by T. G. Ayer
As the laughter died down, I thought about Logan and what he’d been through, being taken from his home, having his mother killed, living his life half a person, not knowing the truth about himself for so many years. He’d turned out well and whole though, but perhaps that was more due to his strength and tenacity than anything else.
It was one of the things I loved most about him. That he’d fight to the death for the ones he loved. I was about to excuse myself to go upstairs to see him, the need to fall into his arms and feel whole myself, driving me as though I was possessed.
But as I turned on my heel, about to tell Dad and the girls to wait for me because I needed to go up to Logan, Grams walked into the room, an envelope in her hand, her expression slightly off, as though she felt ill.
But she smiled and schooled her features as she came toward me. “Hello, dear. You did well today,” she said, wrapping her arms around me and giving me a squeeze. Then she drew back and stared at my face, her eyes studying my features as if she was searching for something there that would reassure her. At last, she sighed and then patted my cheek. When I raised my eyebrows at the letter, Grams handed it to me.
I took the envelope, finding it thin and light.
The rest of the room turned to stare at Grams. “What’s wrong?” asked Dad, his brow furrowed as if he too had gotten the sense that something was wrong.
Grams looked over her shoulder at Dad and said, “You’ll find out soon enough,” her tone filled with rebuke.
I stared down at the letter and swallowed hard.
Three pairs of eyes watched, curious but patient as I slid a finger beneath the flap and tore the letter open.
I tapped the envelope against my palm, and a thin piece of paper slid out. Tucking the envelope under my arm, I took the sheet of paper and smoothed it open.
I’d expected a note from Chief Murdoch. Or Horner. Or possibly even a formal apology from the council.
What I hadn’t expected was a note from Logan, written in his sharp, looping handwriting.
Kai,
You’re the strongest woman I know.
This is not goodbye.
I love you,
Logan.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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FATE’S EDGE
A SKINWALKER NOVEL BOOK 6
Copyright © 2018 by T.G. Ayer
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Cover art by Eduardo Priego
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
Blood Magic - A SoulTracker 1 Sample Chapters
Mel
Blood Magic Ch1
Mel
Helplessness is hell. And I knew all about it.
He cleared his throat. “Will you do it, Miss Morgan? The police said they can’t do anything more. They have other cases to deal with…more urgent ones.” Martin Cross’s words barreled out of him in a downpour of hope, and fear that there was no hope. A strange combination of emotion I could relate to.
You hope and pray, then you are afraid to hope in case the worst is true.
“Do you have a job?” I asked, my tone absent of emotion.
Cross looked up, startled. He hadn’t expected the question. I hadn’t yet answered his.
He nodded, the movement a handful of jerks. “I’m a mechanic.”
“Go back to work,” I said, my tone a little sharper than I’d intended. He seemed about to protest, eyes wide, mouth half open, but I held up a hand. “If—and that’s an honest ‘if’—I bring her home alive, you don’t want her to see you falling apart. You need to be strong for her. And I can’t promise how long this will take. It may be a week, it may be a few months. I’ll find her, alive or not….”
For a moment, confusion darkened his face, twisted his brow. He didn’t want to entertain the possibility that his daughter may never come home. And he didn’t want to hear me say it. I was supposed to tell him everything would be all fine, that he shouldn’t worry and that I’d bring her home healthy and happy.
But I wasn’t in the business of leading people on. I tracked, and the results weren’t always to my satisfaction. Understandably, people didn’t like it when their loved ones weren’t found or when they turned up dead.
But even dead was something. Dead was closure. Something I’d never gotten.
“You need to be prepared for either result.” My words hovered in the air between us as he shifted his gaze away from me.
But Martin Cross had made the effort to find me. That said something. His body said the rest. His haggard face and haunted eyes spoke of fear-filled, sleep-deprived nights, of days where hunger and thirst were the furthest things from his mind. His rumpled jeans and stained shirt, oily unwashed hair that stood in clumped disarray from having those stiff fingers scraped through them every so often—they all spoke of endless days and endless nights of staring off into space, replaying the fateful day over and over, wondering what he could have done different, going over all his if-only’s, falling into bed, unwashed, in yesterday’s clothes only to lie there all night, thinking, twisting guilt and hope, grief and anger into an almost tangible knot that lay in his gut, slowly taking him over.
I watched him, hands on the graffitied wooden table, fingers twisted so tight the knuckles gleamed bloodlessly, nails bitten to the quick and jagged at the corners. He unraveled his fingers for a moment to pick up the folder in front of him, turned it around and pushed it toward me. I didn’t move.
He’d moved the file only an inch. He didn’t think I’d believe him, didn’t think I’d take the case. And maybe he was right.
Still, I planned to listen at least.
I pulled the file toward me and opened it. A worn photograph sat on top of a thick stack of papers. A little girl in blue jeans and blonde pigtails smiled back at me. She was missing two front teeth. I didn’t answer him. Couldn’t give him hope. Not yet.
Again, I didn’t answer his question. I glanced up and met his red-eyed gaze. “Do you have it?”
He nodded, reached into his pocket and handed me a crumpled-up Kleenex. I knew what it was before I unraveled the paper. A tiny little off-white incisor sat within the folds of the white tissue paper. Apparently, the tooth fairy had missed her rounds.
Or maybe the kid had missed the tooth fairy?
I set the Kleenex beside the file and moved the photograph to one side. A copy of the police report lay on top of printouts of emailed correspondence with the detective in charge. If anything, Cross was methodical. The last stack of papers said Cross was also a doer. A plastic sleeve sat thick with Missing Persons fliers.
Samantha Cross. 6 years old. Missing.
I handed the fliers back to him, and he nodded more to himself than to me. When he met my gaze again, I swallowed imperceptibly. His hope was an almost tangible thing. And I was wearing the mantle of it on my shoulders, would continue to bear it until I knew what had happened to Samantha.
Now we sat in a truck stop a few miles outside of Chicago, far enough away from prying eyes. I’d chosen the darkest booth furthest from the window. I preferred to keep to the shadows. No sense in advertising my presence.
When he lifted his gaze to mine, I felt a tug of sympathy. I knew that look, saw it all the time. Almost every time someone comes to m
e, it’s the expression in their eyes that answers my final questions. And now his eyes were filled with terror and hope, desperation and hope. As if he didn’t dare consider the possibility I could help because there was always a chance I couldn’t. He thought I would fail. I could see it in his bleak expression. The threads were beginning to unravel and very soon he’d lose all hope. I wouldn’t let that happen. I hoped I wouldn’t let that happen.
Missing people can be found. Not all missing people are found.
I was good, maybe even the best I knew of. I find people for a living. My business is dependent on people losing people. The idea didn’t sit so well with me, but it was what it was. Not that I needed to find people for a living. I could very well choose to find things. Finding cutting-edge nuclear warheads stolen from the government, locating lists of undercover cops within drug cartels—I can do that. Do the job, find the target, no questions asked. But things held no interest for me. People did.
I find people. And I didn’t play to lose.
I’d lost once. Big time. Too big to forget, too big to close the file. I was still searching, and someday I will find my sister. Until then, I will find other people’s lost people.
“Do you think you can find her?” Cross’s voice rasped, and he coughed behind crooked fingers.
What he was really asking was if I’d find her alive. I was a tracker, not a seer. No amount of wishing on my part would predict or guarantee Samantha being found alive.
I rose, and Cross got to his feet too. Manners, even in a mechanic, were a good sign. “I’ll call you if I find anything. And go back to work,” I said, before walking out the door. From the corner of my eye, I saw the nod he gave me. I hadn’t answered his question, and he seemed to have accepted my decision not to.
I climbed into my truck, satisfied. He’d go back to work, and he wouldn’t call. I hadn’t mentioned payment. Cross didn’t exactly look like a trust fund baby. I sighed. This one’s going to be pro-bono.
Now all I needed to do was find Samantha Cross.
Blood Magic Ch2
Mel
My phone buzzed and I grabbed it from the seat beside me, while keeping my eyes on the road. I swiped it open, gave it a quick glance and raised my eyebrows in surprise. Martin Cross. Considering he hadn’t appeared to me to have exceedingly deep pockets, I’d assumed his case would be pro bono.
He was confirming my payment had been deposited and I should see it reflected in the account tomorrow. For once, I was happy to have pegged someone so wrong.
I threw the phone back on the seat and peeked at the rearview mirror. It never hurt to be cautious considering I’d pissed off enough paranormal criminals in my time, but no one was following me.
As I drove to the outskirts of town, I wondered again why I bothered with these visits. I could hear Drake’s voice. “Why do you waste your time? The man probably doesn’t even know you’re there.”
Drake Darvon was my best friend and my sparring partner. He was also a gargoyle. Real live blue-blooded in-the-flesh gargoyle. Drake didn’t realize I went because I needed to. Because something deep inside me drew me to Samuel.
I pulled up in front of the house, a part of me refusing to enter the grand old house, the other part wanting to rush in there and take Samuel away from it all. To take him away and fix him and make him whole again. It still felt like my fault, even though everyone, including Samuel himself, insisted it wasn’t. But if I hadn’t been so persistent, if I hadn’t wanted to find my sister Arianne so badly and finally bring her body home for some closure, maybe Samuel would still be whole. Maybe he would still be around to guide me.
Not that I needed his training anymore, though. Samuel Fontaine had once been the Master Teleporter. There was only one person who exceeded him in his ability to cross the Veils and enter the Other worlds. And that was me. A secret only Samuel and I knew.
Both Omega and Sentinel could never be privy to that piece of information. Samuel contracted to both organizations so he was allowed on occasion to do his own search and rescue jobs. My friend Storm, benevolent caretaker of young people in need that he was, had arranged for Samuel to train me, to help perfect my teleportation, thus putting in motion a friendship of a lifetime.
But Samuel couldn’t be hoodwinked. He’d forced me to admit my front as a simple teleporter was a sham. He’d seen beyond that facade, to my ability to astral project. Then he’d taken it upon himself to train me to teleport better. How to teleport better, faster, smarter.
And how to astral project with more accuracy, to feel for wards, to move faster. And to this day he was the only one who knew exactly how powerful I was. How far I could jump, how strong my self-protection had become, that I’d learned to move through most magical wards.
I rested my head on the steering wheel. Maybe I should just start the car and go home. Maybe Drake was right and coming here only made things worse for Samuel and for me. No. I punched the steering wheel, as if it was Drake arguing with me. I’d come this far. And Samuel deserved some company. I got out of the car, controlling the urge to slam the door shut. Fishing in my jacket pocket for my keys, I jogged to the porch, as if by walking any slower I would give myself the chance to change my mind.
Beneath the elegant French columns, with their flaking paint, I hesitated only a moment before I slipped my key into the lock, the rest of the bunch jangling against each other as I moved. I was about to turn it when the giant oak door swung inward so hard I had to let go of my keys or go flying inside with them.
Cassia stared at me, her honey-gold eyes as expressionless as she could make them. “Hello, Melisande.”
“Hi, Cass.” The skin at her eyes tightened. She hated it when I shortened her name. But it didn’t matter. She pretty much hated everything I was and everything I stood for, all on account of the fact I ruined her life. I wasn’t in the mood for a stare down so I tugged my keys from the lock, and took special note of the dark glare Cassia gave them, as if I had no right to have them. I brushed past her and headed for the stairs.
“He’s not taking visitors,” she said, her voice dripping ice as she pushed her tightly spiraled curls away from her face.
I stopped, my foot on the first stair, my hand on a banister badly in need of staining, and glanced back at her. I smiled sweetly. “Well, good thing I’m not a visitor then, isn’t it?” I watched as blood rushed to her dusky cheeks.
She smoothed her skirt down, tamping down her anger with the same action. I really shouldn’t bait her. She did take care of Samuel. But I couldn’t care less if she left. I’d just hire someone else to look after him.
I turned my back on her and left her to stew in her fury, taking the threadbare stairs two by two, knowing even Cassia would disapprove. Poor Cassia. Samuel’s niece hadn’t inherited his teleportation powers, and being born normal into an almost entirely magical family was a great burden to bear. The problem with Cassia was she bore it with vicious anger.
Sighing, I pushed Samuel’s door open and walked silently to the table by the window. Today, he sat in his rocking chair beside the open bay windows. White gauze curtains billowed on a soft breeze and he seemed to gaze out at the trees but I knew he saw nothing of the view. My heart twisted for him.
I drew a rickety chair close and sat beside him. “Hello, Samuel,” I said, taking his hand in mine. His skin was paper thin, the fingers bony, muscles weak and wiry. His hand twitched as I held it and I smiled. I knew he knew when I visited.
Samuel Fontaine was not an old man. He was in his late thirties, not the age of a man who should be lingering in a rocking chair. I stared at his once handsome face, high cheekbones now jutting out too far, and gorgeous green eyes now faded to a pale luminous non-color.
But sexy Samuel’s been gone a long, long time. Ever since his brain got scrambled doing a jump for me
What a way to go. My fingers tightened on his and I had to force myself to remember his frailty. I began to pull away when his fingers gripped mine with an intensity I h
adn’t felt in months. My heart stuttered as I stared at him, eyes wide.
“Mel?” his voice rasped, as if he hadn’t used it in years.
“Samuel? Yes, it’s me.” I nodded and smiled, tears threatening to overflow.
He blinked, his expression slightly unfocused. Then he frowned. “Are you eating? You look skinny.”
I snorted. “Don’t worry about me. It’s you we are concerned about. We need you back Sam-sam.” I leaned close and he placed a palm on my cheek. The curtains billowed into the room, white clouds surrounding us in this impossible dream.
“I know, baby. But I’m not done yet,” he said, smiling. “The girl . . . She needs me.”
My stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”
A few seconds of silence crawled by as Samuel studied my face with far away pale green eyes. “Patience, Melisande. And don’t forget what I taught you,” he said softly, his voice fading. “Don’t forget . . .”
“Samuel?” I called him, but I knew he was already gone and my heart ached for him.
“He spoke to you?” Cassia’s voice rang out, so bitter and cold it dropped the temperature in the room by a few degrees. Maybe the woman was magical after all.
“Yes.” I whispered, still holding on to his hand. He’d spoken. He was still there. And what had he meant? ‘I’m not done yet?’ What did that mean?
“What did he say?” Her question broke through my thoughts, an angry tide breaking onto my happy, grateful shore.
I looked up at Cassia and grinned. “He said I was skinny. And he told me not to forget what he’d taught me.” I didn’t see any reason to tell her the rest. I suspected she’d overheard the last of Samuel’s words so that’s just what I gave her.
