Heart Blade: Blade Hunt Chronicles Book One

by Juliana Spink Mills

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Juliana Spink Mills Bio

  HEART BLADE

  BLADE HUNT CHRONICLES BOOK ONE

  BY

  JULIANA SPINK MILLS

  Heart Blade is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are all the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright @2016 by Juliana Spink Mills

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Woodbridge Press

  Cover illustration: Merilliza Chan

  Cover Fonts: Tom Edwards Design

  Character Icons: Caleb Hystad

  Other Cover work: Deb Kunellis

  Edited by Teresa Edgerton

  Copy-Edited by Samanda R Primeau

  Author’s note

  My character Del carved a message to herself on her arm. This is a work of fiction. PLEASE DO NOT CUT OR HARM YOURSELF. If you feel the urge to self-harm, please tell someone you trust – like a friend, family member, or counselor – who can support you while you seek help. If you would prefer to talk to someone anonymously, please consider turning to one of several free resources. Many countries have a suicide prevention lifeline; in the USA the number is 1(800) 273-8255. Another resource for help and advice is Seven Cups of Tea, 7cups.com.

  Acknowledgments

  A huge thank you to Nathan Hystad and Woodbridge Press for believing in me. To my wonderful editor, Teresa Edgerton, for making me dig deeper than I ever thought I could. To Sam Primeau, my copy-editor, for making it all shiny. And my proofreader Scarlett Algee for the extra pair of eyes.

  Thanks to all my writing friends who have been with me every step of the way. Everyone from the SFF Chronicles: you’re all lovely and I couldn’t have done it without you. The SFF World crowd for cheering me on through my edits. All my SCBWI friends for lots of warm and fuzzy feels. And my two fabulous critique groups for keeping me sane and focused: the Pandas – Carrie, Christy, Cindy, Eleni, and Jen; and the Tri-Angels – Anna, Bryan, Liz, and Regina.

  Thanks to everyone at Laurel City Sword, and especially my instructors Chris, Rob, and Janusz, for all the help with my fight scenes.

  Thanks to my parents, Mary Jane and Peter, for never letting me give up on my dreams. And to all my family and friends in Brazil and around the world for always being there. Amo muito vocês!

  A great big thank you to my kids, Nick and Alissa, for their endless love and patience. And last but certainly not least, to Rob, for going above and beyond his marriage vows to support me in every way possible.

  Prologue

  Anton stirred his coffee as he waited for his contact. He checked the time and drummed his fingers, annoyed. The demon was late.

  The table in front of him was full of girls, talking animatedly about some movie they’d just seen. Something with vampires. A flicker of amusement tempered his irritation and he ran his tongue over his eyeteeth. Sharp enough to pierce an artery, yet small enough that no one ever noticed he wasn’t human. Had not been human for ninety years now.

  He’d been letting his thirst build for this job tonight. His last kill feed had been well over six months ago: all nice and legal according to the laws of the Covenant. If the job went sour, he was within his rights and could not be found guilty.

  The Court of the Covenant determined when. There were no rules on who or where.

  The door opened, bringing in a swirl of city noise and scents. Anton snapped his eyes to the coffee shop entrance. There was no mistaking the half-demon, even with his one silver eye masked by a glamour. The lilac aura that surrounded him was invisible to humans but easy enough for a bloodborn’s keen eyes to spot. He raised his coffee cup in acknowledgment and waited for the demon to make his way over and sit, chair rasping against the sticky floor.

  “You’re late,” he told the newcomer dryly. “And I thought she was coming.”

  “You thought wrong, leech.” The demon gave him a contemptuous look. “The Lady does not deal with such matters herself.”

  Anton chose to ignore the insult. He did not introduce himself and neither did the demon. He hadn’t really expected the Lady to come, but appearances must be kept up. He took a long sip of his coffee.

  “You have a name and place for me,” he said quietly.

  “I do.” The demon handed over a folded paper.

  Anton opened it and scanned the note. He raised one perfect eyebrow. “Really? This seems… unusual.”

  “Can you do it or not?”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Anton finished his coffee and stood up. “Tell the Lady I consider myself discharged from debt.”

  The demon stood too, narrowing his eyes. “After the job is done, vampire.”

  “It is as done. Don’t doubt me.”

  The demon was still glowering at him, and Anton wondered briefly what he would taste like. From his scent, he guessed a heady blend of ichor and human blood. Some of Anton’s thirst must have shown in his eyes, or in a deepening of his own red bloodborn aura, as the demon looked momentarily startled and left in sudden haste. Anton smirked and followed him out.

  As the subway train hummed and clattered its way across the city, he reviewed his orders. His target was a human girl, not a preternatural. A teenager, a ward of the Church. He was to drain her to death’s door and leave her with the faintest grasp on life. Irreversible. He could picture it now: the young heart fluttering faintly like a dying bird. It would require the most delicate of touches, but he was already a virtuoso at these things, showing a rare restraint for one not yet a century old.

  He reached his destination and immediately spotted the abbey, dark and imposing in the rather shabby neighborhood. Saint Martin of Tours, patron saint of beggars and soldiers. He easily vaulted the tall iron gates in one great leap and slipped around to the back.

  His instructions were detailed and precise. He found the open window mentioned in the note and climbed through to a small pantry. He stood there a moment, listening. But his keen bloodborn senses picked up no movement. The way was clear.

  He followed his instructions, climbing up and up to the building’s heights until he reached a hallway. One, two, three, four. Fourth door on the right: this was the room.

  The door opened w
ith the faintest of creaks. Streetlights lit up the small space and picked out a bundled shape under the sheet. He was over by her bedside in an instant, vampire instincts taking over as the urge to feed clouded his mind and narrowed the whole world down to that still form upon the bed. He scooped her up and stopped, confused, as the body fell apart and transformed into a pile of pillows and garments.

  A grating noise caught his attention. He turned to see one slim leg slide over the windowsill and a tawny head duck under the open glass. In that brief moment of wonder, as he stared at the teenage girl at the window, his hands stopped working. He dropped the pillow he still gripped and tried to move his arms, puzzled, his conscious thoughts slow to resurface. His legs were all wrong, too. He lost control of his body, which slowly buckled under him until he sat in a tangled heap on the floor. Something kept him from collapsing entirely. He vaguely noticed a firm hand on his neck, supporting him.

  He heard a voice somewhere above him. “Your spine is severed. You can still be saved if you tell me who sent you.” The voice was calm and steady.

  But his bloodborn thirst was still in control — a storm unleashed — and he snarled at the voice. There was a searing ache in his chest and he looked down to find a sword blade protruding from between his ribs, sticky with blood and gore. He gave a gasp as his punctured lung collapsed and realization flooded in, shattering the thirst and jerking him back to reality in a howl of pain.

  “You are dying,” said the voice, as the hand let go and Anton began to topple forward. The hand grabbed him again, by the hair this time, yanking him back upright as the blade was wrenched from his body in one vicious move. “You are dying, but you can still be saved. Your bloodborn strength can see you through. You can be healed.” The voice was almost tender as it pleaded. “You need only tell me who sent you.”

  Anton tried to shake his head, but the muscles wouldn’t obey. There was no double-crossing the Lady of all demons. He formed the word ‘no’ silently as the ruthless hand pulled his head even further back.

  Now he faced the ceiling and it seemed to stretch up and up, infinitely. He imagined shapes swirling there, long-dead shapes that called to him. Elena. Sasha. His beloved Sergei. He tried to tell Sergei he was coming, but instead all he saw was the stern face of a yellow-haired bloodborn priest.

  He knew he was dying. He didn’t need the priest to tell him that. The hand let go and he fell forward slowly, crashing into the side of the bed. When he reached the floor and felt the blade begin to scythe through his neck, his last thought was that he was already dead.

  Chapter One

  Del

  Del heaved her camping backpack out of the taxi as the late August swelter rose from the sidewalk to wrap her in its furnace embrace. Diana slid out after her, neat in capris and a buttoned-up shirt, with her heavy dark hair braided down her back. She looked more like a very young soccer mom than an immortal half-sister. Diana’s lilac demon aura was barely visible in the shimmering heat, and a glamour masked her one silver eye, the same glamour Del had slid over her own face before they left for the bus station.

  Inside, they found the departure gate and stood in silence. The words had all been spent in last night’s argument, and now there was nothing left to say. Diana reached over to tuck one of Del’s short brown curls behind her ear, fingers quick and nervous. She drew Del into an awkward hug, unexpected but sincere. Del could feel the sadness rolling off her sister, and resisted the urge to taste it. Of all the emotions a half-demon could feed off, why did her immortal hunger have to be sorrow?

  Diana broke the embrace, one hand lingering on Del’s arm. “It’s time,” she said, and Del knew she wasn’t talking about the bus to Boston. “Our Liege Lady is waiting. Soon you’ll be a full member of the pack.” She straightened and gave Del a formal nod, almost a bow. “I look forward to hunting with you, Adeline.”

  The bus door opened with a hiss, and Diana moved away as the line began to stir. Del darted after her and caught her sleeve.

  “What if I won’t do it?” Del’s voice was a rough croak, barely audible. “Kill, I mean. What if I won’t kill?”

  Diana paused for a heartbeat, the undercurrent of sadness swelling until Del could hardly bear it. “Then, my sister, she will kill you instead.”

  She gently pulled her sleeve free and walked away without a backward glance, head bowed. Del watched her go. Sometimes she thought it would be such a relief to give in, join the pack, and let her demon nature take over. But then she glanced down at the scars on her forearm, and her fingers tightened around the strap of her backpack.

  She would never give in, not for Diana, and certainly not for her Liege and creator, Shade Raven. She covered the scars with her other hand and scurried to join the line.

  It was midday by the time the bus pulled out from Philadelphia, the air conditioning pebbling Del’s arms with the cold. She was cold inside, too; a ball of ice that sat heavily in the pit of her stomach. She dug inside her small tote bag and touched her journal lightly just to reassure herself that it hadn’t somehow disappeared since the last five times she’d checked. On impulse, she drew it out.

  The first half was full of scribbled notes in her tight, cramped handwriting: all her research on who she was, or rather, who she’d been before she became one of the preternatural almost a full year ago. One dead end after another, countless wasted hours of Internet search. She flipped through to the middle of the journal, where a folded page marked her latest research project.

  The Guild of Saint Peter, known simply as the Guild, was said to be a haven of sorts. She’d read online accounts about preternaturals who’d disappeared after running up against the Court of the Covenant, only to resurface later safe and sound within the Guild.

  Del rubbed a thumb over the scarred letters on her arm. She’d tried tracking down the Guild, but it wasn’t as though they had a listed number. There were rumors that their headquarters were in Toronto. However, the only thing she’d found was something named St. Peter’s Institute for the Arts, which appeared to be a private college of some sort. Probably one of those scam schools, to judge by the bland, generic website that just screamed “phony”.

  She shut the journal, pressing it tightly between her hands. This couldn’t be the end of things. She had to find the Guild. She didn’t have any other option. If she left the shelter of the pack, she’d be a rogue. Rogue demons were fair game. Rogues died. So said demon law, which predated the Covenant by centuries. If she did this — if she ran — she’d be setting herself against both Shade and the Court of the Covenant itself.

  The cold fear grew sharper, icy shards slicing her inside. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe evenly until the wave of panic subsided a little. She’d find the Guild, somehow. And then she’d figure out who the hell she’d been and what the scar on her arm meant.

  The bus made a brief stop in the underground bleakness of New York’s Port Authority. Del was tempted to get out and lose herself in the city crowds, but New York was a bad choice. There were pack members here, she knew. She’d managed to sneak a look at Diana’s pack directory one day. There were few cities in New England free from the East Coast Hunt. One of them was Hartford, Connecticut. The next and final stop on the bus route to Boston.

  They’d search for her, she knew that. Shade wouldn’t give her up that easily. And if — no, when — she was declared a rogue, she’d have the sentinels to worry about, too. The angel-bloods lived to hunt down a rogue. Or so Diana had taught her. But Del guessed she had at least a few days before Shade declared her a pack outcast, a week or two if she was lucky. She’d have to move fast. Find the information she needed, and move on.

  The driver returned and started the engine. The door closed firmly and the bus backed out of the station.

  Three hours later they pulled into Hartford. As she climbed down the steps, the driver asked, “Any luggage?”

  Del nodded. “Backpack. Large blue one.” She pointed, and the driver hauled it out from
the cargo bin. The bus rumbled away, leaving Del behind, heart pounding so loudly she was sure everyone around could hear. She hiked the pack onto her back and strode off purposefully. Like she belonged here. Like she had some idea of where she was going.

  She did have a plan of sorts. First of all, she had to find shelter. It would be night soon. Tomorrow she had to find a library with Internet access. She’d give herself a couple of days. If she was still coming up blank on the Guild angle, she’d hitch a ride to Toronto and start there. At least it would be far enough from Boston and Shade.

  The road ahead was called Asylum Avenue. It sounded appropriate. Either she was mad for doing this, or she needed help. Asylum led uphill for a while and then leveled out. Del walked by businesses and churches. A school. She stopped at a coffee shop and treated herself to a steaming cup.

  While she was adding sugar, she noticed a guy with coppery hair staring at her from the order line. He was around her age, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Good looking in a farm-boy sort of way, with broad shoulders and a dusting of freckles across his cheekbones. Not boy-band cute — more real, somehow. He frowned slightly when he saw she’d noticed him, forehead crinkling in a crease just above his nose, and a hint of a challenge in the rise of his chin. Her cheeks grew warm and she jerked her eyes away, kicking the door open carefully with one foot as she stirred her coffee. The air outside tasted of dust and traffic.

  As the door closed, she couldn’t help glancing back at the guy in the line. Had she imagined things, or did he have a preternatural aura? But all she could see of him was the back of his head over some woman’s shoulder.

  She turned down a side street and began systematically looking for a place to stay. She knew what she wanted — the sort of blank road full of commercial properties and warehouses where she could find a corner to hide for a while. When she stumbled upon Lea Street, she knew this was what she had been waiting for. Most of the buildings were obviously empty, some with real estate signs out front.