by H. D. Gordon
SHOOTING STARS
A Surah Stormsong Novel
~Book One~
H. D. Gordon
Copyright © 2013 H. D. Gordon
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, are coincidental.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
For the lovers and the fighters.
PART 1: GIVE AN INCH
CHAPTER 1
Charlie could tell there was something wrong with the old man as soon as he walked in the door. He couldn’t pinpoint the source of the wrongness because it seemed to be everything and nothing at once. The way the old man dragged his left foot a little as he shuffled toward him. (Could be Charlie’s imagination.) The way his creased eyelids seemed to be drooping a touch too much. (He could just be tired.) The way even the tattered cloak on the old man’s back seemed not to ripple as he moved, but hang stiffly over boney, sagging shoulders. (Again, could be Charlie’s imagination.)
The man pulled out a stool at the bar and took a seat, resting his elbows on the shiny bar top and his chin in his brown-spotted hands. His spoiled liver breath smacked Charlie in the face as he leaned forward. Charlie tucked the rag he’d been using to polish the bar into the waistband of his jeans and eyed the old man for a minute, the soft lights of the bar casting deep shadows in the crevasses of his face, making canyons there.
He was the last customer of the night. The bar would be closing in less than five minutes. Old Brad Milner had a habit of popping in at the last minute for one final nightcap, as if he had gone home just to dig around in his couch cushions for change, which he probably had.
“Hiya, Chuck,” he said, his voice the rasp of sandpaper on wood.
Charlie smiled. This greeting was normal. It set him at ease a bit. “How ya doin, Mr. Milner?”
The old man waved a hand. “Fine, Chuck. Just fine. Could use a nice shot of your finest whiskey.” He winked and grinned. His teeth always made Charlie wish he wouldn’t. They were stained with hundreds of years’ worth of booze and nicotine, the color of rotted wood. But Charlie grinned back. This was an inside joke. By finest whiskey Milner meant cheapest whiskey.
Charlie poured the drink and set it in front of the old man, feeling a tightness in his throat he couldn’t explain. “Little late to be out, ain’t it?” he asked, a question he posed most every night, and most every night received the same answer.
Milner waved his hand again, grinning now with his wiser-than-you grin, glassy blue eyes shining out of his sunken face. “And how many nights you suppose I got left to be staying out, Chuck?” He took a deep swig of his drink, the apple in his throat bobbing grotesquely, and set it down again. The glass thudded heavily on the bar, and a little whiskey sloshed up and spilled over the rim, running down the wrinkles in Milner’s hand like dirty rivers. “I hope not too many.” He laughed. More spoiled breath hit Charlie’s face. He swallowed once and forced a grimace away before it could take stage.
Charlie watched as Milner’s eyes went distant and dull. “There’s a storm comin,” the old man rasped, lifting the drink again and finishing off the whiskey in one final grotesque bob of his throat. Another thunk! on the bar as he set the glass down. “I can feel it.”
Charlie’s unease settled back over him in full force. He put his hands on the bar and leaned forward. “Hey, you okay, Mr. Milner?” he asked. “You seem a little…off.”
Milner’s head tilted in an oddly bird-like fashion, the movement almost too sudden for such an old neck. His creased lids blinked once. Now Charlie’s stomach tightened. His hands were fists at his sides.
“Do I?” Milner asked, and let out a belch that made Charlie take an involuntary half-step back.
That was when Merin Nightborn walked through the door. Both Milner and Charlie turned their heads as she entered, and Charlie suppressed a sigh when the Sorceress fixed him with a wide red smile, white teeth gleaming out from behind. The cloak she wore was also red; the color of her family’s crest, and her black hair fell down the back of it like a dark hood. She came over to the bar and took a seat two stools down from the old man, flicking her eyes to him once and wiping the disgusted twist of her lips away before it could really settle. Her gloved hands came up and rested on the bar as she leaned forward, pushing her cleavage up and out and smiling again at Charlie.
“Good morning, Mr. Redmine,” she said, her speech that of a Highborn.
Charlie nodded, thinking this day might never end. “Lady Nightborn.”
Merin’s bottom lip pushed out. She had told him a hundred times before to call her by her first name, and he never did. Just as she never called him Chuck or Charlie. His reason for formality was because he didn’t want to encourage her, not that she needed encouragement. Her reason was because a lady in her position should not be caught in public addressing him by his common name. Just speaking with him the way she did was slumming for someone like her.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” she said, her voice taking on that slight whine only a royal woman could affect so perfectly. It always annoyed him. She was foolish to be talking to Charlie in such a way with Brad Milner present, even if he was just an old drunk.
But her constant hanging around could get him in trouble enough. To disrespect her would be even worse. He smiled his bartender smile. Nice, but just a bit too tight in the lips to be genuine. For a moment, he forgot about the unease he’d been feeling because of the peculiarity of the old man, and a new unease took its place.
“Always a pleasure, Lady Nightborn,” he said.
Merin ran her tongue out over her red lips, leaning forward over the bar even more, pushing up her breasts in hopes that Charlie might glance down at her low-cut shirt. He didn’t. This woman was a bear trap waiting to be stepped on and snapped shut around his ankles. A married royal with a taste for a common country boy. That kind of situation always ended badly for one of them, and it wouldn’t be the married royal. He had been careful with her. Very careful. Gently ignoring her advances without pushing hard enough for her to take offense. By the time the hour reached noon the next day, he would wonder if the snapping of the bear trap weren’t inevitable.
The Sorceress sighed lightly, sending a puff of rose-scented breath his way. Somehow, he hated it almost as much as he hated Milner’s. Almost. “I’m in town for the next week or so,” she said, her lashes flapping like a hummingbird’s wings.
That was when it happened. Had Charlie not been so distracted, he would have seen the old man begin to tremble under his old gray cloak. He would have seen the black redness flash behind his eyes. He would have seen him remove his wand from beneath his cloak and aim it at the young royal Sorceress. He would have been able to stop him, and maybe avoid everything that happened next. Maybe.
Milner didn’t make a sound as he carried out the deed. No rebel yell or cry of fury. He just held the wand tightly in his old wrinkled hand and shot a bolt of what looked like lightning from the end of it, brightening the room with a flash. It struck the Sorceress right over her heart. Charlie only had time to see her body jerk, her eyes go wide, to think What the hell? and then the Sorceress slumped in the barstool and fell to the floor with a thump.
His eyes snapped to the old man, whose face was twisted like that of a
demon’s from hell. Heat seemed to be pulsing from him, rolling off in noxious waves. Charlie acted without thinking. Again, it all happened so fast. Milner’s eyes—not Milner’s eyes, the eyes of a devil—lingered on the dead Sorceress for a minute, then they flipped to Charlie.
“Rich bitch,” the old man said, spitting the words out like acid. He gave Charlie a grin that made his stomach flip and his skin prickle. Then he aimed the cheap wand at him, that dark thing still lurking behind his glassy eyes.
The Stone that hung on a necklace around Charlie’s neck grew hot and cold at the same time, burning him a little where it hung over his chest. It was tucked into his shirt, pulsing against his skin, where it had been since the day he’d received it. He looked at the old man and thought, he’s going to kill me, and before the man could do so, Charlie’s right hand came up and clenched into a fist.
And with his secretly gifted Magic, he crushed Brad Milner’s windpipe without ever touching his throat. There had been no time to retrieve his wand. He really wished there had been, though it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway.
His heart did a standstill as he leaned over the bar, breathing harshly, his chest heaving up and down, staring at the two dead bodies lying on the shiny wood floor. A Highborn lady and an old drunk. Today was going to be even longer than he thought.
He was going to have some explaining to do.
CHAPTER 2
The Sorceress crossed one leg over the other and folded her delicate hands in her lap. “I appreciate the offer, father, but I don’t want the job.”
Syrian Stormsong looked at his daughter with disapproval, only slightly overshadowed by the grief in his purple eyes. He was silent for a time before speaking, choosing his words slowly, as was his way. “You are the only one left,” he said. “I have a kingdom to run. I would do it myself if I had the time.”
Surah’s face was impassive, her features relaxed and smooth. She wanted to tell her father that sitting in front of a fireplace in his office all day and mourning over the death of his son was not running a kingdom. It was not, in fact, productive at all. He was a man whose only talent was delegating responsibility to others, and she had been doing his bidding for nearly a thousand years without much protest. But things had changed. Surah couldn’t say exactly what those things were, but she could feel the difference all the same. Her brother was gone now, and when she had come to her father, asking of him something for the first time ever, he had denied her any assistance. It didn’t matter that her brother’s murderer had met his end without her father lifting a hand. What mattered was that her father had been unwilling to lift a hand, and she would not allow him the guilt-trip he was attempting.
Surah tilted her chin up a fraction, looking at her father with the calm that had taken her centuries to master, despite the roiling black ocean raging inside her. A black ocean that was the accumulation of a long life and its losses. Yes, her brother’s death had changed things. A final straw.
“This is no longer a place for me, father. I’m afraid I can’t accept your proposal.”
Syrian’s purple eyes flashed with anger, just as Surah had known they would. He may not be a particularly productive man, but he was very kingly in the sense that he was not someone who liked to be told no. “You would leave our people without a Keeper?” he asked, disapproval now bordering disgust dripping from the words. “I had thought better of you, Surah.”
Surah’s teeth clenched a little, but her tone was as sweet and soft and delicate as always, her eyes indifferent. “There are others with greater control of the Magic than I have,” she said. “More knowledge and capability, even. I am not the only one who meets the requirements.”
The snifter of brandy Syrian had been holding flew into the fireplace and shattered there with a loud crack, making the blaze flare, throwing licks of orange on the walls and making shadows dance in the dark room. Surah didn’t flinch, though she felt the heat flash hot against her skin. Syrian hadn’t thrown it with his hand, but rather with his Magic, and Surah was careful not to raise an eyebrow at what he would have called a “useless display of power.” She loved her father, but that didn’t mean her father was easy to love. Over the years his temper had been a constant headache for her, but over time she had come to understand it was only his nature, something that had to be expected if they were to maintain a relationship.
“I am not asking as your father. I am telling you as your king,” he said, smoothing a hand through his dark, carefully styled hair, regaining his composure, like the flipping of a switch. “You will be Keeper, and assist the Hunters in their necessary and noble efforts. You should be ashamed that I have to demand this of you. Your brother fulfilled his duty with pride and without protest.”
Now there was a hypocritical statement if she’d ever heard one, and though she knew her next words would set her father off like a fireworks display, she said them anyway. She was beyond the point of holding her tongue, which was a pretty distant point. Syrian was not the only one who was grieving, and she didn’t need his attitude on top of everything else.
“I should be ashamed?” she asked, her calm delivery fueling the returning anger in her father’s eyes. She knew she should just shut her mouth, but she didn’t. She leaned forward in her chair, her posture straight and perfect, back rigid. “I’m not the one who calls myself a king and yet is too cowardly to seek justice for his son’s death.”
Harsh, she knew this, but also true. And he had started it.
Syrian’s eyes bulged from their sockets and a blue vein pulsed on his pale forehead. His long, manicured fingers dug into the leather armrests of his chair. “How dare you speak to me like that?” he said, spittle flying from his lips. “You ungrateful child. You think everything is about you. You have lived for hundreds of years and it has done nothing for your understanding of the world. Your mind is as youthful as your appearance. How is it you have become so selfish?”
Surah was a heartbeat away from saying that he had made her this way, but then a knock sounded on the oak doors of her father’s study, and a silence fell over the large room. Surah watched the flames from the enormous stone fireplace flicker across her father’s face as Syrian barked for the caller to enter. The double oak doors swung open simultaneously with smooth glides, and in walked Theodine Gray, the heels of his boots clicking softly over the polished wood. His black cloak rippled behind him with each smooth step he took, and his hard eyes spoke only of business. When they settled on Surah, they softened a fraction, and a crooked smile pulled up one side of his mouth.
Surah swallowed to keep signs of annoyance off her face. Theo was not her favorite person, as he seemed to be everyone else’s.
“Princess,” Theo said, coming to a stop in front of Surah. He held a black-gloved hand out to her, and she held her own gloved hand out for him, as she had done thousands of times for thousands of people over the years. Theo took it gently and bent at the waist to kiss the leather over the top of her hand, his gray eyes watching her the whole time. “Always a pleasure,” he said, then turned to Syrian and offered another bow. “My Liege.”
Syrian was not in the mood for interruptions, and though it was nearly painfully difficult for him, he wiped any emotion out of his expression and tone, his broad shoulders rigid. What went on between him and his daughter was solely their business. “Is it important, Theo?” Syrian asked shortly. “My daughter and I were having a discussion.”
Surah could feel the Head Hunter’s eyes on her, knew the crooked smile was on his face, and deliberately stared into the fire to avoid his gaze. She was a princess, and had been for her entire life, so she was used to the eyes of others being on her, and she was good at pretending as though they weren’t even there. But Theodine Gray’s gaze was different. She seemed to feel it slither over her skin, even when her head was turned. It always made her teeth clench for reasons she couldn’t explain. Theo had never given her a reason not to like him, had always, in fact, been very formal and kind to her, b
ut she couldn’t help it. Reason or not, she didn’t like him, and hundreds of years in this life had taught Surah to always trust her instincts.
But her father trusted Theo, so she kept her opinions to herself. Another thing she had learned was usually a wise choice.
“I’m afraid it is serious, my Liege,” Theo said. His eyes and posture had gone back to all business. The seriousness in his voice made even Surah’s head turn, and he looked at her when he said his next words. Surah found herself wanting to slap that crooked smile off his lips.
“We received word from the Dark Mountain. The Black Stone is missing. Someone has stolen it.”
Surah’s mouth fell open, a rare expression of involuntary surprise on her face. She picked her jaw up and smoothed out her face as soon as she realized she was doing it, but when she looked over at her father she could see it was too late. He had seen her horror, no doubt felt it, too. His violet eyes stared into her own, and she could see the victory there. His eyes said this was exactly what he was talking about, why she needed to be Keeper. Why she didn’t have much choice.
What Theo said next sealed the deal like a licked envelope.
“Also, Merin Nightborn is dead. Looks like murder.”
Surah sighed, sat back in her chair, and thought, oh dear.
CHAPTER 3
“What do you mean someone has stolen the Black Stone?” Syrian said, his fingers digging deeper into the poor leather of his chair, the blaze from the fireplace reflecting in his eyes. Obviously the Stone was a bigger worry than the death of a royal woman. Which said something. “That’s impossible.”
Theodine nodded his agreement, then shook his head and spread his hands. “Apparently not,” he said.
Surah sat silently, unmoving, even though both men kept glancing at her as though she should have some input. She didn’t, at least not other than the same question her father just asked. The Black Stone wasn’t supposed to be able to leave its place in the Dark Mountain. Everyone knew that. It was impossible. Also, she’d never much cared for Merin Nightborn.
