STORM OF RECKONING
Doranna Durgin
Blue Hound Visions
Tijeras, NM
Book II of the Reckoners Trilogy
"It simply amazes me how much action Durgin can pack into so few pages without losing sight of the goal at hand."
—Night Owl Reviews
“Durgin has created a rip-roaring adventure...”
— SFRevu
About The Reckoners:
“Heart, adventure, and buckets of wonder.”
—Julie Czerneda, author of Rift in the Sky
“Ghosts, aliens, danger, romance, and a non-cat. As Lisa McGarrity might say, what’s not to like?”
—Anne Bishop, author of the Black Jewels series
“Durgin takes the reader on a wild ride...”
—SFRevu
Copyright & Dedication
Copyright © 2016 by Doranna Durgin
ISBN-10: 1611385156
ISBN-13: 978-1-61138-515-1
Published by Blue Hound Visions, Tijeras NM, an affiliate of Book View Café
August 2016: The Author’s Cut Edition
Cover: Doranna Durgin
Original Copyright © 2011: first published by Tor Paranormal
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously — and any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
License Notes:
Even with a professionally edited book such as this one, typos and other errors can make it through to the finished manuscript. If you notice such an error, kindly bring it to the author’s attention by emailing [email protected] so that it can be corrected. Thank you!
The author has provided this ebook to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. You may not print or post this ebook, or make it publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this ebook, other than to read it on one of your personal devices. If you would like to share, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this efiction and it was not purchased for your use, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for helping the ereading community to grow!
~~~~~
With thanks to:
With many thanks to superagent Lucienne Diver, Torfolk Heather Osborne and Melissa Frain, and Secret AlphaReader. This was fun! During the Book View Café production, Deborah Ross and Jim Hetley kept me honest. And finally, thanks to those who lent their names to the cause. These “tuckerizations” resulted from a contest I ran at my website, but the, um, lucky few (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it) had no control whatsoever over their characters and are very good sports indeed!
To those who provided eagle eyes during production — thankyou thankyou thankyou! Becky Andrew, Elaine Batterby, Emma Dowdeswell, Karen J. Gould, Anita Schaller, Nancy Vieth.
Original Dedication: Many of my books are dedicated to family, and it bothers me not one whit to do it again. So: to family, and to changes, and to that journey. Chuck, Mona, Nancy, & Tom.
Author's Cut Dedication: In thanks to the one half of my family, who were there with me during the sudden loss of the other two during the work on this book, and in memory of the two we lost. I love you always.
Disclaimer Disguised as an Author Note
This book is an Author’s Cut. It contains a significant amount of new material, and is completely rechaptered to accommodate that material.
And yes, I’ve done it again. I’ve taken an extremely cool actual place — Sedona, Arizona — and I’ve let myself play around there. But all the dorky bits are mine, and all the cool bits are theirs, and all the bits I couldn’t stomp through with my own two feet or research or Google to death, I made up. We do that sometimes.
The Reckoners Cast
Our Heroine: Lisa McGarrity; Garrie. A natural Reckoner, once mentored by a ghost named Rhonda Rose.
Our Hero (we’re pretty sure now): Trevarr, half-human bounty hunter from another dimension
Our Hero’s bond partner: Sklayne, an energy-based creature of curiosity and appetite, often appearing as an Abyssinian cat.
The Bad Beings: Oh, how to choose... humans can get into such trouble! But don’t forget the lerkhet, who really just wants to snort sparklies.
Garrie's Reckoner Crew:
Lucia Reyes - spiritual empath
Drew Ely - ethereal historian, recently resigned
Quinn Rossiter - researcher & trivia master
Guest Location: Sedona, Arizona — home of red rocks, canyons, crystals, and vortexes
~~~~~~~~~~
Prologue
Kehar: The Warning. With Cat.
Nevahn slept uneasily, tossing in the sultry heat of a late summer night. The ethereal tide waned around him, its dark fog a mere remnant swirling along the floor. An unexpected breeze stirred through the narrow windows of his stout little home — an improbable breeze, full of whimsy and whispers.
He sat up in the darkness, displacing layers of protective netting. Best to keep silent, but he couldn’t quite. Not after years of clandestine visits and hope. “Son?”
The air stirred quite vigorously in response. Bereft of discretion, Nevahn dropped his feet over the side of the bed, upended and shook out his loose ankle boots, and slipped his feet inside. The aging bones of his barrel-chested frame creaked in protest, but did nothing to deter him.
For while Trevarr had no such facility to stir the air, Nevahn had long suspected that Trevarr rarely hunted alone. And Nevahn’s house was, in these days of Krevata-driven strife and looming sanction, glyph-protected against such incursions as a rekherra partner might make. Warded, too, against the distant ethereal incursions of the young woman named Anjhela, the Ghehera agent with more than average intensity and purpose.
Nevahn opened the door, careful to stand inside it.
A large and unfamiliar feline sat not far away, its truncated tail beating impatience in the dusty ground, large ears flicking. When Nevahn made no further move, it stood — long of leg unto endearing awkwardness, a faint line of sparks traveling down its spine. “Mow.”
Nevahn should best return to his bed, trusting himself in the deep forest night to no such creature. Instead he reached for the long, thin scarf hanging beside the door, a thing painted with fresh glyphs and decorative scrollwork.
The creature made a scoffing sound in the back of its throat, a faint hack and spppt!
“You have your ways,” Nevahn said, unperturbed. “I have mine.”
He followed it, climbing up past the glyph-warded village boundary and veering off established paths into deeper woods and more rugged terrain. Branches rustled; something growled, not nearly far enough away. Nevahn’s guide glowed just enough so Nevahn moved steadily through the dangers of thick firs still wreathed with dark fog.
Until Trevarr’s voice filtered down from the slope, low and cautious and full of all the relief Nevahn felt to hear them. “Nevahn-hei.”
Words cluttered the back of Nevahn’s throat, threatening to burst forth in a torrent of worry and demand and even grief. He sucked in an unsteady breath and released it with more control. “Trevarr. Son.”
Maybe not so much control as all that.
“They look for me,” Trevarr said, which was all the warning Nevahn would get. Warning enough, at that. It meant things had not gone as well as they might have. It meant that whatever brought Trevarr here, it was worth risking exposure.
It meant they might be caught together.
“We are obscured,” Trevarr told him, before he could ask. �
��But not entirely.”
No. Because that, too, brought risks. Utterly blank spots in the landscape were of just as much interest as Trevarr would be.
“Come out,” Nevahn said. “Let me see you.”
One last time.
But he didn’t say that out loud, because he still hoped.
Or he did, until the cat’s faint glow grew ever so slightly brighter. It moved into the utter darkness behind the droop of thick, heavy pine boughs, revealing Trevarr where he sat against the trunk.
Not tall and strong, but wounded and suffering. His shirt glistened, soaked with drying blood and gaping to reveal a torso still streaked with it. A closer look revealed bruises everywhere, blood streaking down his face from his brow and smirches of it on his hands and knuckles and the arm he held protectively across his belt. His hair had been gathered in only the hastiest of ways, the tiny k’thai braids hidden in the thick mass and his long forelock swept aside and stiffened with the blood from his brow.
Bruised. Battered. Hurting. Still bleeding.
All these things would have horrified Nevahn of themselves. All these things did horrify him.
But not as much as Trevarr’s patient resignation, or his weary acceptance of what had been done to him.
As if he was all too familiar.
Trevarr read Nevahn’s dismay as well as he ever did. “I have been tended.”
Nevahn glanced at the feline, which primped its whiskers and squeezed its eyes closed, looking as smug as any creature could.
Not really a cat after all.
Nevahn cleared his throat of the words sticking there. “For all that should be good in this world, Trevarr, tell me it rarely comes to this.”
“Rarely this,” Trevarr said, his dry, dark humor more reassuring to Nevahn than any words. “And only once Ghehera grew tired of me.”
Nevahn snorted in true ire. “Frightened of you, more like. After you have done the impossible for them.”
“As I have done again,” Trevarr said. “I... and others.”
Nevahn breathed his first relief. “Then you stopped the Krevata from harvesting portal energies.”
“They have been stopped.” Trevarr shifted uncomfortably, his breath catching. Nevahn held his breath for that instant, too, aching to reach out a hand — to help, to reassure. To make things better.
But Trevarr had never been that sort of child. Not then, coming out of the deep mountains with his mother dead and his pride stiff and fierce. Not now, years after taking up the responsibility of keeping Solchran safe.
So Nevahn kept his hand to himself.
Trevarr caught Nevahn’s gaze, his eyes bright unto platinum, his look piercing. “Ghehera expected me to die. Now they want answers, and they want me to betray those whom I will not. They will no longer stay their hand from Solchran. Punishing the rogue Krevata doesn’t mean punishing the clan.”
And the Krevata wanted this territory. Not the land itself, or for what lay beneath it. They weren’t hunters or gardeners or miners; they traded for their goods.
But they were very good at wanting.
And getting.
Nevahn stood stunned with understanding. “Will they kill us?”
Trevarr shook his head, but the grim set of his mouth didn’t reassure Nevahn. “Not even Ghehera can justify such carnage.”
“Then they will move us,” Nevahn repeated in a murmur. Not so bad, being moved. “Surely we can rebuild.”
“Do not hope,” Trevarr said bitterly. “Not from Ghehera. Instead, make it your task to survive. And know this: I will never stop fighting for you.”
Nevahn felt the impact of those words deep in his soul. “They will kill us after all.” When they could. When they thought no one would notice. “I should have realized that Anjhela was not to be trusted.”
The cat’s stumpy tail lashed. Trevarr’s expression sharpened. “Anjhela?”
Nevahn waved the query away, his mind’s eye full of the young woman — not rekherra, not blooded as strongly as Trevarr.
But strong enough to carry the mendihar. The hidden gauntlet of twisted pains and desires, a despicable thing for one so young.
She had come more than once, watching them from afar — her features a thing of sultry grace, her rich brown skin gleaming with barely perceptible satin scales. But her smiles had not truly been smiles, and her intent remained obscure from them all.
“No,” Trevarr said, already halfway to his feet, catching there to sink back down to one knee with his arm pressed against his side. “By no means trust Anjhela ! Hear me on this, Nevahn-hei!”
This time, Nevahn allowed himself to reach out.
Trevarr took that hand. Nevahn set his heels in the needle-covered ground and hauled his son to his feet. For a moment they stood in contrast to one another — Nevahn’s beefy, barrel-chested strength beside a son tall and strapped with lean muscle, powerful grace underpinning every move. Hunter and rekherra.
Perhaps they would see one another again and perhaps not; they would not likely have any say in the matter. But neither could stay. Nevahn dropped Trevarr’s hand, stepping back.
Trevarr hesitated in an uncharacteristic hunt for words. At last he said, “Survive, Nevahn-hei. Survive. It is what we do.” And then he turned away.
Ghehera. Anjhela. One and the same, or close enough. But none of those at Ghehera had ever grasped Trevarr’s true nature, or his mettle.
Or that of the people who had raised him.
So Solchran’s villagers would wait. They would still garden. They would still mine. And they would survive whatever came.
Chapter 1
On the Way to Sedona
“Apply your skills with precision.
— Rhonda Rose
“Love me a good pointy-toed shoe.
— Lisa McGarrity
Lisa McGarrity stuck to the shade.
Never mind the strong Arizona sun, the baking summer heat, or the fact that she wasn’t wearing sun screen as she and her crew and the rental car hit the Sunset Point rest stop on their climb toward Sedona.
The newly reflective shimmer of her own skin... now that was a problem.
Shoot, who’d even known the consequences of those energy-charged moments in San Jose? Blown through a dimensional pocket, turned into a human channel for a tsunami of energy...
Now she had a permanent starlet shimmer in strong light. And the funky electric blue streaks dyed into her gamine-short hair grew, obviously and apparently permanently silvery-blue, from the roots out.
Yeah. Lisa McGarrity stuck to the shade.
Lucia Reyes, on the other hand, was a creature of the sun. She basked at Sunset Point’s exposed overlook, her exquisite features and model-perfect body drawing stares from travelers who until that moment had thought themselves weary.
Right. No worry. As long as Garrie was with Lucia, no one would notice a little unruly shimmer. She might as well go right on out to the overlook.
But not before she caught movement from the corner of her eye and bit her lip on a smile. Trevarr. Once he reached the sundial memorial, no one would be looking at Garrie or Lucia.
After all, there’d been a reason Garrie had gone into that portal. A half-human warrior reason of mystery and dark charisma who now stood comfortably in the full heat of the sun, iridescent indigo shirt inset with leather panels with a crossover bib front that made him look both like a trend-setter and an exile from someone else’s past century.
That last wasn’t so far from the truth.
Even if Garrie still wasn’t sure whether he was truly exile, or a rebel waiting. She knew only that things unspoken still rode him — needs and obligation and intent. She knew, too, that he carried himself tensely when he thought she wasn’t looking; that he held himself wary when there was no evident need.
Along with the darkly iridescent shirt, he wore fall-front leather pants, high boots with enough buckles to satisfy any biker wannabe, a wide leather belt riding lean hips, and black leather half-fin
ger gloves. There’d be a caped leather duster over it all if Garrie hadn’t informed him it would draw serious attention in this heat.
Trevarr was used to a warmer clime. A much warmer clime.
Sunglasses added a Terminator vibe to the mix. Myriad silvered braids were completely obscured within the mass of espresso-dark hair, but Garrie knew of them. Likewise obscured, the tattoo-like marks at his wrists and torso... the ones that sometimes changed.
Not surprisingly, when he strode out to the sundial after Lucia — boot heels hitting concrete with assertive impact, long legs full of assurance — the rest of the overlook platform mysteriously emptied of other visitors.
“Pikers,” Garrie muttered, and went out to admire the long stretch of the Bradshaw Mountains.
“Good,” Lucia said in response to Garrie’s arrival, her face still tipped to the summer sun. “They all think it’s makeup, anyway. I’d use it, if I could get it.”
“You should know better than to want it,” Garrie said, maybe just a tad bitter.
Things lost, things changing... things confusing.
Because when they’d departed Albuquerque for San Jose only ten days or so earlier, they’d been a team. A little ragged at the edges, with Quinn Rossiter still in Albuquerque to run the research, but nonetheless — not just Lucia by her side, but also Drew Ely.
Now they were headed to help Quinn’s ex-girlfriend Robin, who owned a small store in Sedona — but Drew had stayed in San Jose. No longer one of Garrie’s reckoners. And Trevarr...
He wasn’t anyone’s anything. He belonged to himself.
Now he looked down at the sundial memorial with a frown. “This celebrates life lost.”
“Commemorates,” Garrie told him, aware all over again of how his indefinable accent edged his words — crisp here, inflection slightly misplaced there... a little bit Russian, a little bit German, a whole lot Trevarr. “What, they don’t do that on Kehar?”
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