Xander’s Chance
#1, Damian Eternal Series
A War of Gods spinoff series
By Lizzy Ford
http://www.GuerrillaWordfare.com/
Cover design by Regina, Mae I Design
http://www.MaeIDesign.com/
Mobi edition
Xander’s Chance copyright 2013 by Lizzy Ford
Cover design copyright 2013 by Regina at MaeIDesign
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Prologue: Xander’s Origins
Chapter One
The boy ran through the crowded marketplace, dodging merchants’ carts and weaving through the patrons. Masked and hooded to hide his deformity, Xander relied on his special senses, the ones that no one else possessed. He was able to see, hear, smell and predict the actions of those around him. The world moved like it was in slow motion, giving him time to react with unnatural agility.
A full head and shoulders taller than other kids his age, he had lost the ability to work with the rest of the street urchins. No one took pity on a young man in a mask the way they did a cute little boy with dirty hands and huge, innocent eyes. Xander was forced to learn to use his special skills to steal from the market’s patrons rather than beg with the rest of the kids. He was able to creep up, snatch a purse and run before anyone registered that the hooded youth ever approached.
Today, however, he wasn’t lifting anyone’s coppers. He used his gifts to get him home, fast, after another of his senses tipped him off. Sometimes, he could even hear the thoughts of others. It was this strange talent that warned him of something very bad.
He reached the hovel he shared with his mother beyond the edge of the city, where all those who lived in poverty were similarly exiled. The one-room shack was neat, with pallets on one side, a fire at its center, a small area to prepare food and crates lining one wall that acted both as storage and seating.
Xander yanked the door open and froze. His mother – who had been sick for weeks – was not alone in their home. A well-dressed noblewoman knelt beside her still form. The stranger wore well-spun clothing and carried ornate weapons with bejeweled hilts. Her kidskin boots alone were worth more than everything Xander had ever stolen combined.
“Who are you?” he managed at last.
“Come in and close the door, boy,” the wealthy woman directed.
Xander obeyed. He didn’t remove his mask and hood, even within the confines of his home. The stranger glowed strangely in the otherwise dim lighting. Her aristocratic features were pale and her eyes exactly as Xander’s mother had once described them: the hue of spring. They were pale green with silver rings that seemed to liquefy and swirl as Xander watched.
The sudden sensation of falling made him clutch the door frame. The feeling that there was someone else in his thoughts made him shake his head viciously.
“How old are you, boy?” the woman asked.
“Ten summers.” Xander’s surprise turned to concern for his mother. “She cannot serve you today, ikira.”
“I do not seek a handmaiden, boy,” the stranger said.
Xander crossed to his mother and knelt, wary of the stranger. His mother spoke of a rich woman often, one who sent her on errands when his mother was not wanted at the whorehouse where she made what living was afforded a poor woman beyond the marriage age.
His mother was so pale, like the bodies of the dead he saw tossed in the channel at the other edge of town. His attempts at braiding her dark hair the way she liked it had ended up in a series of knots, because he didn’t quite understand how to do it and his man-sized fingers were too clumsy.
The instinct that warned him flared again. Her mind was too weak to talk to him anymore; she’d gone silent this afternoon.
“Take off your hood,” the stranger said.
“My mother forbids it.”
“Son, your mother is nearly gone.” There was a soft note in the haughty woman’s voice. “You do not hide yourself when you pay your respects.”
Xander’s eyes were glued to his mother. He hadn’t wanted to admit that the sudden muting of her thoughts was a sign of her sliding into death. It made no sense. She’d been sleeping for weeks; surely she could stay sleeping until she was rested enough to fight the illness?
He removed his hood and mask and inched away from the stranger. The two times in his life he recalled people seeing his eyes – which glowed like the red gem at his mother’s throat – were not pleasant. He was beaten once, at the age of seven, and the second time, his mother was.
“Good boy,” the woman said.
Xander held his mother’s hand and lifted his gaze. The stranger didn’t flinch or curse or scream or run. Instead, a slow smile spread across her face. It was not a warm smile, like Xander’s mother gave him, but a kind of smile that left Xander scared, without knowing why.
The stranger placed silk-lined gloves on the ground and removed her cloak.
Xander barely resisted the urge to touch the finely woven garment with a fur lining that was certain to be the softest thing in the world. With his extra sensitive senses, he often found himself lost in the feel or scent of things. Right now, he wanted to touch the lining, to see if it would bring him comfort. At his silence, the stranger looked where he did.
“You like my cloak?” the woman asked.
Xander nodded.
“Take it. It’s yours.” She handed it to him.
Xander was instantly fascinated by the sensation of downy fur and cotton spun so finely, it was like silk. He dug his dirty hands into the depths of the folded cloak, relishing the feel of it, then hugged it. What would it be like, if the whole world was so soft?
“Your mother never spoke of me?” the woman asked.
The question drew Xander from his wonder. He forced himself out of his senses and draped the cloak over his mother. It was the kind of finery she should be wearing, instead of being trapped in rags at the edge of the city. He hadn’t been able to steal enough coppers to replace even her boots and almost sighed. If only he was like the stranger: powerful enough to buy a home and wardrobe worthy of his mother.
“I think so,” he answered finally. “She said there was a woman who came to see her three days every five, with eyes like the first leaves of spring.”
“Good. What else did she say?”
Xander shrugged. His attention shifted to his mother, whose breathing was shallow enough, he barely heard it with his super sensitive hearing.
“She told me about you,” the woman continued.
Xander braced himself, waiting for the rejection he knew would come.
“She said you are a thoughtful, sensitive, strong boy with a unique gift,” she said. “She also said, when her time came, for me to find you and protect you. It’s why I’m here this evening, boy.”
“She will be well come morning.”
“No, boy, she w
on’t. And neither will you.”
Xander stroked the cloak draped over his mother’s arm.
“I know how you feed. I’ve never seen anything like you, but I think I know what you are.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Xander whispered.
The mention of feeding made his stomach roar to life. He hadn’t eaten in a week, afraid of making his mother sicker by drinking her blood. He managed to catch a few stray rats for food, but they tasted different. Gross. He even tried to eat real food, like his mother and everyone else around him did. He ended up too sick to steal coppers.
The noblewoman withdrew a delicate knife and flicked the inside of her wrist with the tip of the blade. The scent of blood ensnared Xander’s senses like nothing else. Gaze riveted to the crimson drops, he instinctively opened his mouth for his incisors to have room to emerge.
She gripped his chin firmly and lifted it to what light was in the hut. She observed Xander’s fangs as they grew. With apparent satisfaction, she released Xander and placed her bloodied wrist to Xander’s mouth.
Xander recoiled.
This woman’s blood didn’t smell like any blood Xander had drunk. This smelled sweeter, like nectar. It compelled him in a way that made him frantic to run away, before he crossed the line his mother warned him about and caused harm. As if reading his mind, the stranger spoke.
“You will not hurt me,” she assured him. “In fact, you cannot hurt me.”
Hunger pulsed through Xander. He was unable to keep from inching forward. One drop then two fell to the ground, and he almost flinched at the thought of his only real food in a week escaping him.
“Just close your eyes and drink,” the woman urged. “You cannot bury your mother if you’re too weak to carry her, can you?”
Shaking his head, Xander knelt beside her. This time, when she placed the bloody wrist to his lips, he sank his fangs into it. The woman didn’t move, didn’t react.
The warm liquid that filled his mouth was as sweet as it smelled, and unlike anything he ever experienced. His whole body felt alive for the first time. He became aware of the subtle movement of air beneath the front door, the cloudlike cloak clenched in his left hand and gritty dirt beneath his right, the trickle of blood down his throat to his gullet.
She withdrew, and Xander was shocked to feel the hunger gone after so short a drink.
“You see? You didn’t hurt me.” The stranger touched her other hand to the bloodied wrist, and the wounds healed. “All gone.”
Xander sat back on his heels, guilty and uncertain about what he’d done. He looked again at his mother. Would she be upset with him?
“There’s a place where everyone tastes like me. Not only that, but they are barbarians, like animals, that feel no pain. You could walk around without your mask and feed whenever you were hungry.” The woman then asked. “Do you think you’d like such a place?”
Xander hesitated then nodded.
“I’ll take you there. They will treat you like a god. You will have power unlike any other creature in either world.”
“Power,” Xander repeated.
“Yes, boy.” Her eyes flared with light. “Power beyond your dreams. No one you love will ever die again, and you can punish men like your father, who cast you out. How does that sound?”
Confused, he said nothing.
“There are more of us, boy. Special people like you and me.”
“I’m not special,” Xander said matter-of-factly. “We are here, because I am deformed.”
“Your mother told me. Your father tried to send you away for your deformity, but she wouldn’t let him. So she went with you to the streets?”
Xander swallowed hard with a nod.
“He did this to her and you. He put you on the streets, made her sell herself to keep clothes on your back. Now, she’s dying.”
“I know. I hate him,” Xander said. Heat crept up his neck and into his face.
“As well you should. He made your mother suffer. She loves you with all she is, Xander.”
“I know.” Just like that, his anger was gone, replaced by sorrow.
“Do you hate him enough to seek revenge, to right the wrong he’s committed against you and your mother?”
“Yes. But she won’t die.”
The woman studied him. “If she does? What will you do? How will you eat? Where will you live?”
Xander was unable to grasp how something like that might come to be. He grappled with the answers. There had never been a world without his mother. All he had to do was keep feeding her soup every night, and one day, she’d be better.
“She won’t die,” he repeated.
The stranger’s face softened with the warmth of pity, a sight Xander was accustomed to. Most people saved that look for his mother while casting uncertain or suspicious looks at the masked child who followed her dutifully through the city.
“Do you know the tavern with the sword and dagger on its sign?” the noblewoman asked. Once more, the silver ring flared to life and spun around her cool green irises.
Xander nodded. The sense of falling once more made him clutch the cloak.
“In the morning, I’m leaving from there for the place I told you about. If your mother has passed, will you consider joining me?”
“She’s just sleeping.”
“I understand. However, if something worse comes to pass, you will have a choice to make. You can serve me in this new land, where you will never have to hide what you are. We will build an army unlike any that has ever existed, and we will use it to seek revenge on your father for betraying you and her.”
Betrayal. Revenge. Something within Xander shivered at the thought. Was he excited or scared by the idea? He hated the man who threw them out. The emotion was stronger than hunger and sorrow.
“Or, you can stay here and pray no one ever finds out what you are. They won’t spare you. But,” the woman added “it’s your decision. Life is about choices, boy, those you make and those you don’t. You will need to learn that quickly.”
She rose as she spoke, gloves in hand.
“I wish the circumstances were different. Be that as it were, I anticipate seeing you in the morning.”
She strode to the door and left, closing it behind her.
Xander stared after her then crept closer to his mother. Her skin was warm still, her breathing faint. Her mind, however, was gone. She wasn’t there to help him any longer.
The green-eyed stranger was right; his father did this to them. Xander touched the soft skin of his mother’s face. He made a fire and prepared her nightly soup. When he finished carefully feeding it to her, he curled up beside his mother under the heavenly cloak. He drifted into restless sleep, praying his unusual visitor was wrong.
He woke in the middle of the night to check on her as he did every night. His mother’s body was as cold as the extinguished fire. Xander pushed himself up, eyes on her blue lips and white skin. She didn’t appear dead; she was as flawless as the marble statues he saw once when he ventured to the wealthy side of the city.
He felt nothing, seated beside his dead mother, except the prick of anger. Born to a wealthy merchant family, she’d been disowned when it became known what kind of deformed child she bore. She wouldn’t be buried in the ethereal silks of the wealthy or have her hair inlaid with flowers and perfumes. Her body wouldn’t be placed in a funeral pyre or surrounded by family and friends who bore her gifts one last time.
All because of his father. He rarely thought of the man he didn’t remember, but since the stranger’s visit, Xander wasn’t able to get his father out of his mind. He couldn’t control the surge of adrenaline he experienced whenever he thought of sinking his teeth into his father’s neck and draining his life from him, the way his father drained his mother’s life.
Obsessed with the thought, he rose and began digging in the hut. Anger and sorrow gave him strength. He dug for hours, until the shallow grave was nonetheless large enough for his mothe
r. He cleaned his hands of dirt then knelt beside her. With great effort, he worked the knots free from her hair and braided it one last time. Far stronger than boys many years older than he was, he bent and lifted her, carrying her to her permanent resting place.
Xander arranged her dress and hair with care. She was still beautiful, even worn down by the life she’d been forced into. His gaze settled on the only piece of jewelry she owned, a red gem that matched his eyes on a strip of leather around her neck. She’d worn it his whole life.
Did he take it, so he had something to remember her by? Or was it disrespectful to take her only treasure?
He sat in thoughtful silence for a long moment before he retrieved the rich stranger’s cloak. He draped it over his mother’s body. The gem meant something to her. If the stranger really did take him away from this place, he didn’t want to go alone, with nothing to remind him of the woman who gave up her life for him.
Xander gingerly pulled the necklace free and rearranged her hair. He placed the cloak over her body and covered her face, not wanting to get dirt in her dark hair.
Before the sun was fully on the horizon, he pushed the last armful of dirt into place over the low mound and sat back. Xander tied the necklace around his belt and stood.
He missed her already. Pain struck him so hard, he gasped. It was followed by the stark reality that he had nothing – and no one – else to go to. He was hungry and alone.
Pain turned into an emotion almost too strong for him to control.
You will have a choice to make.
Revenge or death. Xander’s fangs grew. His mother never held a grudge against his father, and suddenly, Xander didn’t understand why not. How was she unable to see what his father did?
Xander’s eyes settled on the mask and hood he dropped near the door when he arrived the day before. He hated them, too, and how they’d always come between him and his world.
The stranger spoke of a land where he was accepted and never hungry, where they’d build an army to kill his father.
The fury within him grew. He swiped the mask and hood from the floor and put them on. With one last look over his shoulder, he stepped into the early morning air.
Lizzy Ford Page 1
