by Cari Z
Table of Contents
Legal Page
Title Page
Book Description
Dedication
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
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Book Description
About the Author
Publisher Page
Shadows and Light
ISBN # 978-1-78651-386-1
©Copyright Cari Z 2016
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright February 2016
Edited by Ann Leveille
Pride Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2016 by Pride Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
SHADOWS AND LIGHT
Cari Z
A fight to the death against his former master turns into a chance for Rafael, an assassin denied the immortality he lived to achieve, to learn the shocking truth about the fate he was spared.
Rafael wanted nothing more than to serve his immortal master, Xian, a High One of Clare, who taught him from an early age how to be an assassin. But after failing the final test, Rafael was turned out into the Lower City, abandoned by the one person he thought he could count on.
Years of hatred and thoughts of revenge have fueled Rafael’s quest for vengeance, but when the time comes to strike at Xian, he hesitates and is taken prisoner. Rafael expects to die, either at Xian’s hand or at the hand of Myrtea, his sadistic mistress.
Instead Xian heals him, spares him a brutal interrogation and tells him the dark truth driving the ruthlessness of the High Ones—the source of their immortality is spent. Soon the city will devolve into chaos as High Ones battle one another and the rebelling denizens of the Lower City for power and resources. Xian wants to spare Rafael that pain, just as he spared him the pain of becoming a High One a decade earlier.
Their only chance for survival is to escape Clare before civil war breaks out. Even if they make it out of the city, though, there’s no guarantee that Xian will live through the agonizing process of becoming human again. The only ones they can rely on are each other…if Rafael can bring himself to once again trust his former master, the only man he’s ever loved.
Dedication
To everyone who stuck with me from the early days, thanks for coming along for the next big steps.
Chapter One
Rafael stalked the High One through the misted streets of Clare, the Bright City, though not so bright now as night laid claim to her. He had been watching this High One for two weeks, following him and learning his ways. The creature was skilled and confident, otherwise he wouldn’t have come into the Lower Half without a cadre of guards. He was too confident for his own good. Rafael felt nothing inside himself except savage satisfaction when he considered what he was about to do. The murder of a High One was a serious undertaking and, of all the assassins of the Lower Half, he was the only one to have succeeded. Time and again he had succeeded. Tonight would be no different.
They left the last of the inns behind, heading toward the wharves on the outskirts of the vast island city. Going to check the shipments of whatever elder he served, Rafael knew. This one was a warrior, a challenge. He moved with ease and carried the rapier at his side with the air of a practiced killer. Rafael had watched him fight, watched him kill. A decided challenge, but he relished it. The streets leading to the wharves would be inhabited with nothing but drunks and whores at this time of night, and they knew better than to interfere in business beyond their concern, which this was about to become. Rafael moved noiselessly along the rooftops, closing on his target. Closer, closer… He judged the distance and leaped suddenly, no flash of shadow or flare of light to give him away. Yet somehow the High One still sensed him.
It was the last possible moment the man could have dodged the savage kick, and he didn’t get away completely. Rafael’s foot caught his shoulder but not his spine and the High One spun to the side, favoring the injury but drawing his sword lightning fast as he turned back to his attacker. Rafael was impressed. A blow to the spine would have incapacitated the creature long enough for him to pierce his heart or remove his head, but the shoulder would only distract him for as long as it took to heal. Rafael moved fast to keep up his offensive, his slender sabers slicing through the long metallic cloak that hid the upper half of his target’s visage. He had intended to cut the High One’s face, perhaps blind him, but the creature truly was talented, or lucky. Rafael’s blades grazed one cheek and severed the leather thong holding the cloak back. It fell shimmering to the ground, exposing his target’s face.
It was the same as all the other High Ones’ faces. The change the magic wrought on them gave them invulnerability to the ravages of time but leached the uniqueness out of their flesh, rendering them all the same sickly pale color, incandescent in the dim orange flare of torchlight. His face was slender, as so many were, and unremarkable in its beautiful normalcy. His eyes were nearly white, pupils the only break in the viscera’s pallor, and his hair was the same glittering silver as the cape that lay crumpled at his feet.
The only difference with this High One was his competency with the blade. Even as he dodged Rafael’s sabers, his own rapier flicked out, almost invisible in the faint light, seeking to impale. Rafael rolled forward, unable to stop his momentum but wanting to continue to press, and barely missed the wickedly fast point as he flew beneath it. He levered a cut at the High One’s legs but the creature leaped into the air and slightly back, recovering his space and avoiding the cut at the same time. Rafael’s eyes narrowed. Challenging indeed. He struck again, pressing the High One back. It took all his skill to keep his two blades in play. The High One was smart and switched his target from Rafael’s body to his hands, trying to disarm him.
This was taking too long. Soon the creature’s shoulder would recover and he’d be on the receiving end. Rafael was fast and very skilled, but High Ones had advantages of magically enhanced strength and speed and the weight of lifetimes of practice. Surprise had to be on his side for the fight to end fast, and his endurance wouldn’t keep him up forever. He’d have to take some chances. Thrusting his right blade at the High One’s face, he dropped his guard on the left side. The rapier came out, pricking, seeking him, but too slow. He had distracted the creature w
ith his first strike and now swept his saber across the man’s thigh, biting easily into flesh and muscle.
It was a pyrrhic victory. The High One recovered and rerouted his own blade down. The point plunged deeply into Rafael’s left hand, sliding between thumb and forefinger. He gasped and jerked it back, losing his second saber as he did so. The pain was excruciating but he had been trained to deal with that, even without the healing magic of a High One flowing through his blood. He dropped back and pulled his heavy-bladed athame from his belt.
They stood still for a moment, each surveying the other. Rafael grimaced internally—he could barely grip the athame. The High One was bleeding but, if he could continue to draw this fight out, he’d surely win. Rafael could outrun him, but he’d never run from a fight. There was no honor in abandoning his purpose. He existed to kill their kind. If he had to die trying, that was better than living with the memory of failure.
The High One flicked his eyes toward the knife. They narrowed minutely, and he looked back at Rafael with grim curiosity. “How does a low-born cur such as you handle the athame of a master?”
Rafael smiled despite himself. “Perhaps I took it from one of your friends.”
The High One snorted derisively. “The athame burns in the hands of one not meant to wield it. Not even a man as clearly insane as you could withstand the pain that long.” He took a half step closer, his gaze darting between the knife and Rafael’s face. Suddenly his eyes widened with dawning comprehension. “The prodigal child.” A savage smile split his face in two. “The apprentice whom our master turned away. He will enjoy hearing of your death firsthand.”
The High One lunged suddenly, his sword a dazzling arrow of light. In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten his wound, and placing all of his weight upon the injured leg caused it to buckle slightly. It was all the opening Rafael needed. He parried the rapier with his saber and brought his knife upward in an underhand swing. The blade passed through his target’s body, lodging beneath ribs and almost close enough to tickle the heart. The High One gaped in shock, his lungs suddenly unable to draw breath. He fell to his knees, grasping at the knife even as his pale, magic-filled blood gushed out over his fingers.
Rafael shoved the creature face down onto the ground. Straddling the still-gasping corpse, he pulled the High One’s personal athame from his own belt. It did burn his hand, but Rafael welcomed the pain. He briefly checked the insignia on the hilt. It was true. They had shared the same master. The pain that blossomed in his heart was far worse than what he felt in his hand, and Rafael forcefully drove the blade through the back of his target, penetrating his heart and punching through the chest wall to scrape against the cobblestones. The High One shuddered violently, once, then truly died.
Rafael released the hilt of the athame, wincing at the crackling of his blackened palm, and retrieved his own blade from the front of the body. He took a moment to bathe his injured hands in the creature’s blood, still incredibly potent with healing magic, then wiped his blade clean and replaced it in its sheath. He stood up and put his sabers away, then looked for a long moment at the body of his enemy. The creature had known of him. They had shared the same master. If things had gone differently for him five years ago, they might have―
Enough! Using his own blood, Rafael laid a ward around the body to keep others from desecrating it for its latent powers. He was a killer, but he killed for himself, not for the magic-hungry vultures that flocked to his targets. If they wanted blood magic, they could do the killing and spilling themselves. Soon the High One would be found. News like this spread quickly, and it was time he was away. Drawing his own short, dark cloak up and over his face, Rafael melted away into the mist, wanting distance from his latest kill and all the painful emotions it had stirred within him.
He needed a distraction, something or someone to take his mind off tonight’s events. Perhaps a gambling house. Fine liquor, luxurious surroundings and the chance to fill his pockets. Or maybe a brothel. It had been some time since he’d visited that district and nothing diverted Rafael from his own dark thoughts better than the warmth of a willing companion. He’d have to wait for his hands to heal before doing either, however. Blood and blackened skin were hardly conducive to romance or holding cards. Conscious of interested eyes watching him from the buildings, Rafael walked quickly down a darker alley, windowless and deep. Most people avoided the truly dark places in the Bright City but Rafael reveled in them. No one who valued their life would follow him into the dark.
He found a low stone stoop and sat down, letting his hands dangle between his knees. The left one still dripped slightly, a mixture of his blood and the High One’s forming a small, gleaming puddle on the ground, but the flow was already almost staunched. Flakes of crusty skin drifted down from his right hand as new tissue replaced it. The restorative powers of the magic that the High Ones consumed truly was amazing.
He was lucky to be alive. Rafael sighed and leaned his head back against the cool, damp wall. The High One had been trained by a master assassin, and not just any master. By his own master. The best there was, and that much wasn’t wishful thinking, it was an acknowledged fact throughout the whole of Clare. It was the reason Rafael had the skills he had, and not a little of the respect either. His master―
No, he couldn’t think about that right now. Not when the blood of another of Xian’s apprentices still glistened on his hands. It didn’t matter that the man would surely have killed him if Rafael hadn’t finished the job. He deserved Rafael’s respect.
Settling his body and mind, Rafael dropped into the meditative state he’d first learned as a child, nearly twenty years ago now. Gradually the tension eased from his body. His breathing slowed to a crawl, his heart thudded gently, but he didn’t move a muscle. He stayed that way for five hours, long enough for the night to drift toward dawn and his hands to mostly recover. At least, he thought as he looked at them, they’d recovered enough so that he wouldn’t frighten whoever he found to get warm with. Better a brothel than a gambling house tonight—well, today now. He was too tired to play games. Coming to his feet, Rafael stretched for a moment, working the kinks of stillness out of his back and legs before setting off into the light.
Morbid curiosity pulled him back to the scene of his kill. The way was crowded, more High Ones there now. This time they had brought guards, men and women of the Lower Half who gladly served for the chance that they might, someday, be deemed worthy of entrance into the ranks of the High Ones. Rafael stifled a snort. Those who did menial work for the High Ones almost never got changed. There were thousands more like them, just waiting for an opening in the ranks and their own slim chance at immortality. He craned his neck slightly to look at the body. Near immortality. No, the best way to become a High One was to be taken as a child and made an apprentice, indoctrinated into the system from an early age so you never questioned, never faltered, never disobeyed. If you pleased your master, he or she would change you. It took years for the process to be complete, but the wait was worth it. Or so he’d thought.
Chapter Two
A familiarly sick feeling settled into Rafael’s gut again. Swallowing hard, Rafael turned from his fallen target and made his way down back alleys toward the pleasure district. Pleasure, and all types of it. There wasn’t anything that man had dreamed of that couldn’t be fulfilled in Little Heaven, as the locals called it, as long as you had money and a strong stomach. Carnal appetites of all sorts were sated, involving everything from role play to blood play to death itself. Little Heaven was a place filled with its own sort of magic, lesser than the pure life the High Ones drank but still potent.
Rafael didn’t need to experience Little Heaven’s darker side. He’d survived worse than most of what they could throw at him and he had no desire to relive any of it, not for his pleasure or to satisfy the voyeurism of others. He entered the district, no less busy at dawn than at any other hour. The city of Clare never slept, and this place in particular drew a robust trade. Vi
sitors flocked here and locals flocked to them, to fleece them and entertain themselves. Rafael skipped past once-comely whores now reduced to beggars and made his way to Feysal’s.
The doorman recognized him and let him in at once, ushering him into the sumptuous anteroom and closing the door silently behind him. A pair of courtesans waited inside, but upon seeing him one stood gracefully and went to get his master. Rafael waited for Feysal, eyes flicking casually over the room and the beautiful young man who had remained. A vision of dark skin and darker hair that flowed like a black waterfall over slender shoulders and hips, he wore a short silk sarong and nothing else. Points of gold glittered in his ears, brows and lips, and he smiled charmingly at Rafael.
Rafael inclined his head briefly, interested but not willing to commit himself until he knew whether Feysal was available. Half a minute later, the man himself appeared, vivid against the muted gold tones of his waiting room. He was a few inches shorter than Rafael and quite broad, dusky but not as dark as the reclining man, and wore a bright blue silk kaftan heavily embroidered with gold threads. His feet were bare, his long hair held back with jeweled clips. He smiled and reached a hand out to Rafael. “My friend.”
Rafael took his hand a bit gingerly. “Not too tight,” he warned.
“Ah.” Feysal looked him over. “You were working this past night, then?”
“Yes.” He and Feysal had a history together that went back nearly his whole stay in the Lower City, and Rafael hoped he could make the time for him. He needed someone who would understand, someone he could talk to. Feysal seemed to realize that. He nodded slightly and drew Rafael toward him, gently squeezing his shoulder.
“You earn your keep, my friend. So shall I.” He turned toward the young man still lounging, staring at them with interested eyes. “I’m not to be disturbed for the rest of the morning, Salim.” The courtesan bowed his understanding, and Feysal looked back to Rafael. “Let’s go to my rooms.”
