Monsters, Book One: The Good, The Bad, The Cursed

by Heather Killough-Walden

  “No lie,” I assured her. It was true. Of course, my first fire hadn’t been during a training exercise, but during the middle of a rainstorm, and I was slowly freezing to death. Long story.

  But Annabelle seemed to contemplate my confession a little, then sighed heavily. I noticed her once-full box of matches was almost empty. We always used matches in training rather than lighters just to make things more difficult, the way marathon runners trained at high altitudes.

  According to the box in her hands, Annabelle had three tries left to get the fire going. The discarded burned-up match sticks lay in mocking evidence all around her.

  “Okay,” she said, and a touch of her confidence and strength was returning, giving me a hint of the reason she’d been chosen to join as a warden in the first place. “So what the hell am I doing wrong?”

  Straight-forward language was the norm for Vega clan members, and probably for most wardens in general despite age. The crap they had to deal with as wardens, and the crap they’d most likely dealt with that had led them to being wardens in the first place was just too intense for anything but down to earth behavior, and that included speech.

  I studied the fire. I’d noticed what was wrong with it at first glance of course, but I didn’t want her reminded of that and I wasn’t going to make it easy for her. No one learned that way. Instead I asked, “Well, what steps did you take?”

  She pursed her lips, then responded. “All of them. I loosely crumpled the paper – using the monopoly money and game pads from those board games over there because it was all I had.” She gestured to the props I’d left for her to utilize to her best abilities.

  I nodded. “Go on.”

  “Then on top of that, I tore up the boards themselves, making sure the edges were thin enough to catch fire easily. I put them on top of the paper as kindling.”

  I nodded again.

  She went on. “Then I grabbed the cinnamon scented pinecones from that centerpiece and put them on top for thicker kindling.” She looked at me as if checking to see if she’d done good so far. But I kept my face impassive. So she went on with a little less confidence. “I decided to leave off anything big until I’d made sure the fire caught.”

  I waited a moment, then asked, “So, did the fire light?”

  “It always lights, but then it goes out! And I’m blowing really gently!”

  “Why do you think it might be going out, then?”

  “I have no stupid idea.”

  I smiled patiently. “Let’s remember our chemistry for a second. What does fire need to continue to burn?”

  She shrugged, but she knew better by now than to assume there wasn’t a good reason I was asking her something. There was always a good reason. “Fuel and oxygen,” she replied.

  I stared at her. Then I looked down at the cast iron stove. Underneath the paper she’d crinkled – and singed with her unsuccessful attempts – was a thick pile of ash from previous fires.

  Annabelle looked from me to the stove, trying to pick out what I was staring at. A beat passed before her entire body straightened, and her cheeks flushed pink. “Oh! Crap!” She laughed at herself. “I forgot to clean out the ash first.”

  “And what does that mean?” I asked, bringing her home.

  “If I try to start a fire on top of a bunch of ash, no air can flow beneath the flame, and the fire will suffocate and go out.”

  I grinned. “Nice,” I told her, winking. “Now you’ve got three tries left, but something tells me you’ll only need one.”

  She beamed at me. “Damn straight,” she muttered, biting her lip and turning her fierce concentration on the fire. I stood and left her to her work, scanning the other trainees.

  There were a number of reasons people could find themselves in a warden clan, training to become a police officer of the supernatural world. Sometimes you just happened to see something. Sometimes you were brought in by someone else. But most of the time, it was because that supernatural world took something from you. And usually that something was your entire life.

  That was the case with Annabelle, whose parents had been taken from her by the supernatural powers that be at the age of eight. She’d been rescued on the verge of death and raised by the Vega clan ever since.

  Watching Annabelle struggle was hard sometimes. I knew that she was capable of amazing things. The kid had a knock-out IQ and a knack for puzzles, but there were road blocks in her head – walls she’d thrown up to protect herself. From what she’d seen. From what she knew.

  It reminded me of things. And I didn’t need any reminders.

  With a last quick scan to make sure everyone was on track with their lessons, I glanced over my shoulder at Caleb, who was still standing to the side, waiting to take over if I needed him to. I nodded at him. He nodded back, grinned that rakish grin again that he was so good at, and strode forward to take my place at center field.

  I left the training grounds with a grim determination settling over me. There were only two things that could bring me out of the mood I was quite suddenly in: Beer and bullets. Beer was out of the question; I had to go to my own training after this, and I needed to be stone-cold sober for that.

  So I headed to the warden shooting range, pulling my gun from its holster at my back as I strode through the exit. “I’ll be next door!” I shouted over my shoulder.

  It was a split second before Caleb replied, a little too smugly for my tastes, “I know!”

  Chapter One

  Lord Malek Taal of the Unseelie Taal nation stared grimly down at the letter in his hands. It was a summons.

  From the Unseelie King.

  Malek folded the parchment and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. His head was beginning to hurt. With a thought, he could have ended the pain. Physical sensation was the domain of the Taal, down to the molecule. He could have made himself forget all about the dull but persistent pulsing behind his eyes, the building unease in his gut, and the way his teeth wanted to gnash together.

  But because the Taal could so easily control physical sensation, they tended to become numb to it after a while. Sometimes and in some cases, such as this one, it helped to leave everything in place. As a reminder of how dire the situation was.

  Malek was facing a crisis. After thousands of years of peace between his people and the rest of the fae and mortal worlds, there was now very great unrest in the ranks. Something had shifted, upsetting the balance to a dangerous degree.

  The Malek Taal unseelie fae were named after their leader, Lord Malek Taal himself. But as a people, they were called the Taal. Within the Unseelie Realm, the Taal lived in the Unlit Forest on the kingdom’s far edges. Their neighbors were the Shades, another Unseelie race both dubious and dangerous, and the Taal lands bordered the Shadow Kingdom.

  They’d lived there for as long as their existence had been recognized and recorded by the realms, but it was generally understood by those in the know that they’d been around far longer. And those in the know would be correct.

  Malek moved across the room like a ghost cat, his tall form both filled and embraced by grace and magic, so much so that it radiated from him. A human would feel drunk or high in his presence if he didn’t make the effort to carefully rein it in. At the moment, he was alone and he let his mind – and power – wander.

  He thought of his people and the calamitous turn of events they were suddenly facing. The Taal were a strong society, ancient beyond measure, and they’d faced their share of problems over the plethora of centuries. Unfortunately the most pivotal aspect of the Taal was that they were a fae society uniformly male. Their continued existence would defy the logic of physics – even fae physics – if it weren’t for the fact that the Taal were immortal.

  The Taal could not proliferate with the females of any other race; something in them made reproduction impossible. No woman, whether mortal or immortal, could carry a Taal child. The opportunity had never even arisen. The seed never took.

  In all thes
e years, their number had never changed. No man had been born, and no man had died. Like the mortal legend of their “human” counterparts the vampire, the Taal were infamous because they subsisted on the blood of the living. As fae and especially as unseelie fae, they were cloaked in a glamour that hid the very long, sharp, and deadly fangs that were one testament to their true design. Fortunately they needed to feed only once a month to survive, because the feeding was almost always lethal.

  To the outside world, they were a race of beautiful, calm, refined, and highly intelligent men. A few more powerful Taal, those who had learned the skill necessary to keep their glamour thick and secure in order to spare those around them, even possessed identities in the mortal world. They were CEO’s or rock stars or politicians. They attended functions in which they projected a presence charming, witty, and utterly disarming. They seamlessly maintained a façade. But beneath that façade, they were pure predators – always hungry, always hunting, ever on the prowl.

  For feeding, they normally chose women who were not needed by society, either fae, mortal, or otherwise, and made certain to erase all evidence they’d ever existed. On the rare occasion the Taal allowed a victim to live, the bitten was considered “chosen,” and given a choice. They could remain alive as a slave to the Taal who’d bitten them, or they could be taken before their leader, the original Malek, to be “erased.” Their memory would be wiped clean of the traumatic event, and they would be set free.

  Rarely did this last, however. The Malek Taal had chosen them and allowed them to live for a reason after all, and the Taal breed was tenacious, if anything. Hence, the cycle was almost always repeated until eventually the woman grew too weak to resist any longer. She would become a slave, and would later die from a weak constitution. For this reason, the leader of the Malek Taal strongly discouraged becoming attached to any victim. It wasn’t nice to play with your food.

  They were not what one would call a benevolent society to begin with. But recent events had further complicated matters dramatically. There was a new hunger rising in his people. It wasn’t a new need for physical sustenance that was shifting the balance, but something else. Something deeper, stronger and far more dangerous.

  Rogue Taal with no immediate need to feed were now slipping into the night, singling out mortal women, and taking them from their lives. The Taal and the woman would disappear together. Without fail, the woman would be found dead days or weeks later, drained entirely. Bodies were turning up everywhere. There had been sixteen so far.

  A long-standing treaty between Malek Taal and the Unseelie King ensured no more war with the other Unseelie, and a place for Malek on the Unseelie Court. But it was as if chaos had touched the group of men in the Unlit Forest, and the summons Malek held in his hands just then made Malek wonder whether the treaty was about to be broken.

  Malek was uncertain of the source of this sudden change in his people, but he was absolutely certain of the effect it was having.

  It was happening to him too.

  He felt a need he’d never before experienced, and of all things loneliness was at its core. There was no other word to pin to it, no other phrase to describe it. Having never suffered the emotion, Malek was at first confused by the discomfort, a hollow sort of feeling somewhere behind his heart. But Malek was not young. The centuries had given him a front row seat to the behaviors of the mortal world, and within a few weeks, he’d come to realize what was plaguing his people. And keeping him from sleeping.

  Now the Malek Taal were hungry, and in a far more dangerous manner than before.

  As he saw it, Malek had two options. He could meet with the Unseelie King unprepared for anything but war, or he could get some answers and go prepared to fix the problem. Given that he, too, was beginning to feel this “sickness” come over him, as far as he was concerned, the former wasn’t really an option at all. Only finding a solution mattered.

  Malek pocketed the note, slipping it inside his suit, then turned and left his study. What he needed was a seer. And not just any seer, but one who specialized in… curses. She was called the Prophet, a woman bathed in darkness and time so much so that her form wavered between states of being, and her words echoed with eerie delay.

  With a nod at his servants, who stood back and watched silently, Malek transported from the designated transport circle in the grand hall of his mansion. The transport walls were inky black shot through with what looked like smoke, a testament to where the spell was speeding him off to.

  When it opened again, Malek was deposited into a cold chamber. The only visible life signs were those of the illuminated face that waited at what Malek knew was the center of the chamber. He’d been here before.

  “My lord,” said the one who owned the face. She had the appearance of a twelve-year-old and reminded Malek of the Child-like Empress from the film, “The Neverending Tale.” Yes, he enjoyed movies. Especially of late… they were a welcome distraction from the menace of the Taal’s recent troubles.

  Malek knew the Prophet’s outer appearance was nothing if not deceiving. She may have become what she was at a young age. But that was a long time ago.

  “Prophet,” he returned curtly.

  “You’ve come seeking guidance concerning that hole in your chest.”

  Malek stopped in his tracks, and the corner of his mouth twitched with the threat of a smile. The Prophet always did know how to get right to the point.

  She smiled instead, beckoning him to come forward. “Come. Sit down. Share some tea with me. No one ever comes to visit me anymore, and my dog died two years ago.” She looked up, and Malek heard a clapping sound.

  The lights came on in the chamber.

  He looked around, noting the newest additions to the Prophet’s living space. She’d added sixties-style couches, lamps and rugs, and the center of her chamber was now recessed. It looked like the meeting house for the Scooby gang. He turned back to face her with an arched brow. She shrugged innocently and said, “I have a taste for modern amenities.”

  “The Clapper is almost forty years old.”

  She shrugged again. “We have different ideas of what is modern.”

  He swallowed another smile and joined her in the recessed center of her chamber. She was seated on a floor pillow in front of a table. As he approached, a tea set for two and a plate filled with pastries appeared on the table. Most of the treats were fae in origin, but Malek noted that many of them were human.

  “I think what you have a taste for is humanity,” he said teasingly as he sat down opposite her.

  She was thoughtful for a moment in her twelve-year-old countenance, almost pensive. Then she said, “Perhaps. And I’m afraid that you now do as well.”

  Chapter Two

  Malek went still, and his eyes settled steadily on the Prophet.

  She didn’t make him ask for clarification; she didn’t make him wait at all. She’d never been the kind to beat around the bush. “The new, hotter fire that burns in your veins?” she said, arching a brow meaningfully, “It’s for a human alone.”

  Malek’s strong jaw ticked. “Explain.”

  “Of course,” she said lightly, pouring herself a cup of tea. “There is no miracle spell that will rescue you from this discomfort. You and your men are changing because of the added chaos that has entered our realms. It has disrupted matters at a molecular level.”

  She stopped and looked back up at him, lifting her tiny teacup with delicate grace, and even stretching her pinky out as if she were the Queen of England. “Attempting magic to halt what you’ve become would be as successful as taking away what makes you Taal and turning you into fairies.” She put down her cup as something cold settled in Malek’s gut. “In short, it is impossible. There is only one way to save yourselves.”

  Malek lifted his chin slightly. His eyes glinted; he knew they were heating up with fae power. “What is it?”

  She grinned maliciously, and her bright blue eyes sparkled. “Love!”

  Malek fro
wned. “Come again?”

  She shrugged as if it should have been obvious. “It won’t be easy, mind you. You have been savages for so long – no offense,” she said, her grin slipping into an utterly disarming twelve-year-old imp’s smile. “You’re a little out of practice on the romancing front. But like it or not, my tall, dark, and hot mess,” she said before pausing and fixing him with a no-nonsense gaze. “Only eternal love can save you from this disaster.”

  Her voice had lowered, and her tone was changing. She leaned forward, waving her hand. The tea and sweets disappeared at once and all of her attention was focused on him. He felt a force surround him, heavy and dire, and he recognized it. This here was her prophecy. Everything else was pretense. This alone was what made her who and what she was.

  Her voice now echoed as she spoke, and the air around them began to fill with mists. They swirled and gathered as the Prophet’s blue eyes lightened to green, and then a glowing yellow.

  “Your men must find their match, their Kindred. None will recognize her at first. The truth can be revealed through the Taal Kiss alone.”

  The Taal Kiss… Malek closed his eyes and swore softly despite his present company. A heady cocktail of dread and possibilities coursed through him like the yin and yang of oil and water. But the Prophet wasn’t finished with him, and he knew what she was going to say when she said it next.

  “The desire must be matched. She must fully surrender to the Kiss. And when it is finally given…” Her voice trailed off as she paused, and the yellow glow of her irises flashed with importance. “You will then know if she is the right one.”

  It’s impossible, Malek thought. His men were powerful, and they were strong. But the Kiss was maddening. Could any of them hold back during this single act that he had banned among his people long ago because of its inescapable dominion? Could any of them really keep control long enough during the Kiss to ensure his victim’s survival?

  “You’d best hope so,” said the Prophet as the glow left her eyes, the mists began to clear, and the weighted atmosphere began to lift. He felt it easier to breathe once more. But it was nevertheless unsettling that she had been reading his mind. There were very, very few beings in the realms who could read the mind of the Taal lord.