The Legends of Regia Box Set: The Complete Series. Books 1-7

by Tenaya Jayne

  The incantation was uttered almost inaudibly, over and over, until he achieved some results, slight though they were. The pain was not much this time, more of an ache. He felt the usual amount of disorientation as he stood up, seeing blurry flashes of the room he was in for the first time. Nothing was clear. He was only able to see silhouettes and shadows unless the thing he wanted to see was right in front of his eyes. This was his most guarded secret.

  Syrus moved silently through the dark house to Forest’s door. He stood just outside her room for a few minutes, just listening to her breathing. He pushed her door a fraction of an inch, seeing if the door would creak. It didn’t. He pushed it a bit more and cringed as the hinge moaned quietly. Forest shifted but slept on. He only needed to open it a little bit more to pass through. He hesitated, feeling despicable, like some kind of thief. He would have changed his mind about what he was doing, but he really didn’t want to do anything. He just wanted to look at her. Even though what he would see was not her true face, he didn’t care. He had to have a mental picture of her. Whatever he saw would suffice.

  The door made no more attempt to tattle on him. Syrus moved to stand by the side of her bed, finally getting his first look at her. In spite of the blurriness of his vision, his heart clenched painfully, his lungs seized, and he found himself on his knees, literally. Winded and furious. It wasn’t fair! Never had Syrus felt such injustice. It didn't matter to him this wasn't her true face. What mattered was that everyone else could see her and he couldn't. He'd lived his whole life and never seen such fierce beauty. Her features were sharp and delicate at the same time with the most perfectly shaped set of lips he had ever seen. His own began to burn with the desire to kiss her mouth. Her hair was long and curly of what looked like a rich warm brown, but he couldn’t trust his eyes enough to know the color. Her hair spread over her pillow like a vast net and hung off the edge of the bed. And he was clutched by a desire so strong he couldn’t even stop to consider how great a risk he was taking.

  With a greater amount of reverent delicacy than he had ever shown anything before, Syrus lifted a handful of her hair and brought it to his lips. His eyes rolled back in his head involuntarily. His insides churned like an ocean storm, violent, tumultuous, and senseless. He almost woke her on purpose, just to see her eyes. He had to see her eyes. He had to!

  Syrus moved like a flash of shadow from her room and back across the house. He had teetered on the edge of reckless stupidity and had no other choice but to run, or jump off the edge. If she would have woken to see him there, kissing her hair, he had no doubt she would have killed him unceremoniously. He deserved it.

  His weak sight was growing weaker by the second and it would soon be gone again completely. He stretched his body out on the bed, feeling tired now, at last. The imprinted memory of her beauty lulled him into a sweet and peaceful sleep. No matter how much longer he lived, or if his sight was ever fully restored, she was with him now, imprisoned inside his mind, where he would never let her go.

  Chapter 7

  The eastern Regian mountain range was vast and brutal, twisting through the countryside like a vengeful snake with a spine of broken axe blades stabbing the sky. The first row of mountains to the west served as the werewolves’ garden fence. Behind it, at the base of the mountains, lay the suburbs of The Lair. The Lair itself was carved out of the stone face of the largest mountain in all of Regia. It was a city, homes of stone stacked atop homes of stone, with a deadly road winding around and up to the very top where the penthouse of the pack leader perched, protected and defiant.

  Under the rule of their current leader, Philippe, the wolves had tripled their territory and greatly multiplied their numbers. Within the mountains, they had unofficially formed their own country. As their power grew, so did their opinion that the Vampire king had no right to rule over them. When the vampire prince had been assassinated, Philippe had doubled his efforts to prepare the wolves for a full takeover of Regia. The time was close at hand.

  Philippe stood on his balcony in the cool morning sun, looking out over the country. He had a broad square face with a heavy, prominent jaw that was always peppered with wiry whiskers. The tawny hair on his head was long and unkempt, like a cascading apartment complex of rat nests. His eyes were endless black sinkholes; everything around got sucked in. And although his overall appearance gave the impression of total disregard, this wasn’t the truth. Philippe honed his appearance to the goal of unadulterated brute. He rarely bathed but kept his fingernails and teeth meticulously clean. When he did have occasion to smile, his smile caused disquiet in those unfortunate enough to witness it.

  The sun had ruthlessly ripped bare everything before it, making the landscape appear smooth and bleached. The tops of the trees of the Wolf’s Wood looked like a spiky carpet from where Philippe stood. Possession of the Wood was Philippe’s secret joy. It was immense, and the roads were befuddling to anyone unfamiliar to them. The perfect place to get lost, intentionally as well as unintentionally. There were places within that were so beautiful, they were almost impossible to describe to anyone who had not seen them with their own eyes. Many unwary travelers who happened upon the Waterfall of Silverlight had forgotten their quests or themselves completely, convinced that they had fallen into a dream. Philippe used the Wood’s natural ability to distract like a web, to catch people. Through the last year, the werewolves had worked tirelessly to confuse the roads through the wood.

  In the distance to the west, he could see the tiny outline of the Vampire castle. Philippe smiled as he imagined the old king squinting as he tried to see The Lair. A view to die for, he thought. And many had died for him to have this view. Others would, if they tried to take it away.

  At this altitude, the air was too thin and frigid for even the taste of the toughest wolves, but Philippe loved it. His massive shoulders were warm, covered in the pelts of his dead adversaries. He never went anywhere in public without this macabre cloak on. To a Werewolf, to wear the pelt of another werewolf was just like carrying around a corpse. No other leader had ever done something so disgusting or fear invoking before. After his rise to power, no one had challenged Philippe again in case they ended up displayed on his back, forever desecrated and disgraced. And so, the entire werewolf race had submitted to Philippe’s eccentric decrees, the strangest being that they all learn to speak French.

  The entire werewolf community was bemused and sometimes indignant that their leader was obsessed with Earth’s France and that he was forcing his bizarre ideals on them, but none so much the army officers, whom Philippe had demanded change their names to French ones. It was really the only source of weakness in the wolves’ offense, because most could only speak broken French, and the officers were commanded to give orders only in French. As a result, there was a lot of confusion during tactical training and more than a little anger from Philippe for their lack of talent in linguistics.

  Despite these difficulties, the army was assembled and waiting. Philippe waited for word from his Fortress informant, who was due any day now. Power took patience, he reminded himself. His stomach growled loudly, demanding breakfast. Patience was difficult to maintain on an empty stomach. He pulled himself away from the view and rang for his serving wench.

  Across the land, over the forests and marshlands, through the towns and cities, to the far reaches of the northwest lay the vampire lands. The Great Vampire City sprawled lazily like a contented cat in the shadow sand of the Desert of Halussis, or what most Regians aptly called the Dreaming Desert because the black shadow sand was highly toxic. It varied in color from grey to black, and only the blackest sand surrounded the Onyx Castle like a mote. Inhaling the sand or touching it with the bare skin would cause strong dreamlike hallucinations. The vampires were the least susceptible to it, making their land well protected against attack, and also elite. Aside from the Ogres, who were loyal to a fault to the vampires, very few of any of the other races tried to live anywhere near Halussis. The sand was collected period
ically by scoundrels and smugglers who sold it in small doses for high prices, much like human drug dealers.

  In the cool and naked morning, the Onyx Castle looked stately and ominous. Everything about the castle, inside and out, was in perfect order, down to the smallest detail. The castle and those who lived within were best described like a piece of exquisite jewelry—chosen, cut, set, and polished. No expense was spared. When Queen Cristiana decided that she wanted new bedding, not even the finest fabric was good enough until it was embroidered with gold thread. That was how the queen liked things. Her cast off socks were worth a small fortune.

  On this morning, the queen’s tiny feet were quietly ghosting through the halls, searching out her husband like a virus. The swishing of her skirts along the floor was the only sound that preceded her. The ogres throughout the castle loved Christiana and were faithful to her above anyone else, even the king. She had carefully nurtured their love. With their loyalty, she could undermine anything the king set out to do with whispers and winks. The ogres were the only ones who didn’t feel the chill behind her smile.

  King Zeren was aware he was being hunted and was in sitting in the dark of his favorite hiding place, certain the queen would never find him. It wouldn’t cross her mind that he would spend any time in such an unimportant room in the castle. That was why he used this room when he needed solitude. The only person who knew this was where he went when he was vexed, was Syrus’ guard, Redge.

  A small band of sunshine coming through a crack in the drapes fell along the floor like a golden road. Zeren rolled his onyx signet ring between his thumb and forefinger like a worry stone. His fingertips caressed the inlaid hieroglyphs on the band while his mind caressed the subtleties of his troubles, not consciously digging into them but letting them float in his head like leaves in a stream. Zeren didn’t come to this seemingly unused guest room in the outskirts of his castle to solve problems. He came here to visit memories, delight in past triumphs, wallow in regrets, and fantasize of what ifs.

  In this room, Zeren’s mind usually focused on Pipha, and he would make time to think on her today. But at the moment, he worried about his son. He was sorry that Syrus had been angry with him when he’d left the castle the last time. Zeren feared he would never see his son again and was irritated that Cristiana refused to speak about Syrus at all. Cristiana was an unnatural woman. And not for the first time did he have a faint twinge of hatred towards her that he quickly tucked deep down inside. Zeren couldn’t allow himself to really experience his honest emotions about the queen.

  Please come back, Syrus. His mind whispered fervently. Know that I love you, Son. Come back alive. There was nothing he could do for his son now; he had to let it go.

  Clenching his hands together, he remembered what it had felt like to hold Pipha’s hand, and the memory jostled a pain that was sweet agony. Honest emotion was all he could feel about Pipha and his mind caressed his memories again as they floated through his head. Simple details like the way her hair caught the sunlight, the dimple in her right cheek that only appeared when her smile was genuine, and the lilt of her giggle when she’d laugh at his stupid jokes. These memories made him smile, but it didn’t take long for bitterness to taint the memories. It was his fault she was dead. After all these years, his mind still cried out to her spirit to forgive him.

  Chapter 8

  Forest and Syrus found a rhythm that suited both of them over the next two days. They managed to be continuously polite when they interacted but mostly stayed out of each other’s way. Forest had shown Syrus how to work her stereo and had hardly seen him since. Syrus developed an instant and passionate love affair with American music. Forest didn’t mind the base thumping through the house so long as Syrus didn’t repeat the same song too many times in a row. He was quite prone to do that with songs he really loved, and more than once Forest had to threaten him with silver burns if he played Steal My Sunshine one more time.

  Forest still had pangs of annoyance over his presence, but for the most part, she liked having him there. His cheerfulness was infectious. When she had given him a few audio books to listen to, he was so excited, you would have thought she’d handed him the moon. They made a routine of making S’mores every night, and they found they could talk for long periods of time without offending each other, so long as the topics stuck to battle tactics, weapons, and Earth.

  Forest got up before dawn on the fourth day of their stay at her cottage and went out in her garden. She needed to focus, and there was nothing better than the cool, dewy morning air to sharpen her mind. She sat by her bubbling fountain, compiling a list of things she needed to do before they set out on their journey. Kindel hadn’t told her exactly how long she had before they had to go, and she had been procrastinating over the last few days. She kept her cell on her at all times, in case the eminent email arrived.

  Not having any word about what was happening in the impending war was starting to grate on her. She should go to the Fair and see what gossip she could catch. Tek always had the news, and he would need to be restocked anyhow. He always complained when Forest took too long in bringing him stuff from Earth. He said her competitors were overpriced and never had decent merchandise. So she had two major things on her plate for the day: go see Tek, and finally persuade Syrus to let her cut his hair.

  Syrus was up and poking around the kitchen when she came back inside. His head was stuck in the pantry and he muttered curses as his hands shifted things around.

  “Syrus?

  He started guiltily, and he knocked a box of cheerios to the floor, spilling them all over the kitchen. He huffed in exasperation and threw his hands in the air.

  Forest chuckled. “What are you looking for? I told you I put the Lucky Charms right in the front.”

  “I don’t want Lucky Charms, I want Count Chocula,” he said petulantly.

  “Oh. Well, I’m sure your great uncle Dracula would be so proud,” she said as she came forward to dig the cereal out for him. “You’d better be careful how much you eat of that stuff. It’ll rot your fangs.”

  He ignored her warning and plunged his hand into the cereal box with gusto, preferring to eat it dry. He couldn’t stand milk.

  “So, what are we doing today?” he asked.

  “I have business to attend to in town. We need to get ready to leave. Kindel could send word any time now. When I get back, you should let me cut your hair.”

  Syrus grimaced and made a little whining noise in his throat.

  Forest ground her teeth together. “You have to get over this.”

  Syrus acted as if he hadn’t heard her, stuffing his mouth with another handful of cereal, and turning his back to her. Forest clenched her fists, wishing she had something to throw at the back his head. She contemplated just grabbing a pair of scissors and charging at him.

  “Okay. Go ahead and sulk. I have work to do.”

  Forest grabbed a big tote bag from the closet and went down to the basement, boiling with annoyance. She began to fill the bag with the stuff she knew Tek would want the most. The tote was heavy once it was full and her back would be aching by the time she reached the Fair. Right as she was about to leave she found Syrus barricading the front door with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “What?” she half yelled.

  “I’ve decided that I’m not going to let you cut my hair, not ever.”

  Forest’s mouth dropped open. I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna kill him right now!

  “There are other things we can do to disguise me. I can wear my hair in another fashion, but I cannot simply let you cut it. It’s too important to me. I just can’t.”

  Forest’s face and voice were frozen impassive. “Are you finished?” she asked in deadly politeness.

  He didn’t reply.

  “I can’t wait till we’re done with this and you are out of my life!”

  Syrus flinched a little before composing his face in a casual sneer. “The feeling’s mutual, baby.”

  He
moved away from the door, and Forest exited through it. She walked through her yard, out onto the road. She was so incensed that she couldn’t even feel it, she just walked at a brisk pace like a robot.

  Forest was half way to town before she could begin to come up with ways to deal with Syrus. She wasn’t even capable of thinking his name before that. She would deal with him. She just hadn’t yet figured out how. The problem was that he was the prince. Even though they both didn’t want anyone to know that, he did have the authority to tell her what was what, even if he was dead wrong. Even if he was a colossal moron!

  By the time she reached the fair, the heavy tote had worn a ridge in her shoulder. A rambunctious open market, the fair resembled a massive gypsy camp. Distained and shunned by those who thought it low class and thoroughly enjoyed by everyone else. The Fair busted at the seams with the dregs of society, with plenty of illegal activity to go around. No one seemed to care enough what happened in the Fair to police it. The teenage children of the high and mighty often snuck away from their homes to revel in the base pleasures of the fair.

  She walked the heavily trodden path through the brightly colored tents and open fire pits to the end of the row, where Tek’s patchwork tent stood, defiantly taller than anyone else’s. Forest kept her eyes on the ground so no one would recognize her. Tek had a small wooden sign hanging at the doorway of his tent that read, Human Relics. Forest passed through the flap to find him sitting slumped on a stool, his head lolling on his chest, snoring loudly. She took the opportunity to look at his stock. He was low.