself of. In this line of work, you never wanted to show weakness, but the last person in the world she worried about was Mads. He knew she was loyal. They had been through far too much together.

  "This thing you want to do," she said, choosing her words carefully. Mads was a great boss, but he did have a temper. "Have you considered you might not find someone who's for real? And even if you do, what then? He's supposed to be the best with a sword."

  "I'll find someone." He trailed a finger over Nightfall's ebony blade. "And I don't need someone to duel him, all I need is someone to stick a sword in his back." He looked up, grinning. "Much easier than a fair fight."

  She laughed. "No such thing as a—"

  The boom of a shotgun carried through the thick walls of Mads’s inner sanctum. Her gaze darted to the window, expecting to see Horse Cops raiding the strip club. Instead, she saw customers and naked women pouring out the entrance, screaming and running in panic. So terrified were they that a heavyset bouncer knocked down and ran over a thin blond stripper. The blond woman lay still as others trampled her as well.

  The shotgun boomed again, three more shots in quick succession—the guard on the stairwell. She ran to the office door, her six-gun already in hand, and opened the door and peered through it just as the second guard, the one in body armor with the assault rifle, ran past, rushing to the stairwell. She looked back to see Mads holding both the side-sword and a large-caliber handgun he must have had concealed in his desk.