Heart Blade: Blade Hunt Chronicles Book One

by Juliana Spink Mills

  Rose stared down at the hands that covered her own. Long and elegant, still strong, yet with the first telltale spots and speckles of age. Hands that had taken her away from harm, saved her from Shade and her demons.

  She tried to speak, and found she couldn’t. She cleared her throat. “She’s already had her revenge. Shade. So what does she want with me?”

  Dan let go of her abruptly and stood, gathering up the empty plates. “She considers it a blood feud. She won’t rest until she has you.”

  He didn’t meet her eyes as he said this, and something felt off. His words rang empty and false. Rose stared at her godfather’s back as he took the plates to the sink, her eyes narrowing. Every instinct she had was screaming the same thing: liar.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alex

  Alex shifted his weight in the rickety chair of the outdoor courtyard and glanced at his watch. Ten in the morning. More than enough time to get to the Den by early afternoon, as planned. Anyway, he was almost ready to leave. He’d spent most of the previous afternoon getting things ready for Rose’s arrival at the Toronto Chapterhouse. He had just one more thing to take care of.

  Two tables over, to his amusement, a fresh-faced college student with a pile of overdue summer reading was eyeing him, playing with the end of her pert ponytail. Alex looked down at his coffee. Sorry, lady, he thought. Not interested. He would have been, once upon a time. Before Valentina and her slow and painful death from old age and sickness, back in 1870. He’d taken religious vows nine years later, determined to make the Guild his sole focus.

  He had a sudden vision of Valentina as a young woman, her hair wild and her restless fingers dancing their way across the piano’s ivory keys. His lips curled up in an involuntary smile. She had been exquisite. Untamable, a flame to which he had been drawn for decades.

  The college girl saw the smile and gave him a bright one of her own in return. Alex shook his head at her, shrugging his shoulders in silent apology. He pulled his ball cap down to shade his eyes and opened the brand new laptop he’d bought the night before. When he next looked up, she was gone.

  “Right,” Alex murmured. “Father Luke Hanson. Let’s see what you’re hiding.” The prior was completely inept at covering his digital trail. Most people were. Luke couldn’t have made this any easier if he’d tried. It took no time at all to break into the prior’s computer. Of course, Alex had already prepared a way into the abbey’s “closed” network. You never knew when these things would come in handy.

  Alex loved computers. He had followed the new technology avidly from its birth, his mind often making leaps before the software and hardware caught up. Isaac Newton had always told him he had a flair for numbers. Isaac had been a friend and a valuable Guild member, and around one of Alex’s arms a snake chased its tail as a nod to Isaac’s passion for alchemy.

  Luke had an official email and a personal one. A bit of digging brought up a third account under the codename Gerald, buried under some rather ineffective passwords. Alex chuckled to himself. A long-time fan of John le Carré’s spy novels, he recognized the tribute immediately.

  “Stupid,” he muttered, still chuckling. Or perhaps not. After all, how many modern-day tech-heads would recognize the reference to the mole in le Carré’s classic Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy? Inside the Gerald account he found file upon file of neatly saved email exchanges. For a spy novel fan, Luke was woefully naive. It was so easy, it was almost boring.

  He began with the most recent emails, exchanges between “Gerald” and one “d’Artagnan”. Another classics lover, and a demon by the look of it. One close to Shade Raven, he was willing to bet, perhaps from her personal entourage in Boston. He shook his head at the irony of a demon code-naming himself after Dumas’ famous Musketeer. He grinned. “Very well, then, Monsieur. What tidings do you bring?”

  The exchanges were clear enough. There were references to Rose, and instructions for entering the abbey and finding her bedroom. The exact instructions he’d found on the bloodborn’s body.

  There were assurances from d’Artagnan that the girl would not die, and instructions to make sure she was taken to hospital and not treated at the abbey. That confirmed his suspicions about his plans for Rose: removal from the relative safety of the abbey, and then the demon’s Gift.

  Clever, he thought. Much better for Shade to turn the child into a half-demon and bind her to the pack, keeping her away from the Court’s reach, although she was taking a huge risk in meddling with the prophecy like that.

  None of the recent emails mentioned Tom, to Alex’s relief. That was a betrayal he couldn’t have forgiven. He felt in his pocket for the small gold rosary. He’d given it to Tom many years ago, and he’d taken it from Tom’s desk before leaving the abbey. Alex spared a moment for prayer, and then set the rosary down and pushed Tom resolutely to the back of his mind. Someone would pay for his death. Right now he couldn’t afford to spend time on revenge.

  He dug further, into older files. Luke had been in Shade’s employ for a long time. Years, in fact. The earliest exchanges held impassioned pleas by Gerald for the safety of someone named Rachel. A relative, perhaps? Alex opened a new browser window and looked it up. Rachel Hanson, sister. Rachel was dead, though, from heart failure, two years back.

  So the demons had taken Luke’s sister, and then she’d died. Alex wondered why Luke hadn’t come forward after that. Perhaps the demons had found new leverage, or perhaps by then he’d been drawn so deeply into their net he’d been unable to see a way out. In any case, the more recent emails from Gerald were impersonal and businesslike. The prior had become resigned to his role.

  One thing was clear: the demons knew of Rose and her parentage. They knew she was the child from the Heart Blade prophecy.

  Over the centuries there had been hundreds of manifestations of the Heart prophecy. Some were worded slightly differently, but together they made a clear picture. A half-blooded girl would draw the Blade, a girl born soon after the year 2000 in the New World across the sea. Born in the land of freedom. Birthed in violence and despair, taken from her family after she was snatched away from the jaws of death by her mother.

  Rosa Pietrowicz had been born in the middle of a demon raid on her parents’ Arizona stronghold, her father dying in the courtyard as her mother brought her into the world. When she pressed her newborn into Daniel Graham’s hands and bade him flee before turning into a wolf to fight the last battle of her life, Ana Garcia had sealed the prophecy.

  The question was, how and when would she summon the sword? The Heart Blade was the most elusive of the four blades of prophecy. It was the only one that didn’t exist as a physical sword, forged from metal and fire, but as a construct, built from will itself. The prophecy was maddeningly unclear about the exact circumstances needed to produce the Heart. And if the tales in the Chronicles were to be believed, the sword hadn’t been seen in over a thousand years. Its last alleged appearance was steeped in Arthurian legend and the tale of Excalibur.

  Alex stilled and closed his eyes, one foot upon the reassuring bulk of his lacrosse bag. Redemption lay inside. His own catalyst. The Heart Blade was a catalyst too. Its coming foretold the start of the Blade Hunts, and a war among preternaturals. The Horsemen would ride again, in dark or in light, and the Heart was the key to determining which. As the prophecy foretold,

  Hear this and take heed; for the Earth shall be judged by the weight of a single soul.

  For centuries the Court of the Covenant had argued about whether the child from the prophecy should be allowed to even summon the sword, or be killed at birth, leaving the Heart Blade to remain uncalled for at least another millennium. Many thought it was best to maintain the status quo. But there were advocates from both sides who wanted the Blade back in action.

  As for the Guild, they were committed to Rose’s safety. They would have protected her anyway, even if she hadn’t been the child of two of their most faithful warriors. As it was, Rose was one of their own.


  Alex opened his eyes and closed his laptop, startling a pigeon that had grown bold at his absolute stillness. He would leave Luke for now. He was more useful as an unwitting double agent. It was time to meet Daniel and Rose. Time to tell Daniel what had happened to Tom. He pushed the rosary back into his pocket.

  Just then, his cell phone rang. He’d only given his new number to two people: Daniel and Griffin, his right-hand man at the Chapterhouse.

  “Griff? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. But I have some grapevine gossip to pass on,” said the old werewolf. “Thought you’d like to know, Shade’s lost one of her fledglings. Word is, the witch has people out looking for the girl.”

  Alex raised a finger to his forehead, massaging his temple. “Griff, you’re not making sense. What witch?”

  “The Baroness. Reis.”

  “Livia Reis?” Alex frowned. A powerful coven leader and the elected Baron representing all witches in Court, Brazilian-born Livia had no love for Shade, the demon-elected Baron. “Why would Reis be helping Shade find her child?”

  Griffin snorted, clearly amused. “Not helping. She wants the girl for herself. I’m guessing leverage against Shade, or just general provocation and a death wish. Anyway, it has nothing to do with us, but I wanted to warn you, as my informer says they’re scouring Connecticut.”

  Alex thought of some choice words that didn’t match the monk’s robes in his bag. He gritted his teeth. Why was nothing ever simple? All this necessary subterfuge with Rose, and now witches in the mix.

  “Thanks, Griff,” he finally said. “I’ll try not to step on anyone’s broomstick.”

  He hung up and packed away the laptop in the duffel, brushing against Redemption as he did. The single-grip broadsword with the gold-plated cruciform hilt, dulled by use and time, had been given to him by Richard the Lionheart himself, his commander in his last battle as a human. The sword had fed on a lot of blood over the years so that Alex himself wouldn’t have to.

  He drew the sword an inch or so from its leather scabbard and felt the blade with a finger. Redemption was slightly warm to the touch. It was still mercifully sated. As it cooled, Alex’s thirst would grow, but the demon’s death had bought him a respite.

  Alex slung the duffel over one shoulder and left the courtyard. In the street, the college girl was chatting to a friend. She gave him a last, lingering look of longing as he lowered his head and ducked into the Monday crowds.

  New York was never still, a great, ugly, heaving, wonderful wilderness of a city. It was the perfect place to disappear. He watched carefully as he walked, out of habit, but he saw no one following. Satisfied, he caught a cab to the nearest rental car company and hired a discreet dark gray car under a false name.

  The drive north was calm enough. Near the Den, he stopped to buy a box of glazed donuts. Daniel was fond of donuts, always had been. Tom had loved them too, he remembered with a heavy heart. Alex’s Saturday morning donut runs had been a cherished moment for the Guild-raised youngsters, back in the day. He smiled at the memory of sticky fingers, crumbs, and childish laughter.

  Eventually he turned off the main road and wound his way through the valley to the road that led to Daniel’s hideout. At the top of the driveway, the old gate sagged. Weeds grew abundantly in the tire tracks, and he knew that once he passed they’d spring back to mask his passage.

  He unlocked the gate, drove through, and got out to lock it once again. It was good to be out here at the tail end of summer, birds singing in the trees, and leaves rustling in the faint breeze. It didn’t ease the heartache, but it helped a little.

  Daniel met him at the back of the house, a shotgun in his hand.

  “Alex!” His relief was palpable.

  “Here,” Alex said, passing him the box. “For you. I’ll trade you for the gun.”

  “Donuts.” Daniel grinned. “I’m not a kid anymore, you know?”

  Alex pretended he was reaching to take the box back and Daniel snatched it out of his way. “But I can take care of these for you.” He took both gun and donuts back into the cabin, and Alex followed.

  The cabin was dim after the dappled green-and-gold of the afternoon sunshine. It was just as squat and ugly as Alex remembered. Brutally efficient, built for one purpose only. He looked around, mentally checking off the cabin’s assets. Reinforced concrete structure, steel girders, walls that could withstand an earthquake. It would do.

  “Where’s Rose?” he asked.

  “On the roof,” Daniel answered. “I’ll call her down.”

  “Wait. I have difficult news to share. I’d rather she didn’t hear it, not yet.” Alex drew Tom’s gold rosary from his pocket. Daniel paled, and Alex caught the sudden spike in his former squire’s heartbeat. He set the rosary gently in Daniel’s hand.

  “How?” whispered Daniel.

  Alex drew a deep breath. Tom had been a warrior. Alex wasn’t going to diminish his memory by sugarcoating his death.

  “Hard,” he said. “He died hard.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Camille

  The top-floor hospitality suite of Camille’s East Hartford hotel had a killer view. She stared out at the Hartford skyline. So near, and yet so far. With the ban still in place, she didn’t dare reenter the city after the disastrous parley with Deacon. She was lucky enough that he hadn’t put in a complaint about her visit to the bus station. Yet.

  What she really wanted was to leave Connecticut altogether and return to her cozy condo in Springfield, Massachusetts. Instead, she was stuck here waiting for the sentinels to report.

  She took a swig from her garish sports drink, colored turquoise like her nails. Come on, she willed her phone. Ring.

  When it did, she almost dropped her drink. It was an unknown caller.

  “Yes, can I help you?” she answered politely. If this was yet another random sales call, she was going to scream.

  “Miss Darkwing?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. It was the Scion. “Mr. Deacon, I’ve been expecting your call,” she answered, feigning a composure she didn’t really feel. She couldn’t help it; the man made her nervous.

  “I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”

  Great, she thought. The angels had gone and killed Del, and Camille would be stuck delivering the news. But all she said was, “Is Adeline all right?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I don’t know.” She thought he sounded frustrated. “She’s gone. She spooked and made a run for it. And I’m afraid she had help.”

  “Help?” Camille replied stupidly. Had Diana sent another demon in to do the same job?

  “Yes. From my own son.”

  Oh, he definitely sounded frustrated. And embarrassed, too. She had a ridiculous urge to giggle. Instead, she carefully asked, “I’m not sure I understand. Your son is assisting Adeline in hiding from her Liege?”

  “Yes. That’s about it.” He hesitated. There was definitely more to the story. She didn’t press it, though.

  “And what do you intend to do about it?”

  “Look, I’m calling you for help.” The words exploded out, catching Camille by surprise. “Miss Darkwing, I’d like to propose a truce, a pact of mutual assistance.” His voice trickled to a stop, but before she could say anything he started talking again, all in a rush as though he was forcing himself to get it over with quickly. “You’re evidently a talented tracker. You found out Adeline was in Hartford when I had no idea she was here. But I know my son. If we work together, we can get this done faster. Before—”

  He shut up, but she knew where he was going with it. Before Shade lost patience. Before the Court got involved. Before the whole thing blew up in their faces like a gigantic fireball. She had to admit, it was a clever idea. They could cover a lot more ground by pooling resources.

  “I accept your proposal,” she said formally. “We should meet and plan our next steps. Do we need mediation for this?”

  He huffed into the phone, a sound that was part wry laugh, part d
isbelieving snort. “I promise to behave if you do.”

  Well, well. So the man had a sense of humor under all that angel righteousness. “I can behave.”

  Deacon gave her an address and told her he’d be waiting. She sent an email to Diana with the gist of the conversation and the address, just in case something went wrong, and then she packed her stuff.

  She ran an eye over her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing the same yellow capris she’d worn to the parley, teamed with a crisp white polo shirt. Polos were boring, but boring and safe was what she was going for. It was bad enough that Deacon already knew her immortal hunger. She didn’t have to throw it in his face. She added white sneakers, scraped her hair back into a demure ponytail, and nodded, satisfied.

  After checking out, she dumped her luggage in the back of her car and typed in the address Deacon had given her on her GPS. The map led her through Hartford until she reached a residential street where small houses huddled together in urban closeness. She checked the address once again, surprised. This must be Deacon’s home address. A show of trust.

  “Nicely played,” she murmured as she pulled into the driveway. She grabbed her backpack and headed up the gravel path to ring the bell. Deacon opened the door and ushered her in, nervously looking around as he did.

  “Relax,” she said. “Your son’s a teenager, right? If any of your neighbors spot me, they’ll just think I’m here to study. Or hang out, or whatever teens call it these days.”

  “I wasn’t worried about the neighbors,” he said, tension lines around his mouth.