by Lucy Smoke
Daimon
By Lucy Smoke
Copyright © 2017 Lucy Smoke
All rights reserved.
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Daimon is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The author holds all rights to this work and it is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank all of the people who made DAIMON possible. To my first readers, to my friends, to my writing inspirations, you have given me a beautiful gift that I hope I’ll be able to repay you for someday. You couldn’t possibly know just how important this journey has been for me or all the ways that it has changed me and made me better as a person inside and out.
A special thank you to my alpha reader/magical unicorn/fairy godmother. You are so intricately your own person that reducing you to what I could write on paper would be a severe underestimation of your awesomeness. To Magan, for your bright cheeriness despite the anxiety of everyday life. You are a true friend and I thank whatever powers of the universe may be for bringing me to you or you to me or however our crazy weird friendship happened.
A special acknowledgement to Elizabeth and Desireé. Isn’t it a little odd how strangers can somehow become so close? A thank you isn’t enough for your loyalty and friendship, so I guess I’ll have to dedicate the rest of my life to annoying you and spoiling your future children.
To Ashley, though you weren’t with me for this past year, you’ve always been with me in spirit (and on skype when we finally find the time to get together). Best friends, now and forever. Thank you for always believing in me. Hurry up and finish your own books so I can start your fan club.
Also, to Tate James, I knew I had to put you in here somewhere you crazy girl. Thanks for the sprints and to the many more to come
And last, but never least, to everyone who has ever believed in me. You have truly made this possible. You have made me believe that it really doesn’t matter if I sell 1 copy or 1 million (Ha! Like that will ever happen). As long as I write stories that speak to me, I can live happy.
Dedicated to Fred and Glenda Thompson. You’re both assholes. But I love you anyway. You’re the best grandparents a girl could ask for.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Escape
Chapter 2: Strangers to Innocence
Chapter 3: Ragnarok
Chapter 4: Obidian
Chapter 5: Madam Armaita
Chapter 6: The Escape 2.0
Chapter 7: Soldiers and New Friends
Chapter 8: Holden
Chapter 9: Booker
Chapter 10: The Binding
Chapter 11: Running Out of Time
Chapter 12: The Storm
Chapter 13: Training
Chapter 14: Betrayed
Chapter 15: The Deal
Epilogue Part One: Nerys Unbound
Epilogue Part Two: Coen
Author’s Note
About the Author
Chapter 1: The Escape
The city is a sea overflowing with dangerous monsters striding back and forth along the walls. Their guns are strapped to their chests and their swords are tied at their sides. They don’t guard much, nothing more than a series of bleached out houses and shacks below the castle of Matric’s City, but they take their job seriously.
I duck my head, pulling my hood closer to keep my features hidden. The gray fabric is soft from use and gives me the comfort of ambiguity. The less the guards see of my face, the higher my chances of escape. Already, I can feel the thinning of the threads that bind me to this place and freedom is growing closer. I can only pray to the Gods that my luck will hold. My head throbs once before a discombobulated voice separates from the haze of my thoughts and pushes its way forward.
Is it time? The inky man is back with a vengeance. Having been quiet for the majority of the evening, his voice grates across my nerves as if I’m hearing his scratchy tone for the first time. I ignore him as I take a turn down an even darker alley, my heart speeding up to match the quickness of my steps. Euron is beginning to suffocate me. I can feel the constant weight of watchful eyes on me. It’s the king’s city through and through. And even though I was taught by the holy women, I know from those who were tutored outside of the Order that the kingdom’s actual name is only mentioned in whispers. The ruler, king Matric, much prefers to assert his dominance over his subjects by having everyone refer to Euron as his kingdom, his city. As if thousands of other people weren’t living within its walls.
I turn another corner, keeping close to the shadows. Word had spread early in the morning that the hunters wouldn’t be returning for another day or so. It’s the prime night for what I have planned. There were only three groups of people allowed to leave Matric’s City and never without his consent and permission: the hunters, the soldiers, and the tradesmen. I don’t fall within any of those categories and if I’m caught, not only will it mean a life sentence, it could mean that the king will find out more about me than what I want him to know.
I pass a glance over my shoulder and when I hit a familiar archway, I steal into the darkness and reach for the rusted ladder that’s halfway hidden, bolted to the side of the building. Flakes come off in my hands, turning my palms a murky brown and red. Once I’m on top of the building, I can see a lot more in the glowing moonlight, such as the gallows in the square. I haven’t been back since...well it doesn’t matter, because after tonight I will never have to see it again.
It is unsafe here. Once again, I block out the inky man’s words as I turn down over the side at the empty unfamiliar street. It would be stupid to take the main street and the most well-known exit to the city. I’m trying to not get caught. I turn my attention back to the rooftop and the inky man releases a frustrated huff that tells me he is not enjoying the silent treatment. Too bad, I think to myself.
Stop! His voice raises and goes almost shrill, making me flinch. Nevertheless, I stop, reaching behind me to hold my bag close so that it doesn’t inadvertently bang against my spine and duck back, lying flat along the rooftop. Down below, two guards stride past in their dark gray and black army fatigues, unaware of my presence. Though he cannot see my face, I feel one eyebrow raise in surprise.
You’re helping me? I ask. He doesn’t reply for several long moments. Paying me back for the silent treatment, huh? When still he doesn’t answer, I shrug and hurry to my next destination, I’ve wasted enough time as it is. Faint sounds linger in the air over the city. Raucous hooting and high pitched giggles accompany drunken hollers and dancing music. I glance once to the golden glow of electric lamps coming from various windows in the castle. The laughter and cheeriness is a mockery of the despair and poverty of the commoners.
Across several rooftops, I see the old metal handles of another ladder leading down, closer to where I need to be. The moon hangs low, but cloaked by a background of clouds. From what muted light there is, I can see over the wall that lines the city, keeping progress out and its people in. King Matric refuses to acknowledge even the inventions of the larger cities that have far exceeded what we have here. There are only whispers of giant machines that travel faster than
any horse and carriage or metal boxes that close people in and careen them up the inside of buildings to higher “floors.” A part of me is terrified of a new beginning, but another part of me is incredibly excited.
My pulse races as I run across the rooftops feeling like I’m running under a spotlight. I grab the handles of the next ladder when it’s in reach and swing over the side of the building, trying not to glance down. I can handle heights well enough so long as I try not to remember the distance between me and the ground. Each rung creaks louder than the last and my feet slip twice before I’m safely planted on the concrete below. Two more turns down seedier streets and the red door I’m heading for. I knock, taking in the dirt smudged along the frame and the phrase that’s barely discernable beneath the newest coat of peeling paint.
“Through the shadows, we walk hand in hand with spirits and are once again reborn.”
From what little I had managed to find after what I’m now referring to as the “event” has only been snips and pieces of spirit guides in the holy women’s history books. One reoccurring theme proclaims them to be reincarnated magical beings, with spirits so strong they could not be relegated to the gated heavens of the Gods. Instead, they had been sent back to live again within a new host in order to contribute even more of their powers to the world.
These words across the door are written in my own scrawl, the pointed letters and narrow spacing reminding me of the day I heard the inky man’s voice for the first time. The unfamiliar voice had terrified me with its deep accented tone. Though now every time he spoke, I feel a niggle of relief and warmth, it’s still a shock to hear someone else’s voice in my head.
When the door opens, I’m more or less yanked through by wide, strong hands. Gray eyes like clouds of smoke assess me from behind dark lashes. Coen’s head tilts to the side as he surveys me. My best friend stands a good foot taller than me, large chest blocking out the rest of the room as I regain my footing over the threshold. He’s wearing the darkest clothes he owns for tonight’s activities, dark trousers and a long sleeve shirt that has grown soft and thin with age. I frown. He’ll freeze in the pre-winter night if that’s all he’ll be wearing. This far north, autumn can be just as cruel. Before I can comment though, he turns around and captures a second heavier shirt resting on the back of a chair and slips it on over his head before donning his cloak. It will have to do.
“You need to repaint your door again,” I say, looking up. “Or better yet, replace it.” If anyone else in the city can read the odd lettering that only I seem to understand, they would chain me up and throw me to the wolves. No judge, no jury, and immediate execution simply because the king’s word is law and his word says that anyone hosting a spirit guide is a danger to the realm. Thankfully, Coen says it looks like gibberish to him. So no one has been able to read it. They all think it’s the work of an illiterate vandal.
“Working on it,” Coen says. “Or I would be if we were ever coming back here again. Do you plan on coming back?” He cocks his brow in amusement, teasing me. I shift in my boots, shaking my head. He lets it go before turning to the table. “Do you have what we need?”
I slip my pack from under my shawl and slap it on the rickety wooden tabletop in front of him. Brushing aside cards from an earlier game, Coen’s big hands smack into empty ale bottles sitting nearby and they roll across the wooden surface and fall to the floor. I brush the ensuing shards aside with the toe of my boot.
“Two daggers, two meat packs, a couple of blankets, a longsword, and–” I list off the supplies I’ve gathered as I pull out the vial of fresh red liquid that took much more than a month of meager earnings within the castle walls to get. “One vial of dragon’s blood.”
Coen’s eyes widen. “Do I want to know what you had to do to get that?” he asks pointing to the small corked glass bottle. He doesn’t ask why I need it and I’m profusely glad because I don’t want to have to tell him that I don’t know either, only that the inky man says I need it and when he says I need something, it’s harder to fight the urge than not.
“Probably not,” I reply.
“Just answer me one thing,” he says. “Did you have to kill anyone?”
“I told you that you didn’t want to know.” I grin. When his eyes widen and a little bit of worry slips into his expression, I sigh and ease his concern. “I’m joking.”
I definitely didn’t think telling him about meeting one of the street urchins that stole and sold the belongings of others in the lower towns of the kingdom was a good idea. I didn’t know if other cities had them since I had never been outside of Matric’s kingdom, but the lower towns weren’t exactly the safest place to be in even during the day. If he knew that I’d gone there to find the dragon’s blood, he wouldn’t be happy. If he knew that I’d paid someone to steal it, he’d be even less so.
Unsafe. The inky man’s voice makes a return after several moments of silence and my spine stiffens at the intrusion. It’s easy to forget that he’s always there in the back of my mind until, that is, he makes himself known. I wonder if he makes me forget his presence or if it’s just because I’ve gotten so used to our back and forth routine.
Unsafe. He says the word again and my eyes dart to the windows of the little shack Coen and I have used as our meeting place for several months as we planned this escape.
“Something’s not right,” I say. Coen’s head raises as he takes a look around.
“What do you mean?”
“Does anyone else know?” Coen’s eyes sharpen, the silver depths coming to life and the normal gray color recedes as emotion fills them and his pupil expands.
“Are you implying that I would rat you out?” he asks slowly, his outrage growing.
“No, Coen,” I snap. “I’m asking if anyone could have possibly overheard us or followed you.”
“What makes you think they didn’t follow you?” His outrage is gone, quickly dispersing, and I know he’s not trying to sound accusatory, but his tone is still sharp. He edges closer to the door and window, peering out between the slats of strung together painted wood that cover the glass.
UNSAFE! The inky man is screaming at me, his panic clear.
“We don’t have time for this.” I hand him the second dagger and a meat bag. “We need to leave. Now.” I toss Coen the longsword; it’s too bulky for me, nearly half my height when stood upright.
“Back door.” His tone is hard, but I brush away his irritation, I know he’s simply on edge tonight. We both are. There are more important things to worry about than his wounded pride. I push my hand against his chest, holding him off as I peek around the side of the back doorway. The streets are more brightly lit than usual, more than they were minutes before. The inky man is right, something is off. We’re not safe.
“This way.” I lead us in the opposite direction of the lights on the main streets and we become even more entrenched in the alleyways and backstreets that aren’t really streets at all, but are wide cracks between buildings set too close together. In those, we have to go in a single line, him behind me. The further away from the lights we get the easier I hear him breathe. But, we’re still unsafe. The inky man is prowling the chambers of my mind, his anxiety mounting.
At every corner, I pause, waiting. Open spaces are the bane of our plan, but unavoidable. We’ve made it to the East Wall, the least patrolled area in the entire city. It’s supposed to be nearly deserted tonight. Something has ruined that opportunity.
From what we can see from our hiding spot in the two-foot divide between buildings, the East Wall is lit up like the sun. Without electric lights, the soldiers are forced to have torches lit. Instead of the regular few yards of distance between the torches, tonight they are multiple torches every few feet. Even so, for once, I’m thankful for King Matric’s tight wallet because it keeps the light low and the shadows long. Guards that are usually elsewhere during the time of the feast of the hunter’s moon are striding back and forth. Coen crouches down as low as he can at my ba
ck, blocking most of the wind that is starting to pick up.
Escape. It’s a bit frustrating that the inky man has taken to speaking in monosyllabic phrases. I want to stop and question him more on why he has this sudden urge now when he hasn’t said a word about the escape or my plans since Coen and I agreed to leave. Still, the inky man’s demand is one that resides within my own heart. But, we can’t. Not tonight. Not with this many people guarding the wall. I lead Coen away, but we don’t return to the shack. It’s too risky. When we end up closer to the North Wall, he pulls us to a stop and looks down at me.
“What’s plan B?”
Plan B? I think. There is no plan B. This either worked or it didn’t. And this time, it didn’t. I stare up at him, my nose twitching and burning with the need to hold back my tears. “There is no plan B,” I whisper.
His palms grip my arms. “Nerys, this is it.” He shakes me slightly. “After tonight, we won’t have another chance for months.” His eyes flash silver again as a beam of moonlight slides across his face. “Do you really want to wait that long again?”
“What do you expect me to do? Just magically pull a plan out of my ass? If we chance it on some halfcocked bullshit plan we make up in the next ten minutes, we could get caught and if you think we’re trapped now, wait until someone catches us trying to escape. We could be imprisoned...or worse.”
“I expect you to use your head. You’re smart—possibly smarter than me,” he says before his mouth stretches into a grin. “But, not likely.” He tries to joke, but I’m not laughing. He sighs. “Take a second to breathe and then think, damn it. We can’t stay here.”
Escape. The inky man agrees with Coen and I can understand why. There are rumors of a person with a spirit guide. The only person I’ve told is Coen and despite our tiff earlier, I know he wouldn’t betray me. My heart is terrified though. I’m too young to die, to be cast aside simply because of something that I didn’t choose.
