DAIMON (Nerys Newblood Series Book 1)

by Lucy Smoke

  Home, he replies.

  Could you be a little bit more forthcoming? The jerk doesn’t reply. Not that I really expect him to.

  “Nerys?” I turn and Titus is standing at my elbow, blue eyes curious. “What were you talking about?”

  I groan. “Do I really say everything out loud?”

  He grins, but takes pity on me. “It’s really more of a muttering and I’m sure it’s not always, just when you reply, I suppose. What did he say?”

  “He thinks this is home,” I reply.

  “Daimon?” Luca leans around Titus with curiosity.

  “Uh...my spirit guide?” The question is out of my mouth before I can think to stop it. I groan. Only a few days into freedom and I’m already spilling my secrets to strangers. I blame the uninvited roommate I’ve got in my head. Holden and Coen push Titus and Luca aside. Coen’s palms cup my face and Holden leans in close.

  “They’re safe, Nerys,” he says. “You’re not in Matric’s kingdom anymore. No one in Ragnarok has anything to gain from telling anyone else that you have a spirit guide. Even if they did, they can’t prove it.” With Holden’s words and Coen’s soft strokes along my cheeks, I relax. “You okay?” he asks. I nod and push Coen’s hands away with a smile of thanks.

  “Right then.” Booker draws our attention. “Holden, what have you brought me a daimon for?” Holden looks at his friend and then at his friend’s doppleganger, Luca, and then to me, Coen, and Titus.

  “Uhhh, perhaps a drink first?” he practically chokes out, face heating. Booker blows out a frustrated breath.

  We wind up sitting around the greenhouse room. There is a snow white couch that looks as though it should be covered in pollen and grass stains considering how many plants populate the room, but is strangely devoid of any markings. Holden and Booker take that while Titus flips over what seems to be a watering bucket for the larger bamboo trunked plant between two rosemary bushes and perches on it. Coen and I take the only other cushioned sitting available which is a doubled wooden chair set with white cushions to match the couch.

  Luca plops down in front of me as Holden, Titus, Coen, and Booker all take their places, glasses of water and ale in their hands. Almost immediately, I begin to run my fingers through Luca’s hair. It’s soft and clean and slides through my fingers like silk. It feels just like petting a long-haired dog and it’s comforting.

  “So,” Holden begins, gesturing towards Luca. “How did this happen?”

  “Luca’s a changeling,” Booker explains.

  “So, he’s not your twin?” I ask. They could be. Luca is an exact replica of Booker, all the way down to the freckle on the lobe of his left ear.

  “No.” Booker shakes his head. “He’s a shapeshifter—a changeling kind that doesn’t have a face of his own. I saved his life on a trip to Athos once and he followed me home, took my shape, and has been with me ever since.”

  “But he can talk like a human. Does he not have any deformities?” Titus asks. I listen with half an ear as I play with Luca’s hair. He’s not human. That must be why the inky man doesn’t seem to be interested in him. From what I have gathered, the inky man is only interested in humans–human guys, I think as I glance around the room. I wonder why.

  “And what about her?” Booker suddenly asks, pointing with his drink in my direction.

  “What about her?” Coen demands, eyes narrowing. I lift one hand away from Luca and gently stroke Coen’s arm. He doesn’t settle so much as relax his muscles, though his eyes still remain narrowed and fixed on Booker.

  Booker ignores him and continues to speak to Holden. “Is there a reason that you’ve shown up on my doorstep with a daimon?”

  “Is that what I am?” I ask, pausing as I sift through a knot on Luca’s head. Booker glances at me, intelligent eyes assessing.

  “A daimon is the host of a spirit guide,” he answers. “So yes. I assume you’ve been drawn to us because of our potential?” He phrases the statement like a question, but it is anything but.

  “A potential daimon?” Coen asks, leaning forward and Booker frowns at him.

  “Yes, a potential daimon. Do you not know about these things?”

  “The real question is, how do you know about these things?” Titus intervenes.

  Booker stiffens, one long finger coming to rest on the bridge of his nose. He pauses, his eyes unfocusing and I notice there’s a slight red mark on the top of his nose. He must usually wear glasses, I determine. It would explain the finger resting there–a habit from pushing glasses up. He lowers his hand, but Holden is the one who answers.

  “Booker is a student at the University of Oracles.”

  “The what?” Booker rolls his eyes, his hand raising towards his face once more before he pauses and drops it with a frown.

  “I’m a druid,” he says. “I come from a line of priests, soothsayers, and magicians. I’m there studying magic and magical creatures.”

  “Do you have to be magical to study there?” Curiosity fills me. How much does he know? How much can he find out?

  He shakes his head. “No. But, do you really want me to talk about that or daimons?”

  I want both, but he’s right, in this moment, learning more about the inky man takes precedence. Knowledge is power after all. I’ll interrogate him later about the University of Oracles. I nod for him to continue. He complies with a sigh.

  “There are only so many spirit guides on this plain of existence and if one host dies before his or her time, then the soul of the spirit guide is ripped from their host and deposited in the closest potential daimon.”

  “How do you know you’re a potential?” I interrupt. Had he learned about daimons in the university? What could I learn there?

  He shrugs. “I’ve grown up around potentials and spiritual beings and creatures like Luca. I’ve met a daimon before and he said that I was a potential. His spirit guide apparently recognized me. As a druid, I have a certain affinity for seeing past first sight.”

  “First sight?”

  He sighs. “What you see with your eyes,” he explains.

  I nod my understanding. “So, is the inky man supposed to say something every time I meet a potential?”

  Booker’s eyes furrow. “The inky man?”

  “She doesn’t have a name for her spirit guide,” Coen explains.

  “Oh, uh...I suppose so,” he says. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because he sent Titus and Holden,” I gesture to the boys in question. “Letters, telling them to meet me and Coen during our...um…” I paused, unsure of how much to reveal of our escape from King Matric’s city. “When we decided to come here.”

  Holden sighs and turns to Booker. “We were in Matric’s Kingdom and we met them for an escape after we received letters sent by her spirit guide,” he says.

  Holden doesn’t even acknowledge the scathing glare I send his way.

  “You were in Matric’s city?” Booker’s eyes widen. “It’s a good thing you were able to leave. From what I’ve heard, he wouldn’t even have tolerated your presence. His kingdom is practically still in the dark ages.”

  “It is,” I agree, turning back to Luca’s hair. He sighs and rubs against my palms as I sift through and find another knot to untangle. He may be unfamiliar, but he’s so comfortable to be around that I barely even realize that I’m hanging all over someone I just met before I forget and move close again.

  “Hence why we’re here on your doorstep,” Holden chuckles, lifting his drink to his lips.

  “So, your spirit guide recognized Holden and–” Booker glances at Titus. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I know your name.” Titus grunts out his name and sinks his shoulders inward as though trying to remain unseen on his bucket. “Titus, yes,” Booker continues. “So, your spirit guide recognized Holden and Titus as potential daimons. What about him?” Booker nods to Coen.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Booker places his drink on the glass table to his side, next to a potted orchid. �
�Well, either way, it’s not uncommon for a daimon to seek out other potential daimon, especially if the spirit guide feels as though its host is threatened.” Coen and I share a look. “What?”

  “I’m not the original host–daimon, I guess–for the inky man,” I admit quietly.

  “Who was?” I stare at the top of Luca’s head, my hands pausing over his hair. The sounds of the crowd on the day of the inky man’s arrival. The jeers and screams, the judgement from King Matric, all collide in my mind on the memory of a man standing on a wooden platform, face turned towards the sky as the executioner wrapped a thick stretch of rope around his neck.

  The inky man had been desperate the first time he spoke to me. I had been right at the front of the crowd, crying for some reason. It didn’t seem right that a man who had done nothing but possess something that King Matric both coveted and feared be murdered. I wanted to push people aside and save him.

  The man’s feet had dangled, twitching in the aftermath and I had almost fallen over in my haste when the inky man had screamed at me to leave. The shock of an unfamiliar voice in my mind hadn’t registered until much later and for days I thought I had imagined it.

  Pushing through the crowd, tears running down my cheeks, cooling as I ran faster than I ever had before. Reaching Coen’s door, pausing to wipe them away, being nudged to write that phrase: “Through the shadows, we walk hand in hand with spirits and are once again reborn.” Then collapsing into a fit of sobs in Coen’s arms as he opened the door to find me there.

  “It was a man we didn’t know,” Coen answer, drawing me away from the memory. “He was tortured by King Matric and sentenced to death. From what she told me afterward, she was right there when he was um...when he died.”

  “That will certainly make any spirit guide feel threatened.” Booker nods. “Also likely why your spirit guide brought more than one potential daimon closer to you. Potential daimons are naturally already drawn to host daimons, probably why you were so close to the sight of the man’s death.”

  I swallow a hot breath and force myself to extract my hands from Luca’s hair. He turns, green eyes the same shape and shade as Booker’s, and looks up at me, frowning. I stand shakily, wavering on my feet, the memory of an innocent man’s death makes me sick and the inky man is bitterly sad in my mind, adding to my stress.

  “Nerys?” Luca sits up and reaches back for me. I pull away.

  “C-can I lie down?” I ask. I don’t know if we’ll be staying with Booker, but with the travel, the new experiences, and the influx of information, my head is pounding.

  Booker nods, standing. “I’ll show you to one of the guest rooms.” Coen moves to follow us, but I put a hand out to stop him.

  “No,” I hear myself say. “Stay. I’ll be fine.” I turn away before he can object and follow Booker from the room.

  He leads me to the far side of the greenhouse room and through another hallway much like the first, except this one is dimly lit with not much in the way of light other than wall scones every few feet. There are stairs at the end of this hall and we go up. The second floor of Booker and Luca’s dorm quarters are just as lavish with bright drapes covering the ceiling like they had in the lobby. He opens a door and gestures inside.

  It resembles nothing like anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s elegant and far from what I’m used to. The bed sits on a twisted iron frame with blue pillows piling against the headboard. I take a step towards it before Booker’s hand on my arm stops me. Looking up into his face, I wonder how he affords all of this. He can’t be much older than Coen.

  “You will be safe here,” he says, green eyes serious. “You can trust us. You won’t have to worry about anything here.”

  “I’ll worry no matter what,” I say. “There’s a stranger in my head.” Booker grimaces and steps back.

  “Have a nice rest, Nerys.” He shuts the door and I take a few steps toward the bed before sagging onto it.

  Trust.

  Oh, yeah, great, I comment. Now you want to talk.

  Be safe here, he replies.

  For how long? I wonder. I hope I’m right and King Matric won’t concern himself with a daimon outside of his city. I hope the inky man is right and I can trust Titus, Holden, Booker, and Luca. I already trust Coen. With my life. I could use a few more friends like him.

  Chapter 4: Obidian

  The clouds are changing, the wind picking up as the gray rolls together to form rotating masses of spite. I circle the air, my wings dipping forward before flaring back as the scent of blood assails my wide nostrils. So much blood has been spilt.

  At the sight of me as I descend through the hazy storm clouds to land at the top of a hill, what wounded soldiers are left begin to cry and beg and pray, unknowing that I am not here to cause them more suffering. A sinister smell of decay and bloodlust emanate from the middle of the field and I stretch my limbs, folding my wings inward to take to my smaller form. Death and bodies litter the ground. Gurgles and gasps from the barely living reach my ears as I pass through. I pause before I reach the thing that has drawn me here.

  A small child with ratty blond hair sits rocking herself. Blood mats the side of her face, making the straw-like strands on her head stick to her wet cheeks. Another of my kind smells her and hovers in the air above us.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she sobs. “I really didn’t mean to.” Her eyes are empty white clouds, tears streaming from them. All of the color in their depths has been rinsed away.

  “Obidian,” the other of my kind calls as he lands several meters away, on a hill covered in bodies. I ignore his call and bend to the child.

  “I’m sorry,” the charge whispers.

  “I know,” I reply.

  “Obidian, she can’t be allowed to live.” Atticus, the now familiar dragon, stands as close as he dares, which is much farther than I. I pick the girl up and cradle her soft form in my arms. Atticus flinches back as I turn towards him. “She is a monster,” he says.

  I know she is. He’s right, she can’t be allowed to live. I stare down at her face, eyes now sightless and face so trusting as I rest my cheek against her dirty hair and let a tear cloud my sight and fall. She’s a child of chaos born. Bloodlust runs through her veins. She cannot help the suffering she causes.

  Death, the man–Obidian–tells me, causing me to recognize that it’s not my body I’m in. It’s my spirit guide’s from the Before. This isn’t a dream. It’s a memory.

  “She is one of Death’s children,” Obidian says. It breaks the fire inside of him that something can be so innocent and yet not, that a child can be born for no other reason than to feel pain. Obidian, holds her as she continues to cry, until the last breath of the dying men on the battlefield has long since ended.

  None of this feels right. The child in his arms turns her empty eyes upward, her small hand reaching for his face. The moment her palm touches his cheek, an explosion of pain sends him–and me–to my knees. Still, He holds her. Why can’t he let go? Why don’t I want him to?

  “I’m sorry, child.”

  “You must do it,” Atticus says from behind us.

  “Please,” the girl cries. “Please, I’m sorry.” But, her hand is still on his face, sending rockets of electricity shooting through the fibers of his skin. She cannot stop it. Somehow, I know that if he continues to let her live, she will bring more than suffering, she will bring about destruction and plague and famine. The world should have known that one single body could not hold this much chaos inside. The wounds under the surface of her body are much more agonizing that anything she could unleash on others. The need to end her pain suffocates the both of us.

  His hand, an opaque onyx tone, raises. He grasps her slender throat, his wide palm almost circling the entire appendage. More tears fall from both our eyes as we–with a quick twist–break her neck and end her life. The storm clouds whirling above quickly disperse as the little one’s hand falls from his face and the pain fades to an echo.

  “Such evil,
” Atticus breathes as he finally chances a step closer. “It should never exist.”

  “She wasn’t evil,” Obidian says, laying her out. “She simply existed. There is no evil in existing. The power she had wasn’t controlled; she was merely a child with a life she didn’t ask for”

  “It was given nonetheless,” Atticus argues. Obidian turns his head and Atticus gasps. “Your eyes…”

  For a moment when I wake, I’m blind and I fear that my dream of the inky man’s past has followed me. I saw so much that at the beginning of the strange dream-memory, I forgot entirely that I am my own person and that we are not one being. Panic creeps into my throat for a scream but before it gets too far, a warm wet tongue drags down my cheek and I blink my eyes open.

  A giant black dog with its paws crossed one over the other sits on the pillow next to my head. He whines when I say nothing to his affection and leans forward to lick me again, this time from my chin to my forehead. I choke, pushing the animal away.

  “Stop.” My voice is garbled and throaty and I cough to clear away the sleepy dryness. The dog shifts and hops off the bed and a dark haired boy sits up in his stead. “Luca?”

  “I was sent to wake you up.” He smiles as he bounds back on the bed in his Booker lookalike form. I gasp and shove a pillow at him when I get a glance at his naked crotch. Somehow it doesn’t feel like enough, so I shove half of the blankets to cover as much of his naked skin as I possibly can as well.

  “Luca,” I say. “I don’t think that’s how Booker meant for you to wake me up.” He tilts his head.

  “How do you know Booker sent me? I didn’t tell you who told me to wake you up.”

  “It makes the most sense.” Titus and Coen would let me sleep and Holden seems the kind to come wake me up himself. Booker, despite my lack of familiarity with him, is the obvious choice. He is the only one left and even though I could picture Luca coming to wake me up just because, I just get the feeling the obvious choice is him.

  I raise my hand to Luca’s hair, playing with the strands in an effort to keep my eyes up. “You’re pretty cute as a dog, though.” It’s strange touching someone I’ve practically just met, but no one thinks twice about doing it to animals and Luca is just like that, a strange animal that has already drawn me in. Besides, even in his human form, he reminds me of a puppy. A very big, brawny puppy, but a puppy none the less.