Trial By Fire (Beyond The Veil Book 1)

by Cate Dean

  Trial By Fire

  Beyond the Veil Book One

  Cate Dean

  Copyright, 2016.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously, and all incidents come from the author’s imagination alone.

  Cover design by Funky Book Designs

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  Trial By Fire

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Excerpt from The Enemy You Know

  Trial By Fire

  About the Author

  One

  I never should have touched the pendant.

  What was I thinking? Didn’t my mother warn me every day of my life?

  “Reese,” she’d say, her blue eyes serious as a heart attack. “Never touch anything that you feel is wrong. Never.” Then she’d slap my hand—or sometimes my cheek—to drive the point home.

  The pendant sitting on the counter of my jewelry store felt all kinds of wrong.

  But something about it pulled at me, in a way I couldn’t describe—or ignore.

  So I disobeyed years of warnings, and reached for the tarnished silver disc. I didn’t even have on the thick cotton gloves I usually wore to “keep oils off the metal” as I told my customers.

  Nope—I touched that beauty barehanded.

  And the second my fingers brushed the edge, the world my mother spent so much time and effort protecting me from exploded into life.

  ~ ~ ~

  My name is Reese Pierpoint, and I own a jewelry store in Santa Luna, California.

  Sounds ordinary, doesn’t it? I thought so, which is why I chose the small, narrow storefront, on tree-lined Forest Street. I so needed normal, after a lifetime of my mother’s obsessive protection.

  Fiona Pierpoint meant well. She knew things, about life, appearances—and that neither one was ever what it seemed.

  I spent my childhood as alone as she could manage. I was homeschooled, every minute of my day supervised, my friends thoroughly checked out before they were allowed to be my friends. Yeah—that process led to very few friends. So did moving every year or two.

  Then there was my hair. I’ve had a thick blonde streak on the right side of my head since I could remember. On the first of every month Mom would religiously cover it with some nasty smelling liquid, and on the last day of the month, the streak would predictably reappear. Overnight.

  I grew up well educated, with an ingrained fear of touching anything unfamiliar, and lonely.

  I was good with everything but the lonely.

  That finally led to the shouting match prompting my sudden move from cookie-cutter suburbia to bohemian, laid-back Santa Luna.

  Which takes us back to the day my life exploded.

  ~ ~ ~

  It started like any early June day in Santa Luna—overcast in the morning, what the locals called the June gloom.

  I walked the three blocks from my tiny second-floor studio to my store. The Dragon’s Breath was an unusual name for a jewelry store, but I played up the dragon love of treasure, and the interior reflected that, looking like the stone treasury of a castle. With modern touches, like lighting.

  I loved my eclectic store, and I was choosy about what I sold there. Because of my reputation, the seller of the pendant walked into The Dragon’s Breath, instead of the pawn shop down the street.

  She looked ordinary enough when she walked in, ringing the bell over the door. But as she got closer, the humming I can sometimes sense around people vibrated from her.

  I should have trusted my instinct and refused to buy anything from her. But when she unwrapped the pendant and set it on my counter, I knew I had to have it.

  This was a possession that startled me. I’m not a big jewelry wearer. Yeah, I know I sell it, and I do wear pieces in the store, to show them off. My own collection is tiny—partly because of my mother’s aversion to jewelry. She hates that I chose to sell it for a living.

  “Where did you get this?” My voice sounded—odd, like I was hearing myself from the end of a long alley. I wanted to snatch the pendant up and clean it. The need to know what lay under the grime made my fingers itch.

  The pendant had some kind of stone in the center, but was so tarnished and dirty, I couldn’t tell what the stone was.

  “A family heirloom,” the older woman said. She watched me, probably more than a little freaked by my reaction to the pendant. Hell, I was more than a little freaked. “I wanted to know its worth, before I considered selling it.”

  “It needs to be cleaned,” I muttered. I wanted to spend the time, slowly reveal the beauty hidden by neglect… I yanked myself out of the too-vivid image. “I can’t give you an estimate until I can see what’s under the tarnish.”

  “Why don’t you clean it for me, dear?” I jerked at her suggestion. The knowing smile on her face should’ve warned me.

  “I normally don’t—”

  “But you want to, Reese, don’t you?” Her quiet voice pulled me in—so much so that I didn’t notice she called me by name. “I believe you’re the only one who can do the pendant justice.”

  Before I could stop myself, I reached for the pendant.

  The second I touched it, the world my mother had spent her life hiding from me burst into my normal world—starting with the woman in front of me. Who wasn’t a woman.

  I stumbled backward, my fingers sliding off the pendant. But the damage had been done.

  The woman who had turned from normal to strange studied me with her aqua blue eyes. She could’ve stepped out of my mother’s book on supernaturals.

  She was a faerie.

  Never, ever confuse real faeries with the pretty, laughing variety in storybooks. They couldn’t be more different. Mom had told me all the stories—which I know now weren’t just stories.

  Crossing paths with a faerie never ended well for the human. That would be me in this scenario.

  “Reese—look at me. Focus on me.”

  I was too busy trying to blend into the stone wall behind me. When that didn’t work, I turned to the faerie, the wall at my back, and put as much distance between us as I could manage.

  “Who are you?” I already knew what she was, thanks to Mom’s “bedtime stories.”

  “I promised Fiona we would not activate you. But these are desperate times, and we need your particular talent.”

  “What—talent?”

  “You are a Seer. They are rare in our world, and never untrained. But,” she stepped around the counter and stopped just out of arm’s reach. “I believe you will do fine. You were born with the power, Reese, and it is part of you.” The switch from talent to power scared me. “Most Seers acquire their skill after tragedy.”


  “What do you mean—born with it?” Just how much did Mom hide from me?

  “She should be here any moment to—ah, there she is.”

  The faerie turned—and a second later the door flew open.

  “Reese!” Mom almost shoved the faerie off her feet to get to me. “Are you all right?”

  “Not really, Mom.”

  I stepped forward, and tolerated her hug. I was more than a little angry at her right now, but if she didn’t hug, she’d hover until she did. So I got it out of the way.

  When she stepped back I saw something I’d never seen before—delicate silvery tattoos, wrapping around her wrists like vines, and climbing both arms. What the hell were they, and why didn’t I notice them before?

  “What did you give her?” Mom’s furious voice jerked me back. She tossed the question at the faerie, not intimidated by her—or surprised. “Answer me, Maeve.”

  “One of Aidan’s pendants, Fiona. It was time.” Maeve held up her hand when Mom started shouting. Mom’s voice halted mid word, and she grabbed her throat, fury in her eyes. “You deprived us of a Seer, when you ran from the Light Court, and bore a child.”

  I stared from Mom to Maeve. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I told you that you were born with your power.” She waved at Mom, who still tried to talk, her face red with the effort. “Your mother passed her power to you when you were born. That was fortunate; normally, the ability to See dies with birth, when one of the parents are not Fae. It is the reason we do not allow Seers with your mother’s power to mingle with mortals. True Seers are too rare to squander.” She glared at Mom when she said it.

  Mom tried to talk again. With an impatient huff, Maeve waved her hand.

  Mom coughed, rubbing her throat. “We only wanted to live in peace. When Reese began to show signs, I gave up everything to keep her from your world.”

  “Your world as well,” Maeve said.

  “Not after what happened.”

  That shut Maeve up. Until she looked at me. “We need your help, Reese.”

  “I don’t know you.” I didn’t want to know any of them. Ever. Not if this was the way they operated. “Get out of my store.”

  “Please let me—”

  “Get out.”

  “Reese.” Mom looked at me, her gaze so intense it scared me. “Tell her she’s not wel—”

  Maeve waved her hand again, and silenced Mom before she could finish. But I heard enough.

  “You’re not welcome here, Maeve.” A strange tingling swept over my skin. “Get out.”

  “Reese—you need—”

  “You. Are. Not. Welcome.”

  She flew backward—and the door opened just before she hit it, slamming after her.

  I stared at the door. “Did I just do that?”

  “I’m afraid so, honey.” Mom walked over to me and took my hand. “I’m so sorry, Reese. I wanted to protect you, keep you from becoming part of the world I left.”

  “I said no to her, Mom.”

  She squeezed my hand. “Once you can see the Veil, Reese, you can’t unsee. The world is always going to look different to you now.” She sighed. “I wanted to keep this from you. I wish I’d done a better job.”

  “It was my fault, Mom. I touched the pendant, even knowing I shouldn’t.” I hugged her, because we both needed it. “Maybe it’s time to start telling me some things.”

  “You’re right. How does dinner—”

  A pounding on the window interrupted her. We both looked over, and I almost groaned when I saw Maeve practically dancing in front of my store.

  “Stay here, Mom.”

  “Reese—”

  “I can deal with this.” I had to—now that I’d be seeing only God knew what walking down the street.

  I stalked over to the window and stopped in front of Maeve, hands on my hips. She quit pounding, and pointed to the door. I shook my head—no way in hell was I letting her back in. So I compromised by stepping outside.

  I had the distinct feeling she was not going away.

  “Reese—”

  “Before you ask, or beg, or demand, I want to know one thing. And I want the truth.”

  “Of course.”

  “Not your truth. The truth.”

  She deflated little, but nodded. “I will tell you the truth.”

  “Why me? There have to be other Seers. And why now?”

  Maeve crossed her arms. “That is two things.”

  “Fine.” I just managed not to roll my eyes. Which one did I want answered most? “Why now?”

  “The murders last week.”

  I flinched at her blunt tone. I did want the truth, after all. “Can you elaborate?”

  “Now that you can See, take another look at the victims.”

  I didn’t want to. Those murders had been vicious. Worse, the victims had been teenagers, out for a night of fun after their senior prom.

  “I’m guessing you have a visual?”

  Maeve pulled the local newspaper out of her bag. “Do not study the photos, Reese. Glance at them, let your power show you the truth.”

  She handed me the paper. The same strange tingling rushed up my arm—and Mom screamed, so loud I thought she’d shatter the window.

  I watched her sprint for the door, almost in slow motion. When I turned back to Maeve I saw the reason—she had one hand raised, all her focus on Mom.

  “No!” I shouted as I tackled her, taking us both to the sidewalk. I’m sure I looked like the bad guy to the other shoppers on the street, taking down the tiny, older woman. Not that I was much bigger, at 5’4”.

  “Free me.” She spit out the words.

  “Touch my mom again, and you’ll be crawling away.”

  “She keeps interfering—”

  “Crawling changes to not at all if you keep arguing.”

  That shut her up—and should’ve warned me. Why would a faerie be afraid of the jewelry store owner who just learned about her power?

  “Understood,” she said.

  I climbed off her, and my mother appeared, standing between us like a shield.

  “Reese will not be bowing to your demands. I know you’re here without sanction.”

  Maeve’s reaction told me Mom hit the truth on the head. “I sidestepped our agreement, yes. But we need her help.” She turned to me, and for the first time since she walked into my store, I believed she was sincere. “These young people will not be the last sacrifices.”

  “Sacrifices?” I whispered the word, because my throat threatened to close up.

  “You are needed, Seer, to help us find the supernatural who did this, and stop them.”

  “I can’t—” I cleared my throat, leaning against the front of my store for support.

  “You can.” Maeve looked at my mother. “Will you tell her, Fiona, or should I?”

  Mom stiffened. “She does not need to—”

  “Now that she can See, she needs to know.”

  “For God’s sake, just tell me.” I was already tired of the secrecy that had been part of my life since I had memories.

  Mom shoved Maeve out of the way and took my hand. “I will tell you, Reese. Inside.” She glanced at the audience we were attracting. “I promise you, I will answer any questions you have. There’s no more hiding, for either of us.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit.

  Two

  Bran Malcolm knew who was calling him before the phone rang.

  It was one of his gifts—and came in handy when an ex-girlfriend called to give him an earful.

  This time, the caller was someone he wanted to talk to about as much as an ex. He answered anyway.

  “Bran Malcolm Investigations.”

  “That you, Bran?”

  He rolled his eyes, since the caller couldn’t see him. “How many years do we have to know each other before you stop asking, Nick?”

  Detective Nick Phillips chuckled. Nothing Bran said ever got under Nick’s s
kin. Bran respected that about him.

  “I need a favor,” Nick said.

  Bran tensed, because he knew what the favor was. He’d seen the news. The story about those kids nearly broke his heart.

  He may be a half-demon, but the human side still knew how to feel. Sometimes too much.

  “What favor, Nick?”

  “Another kid has been killed.”

  Bran closed his eyes. “I don’t know if I can—”

  “You could tell me after one deep breath whether or not one of your kind did this.”

  “Yeah. I can tell you right now, Nick.” He really hated the prejudice—someone got killed, it had to be a demon. “Nothing about the murders says demon. I’ll come and confirm it, if that will take them off your list.”

  “It would.”

  Bran sighed, rubbing at his forehead. The headache he knew would be coming with the scent of death whispered to him.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  He hung up the phone, and lowered himself to the creaky leather chair behind his desk. It would only take five minutes to get to the murder scene, but he needed the extra ten to prepare himself. Though there would never be enough time for him to prepare himself to see a dead kid.

  He stood, and pulled his nine millimeter and backup piece out of the lockbox in the bottom drawer of his desk. He’d feel better, knowing he was ready for any scenario. After sliding the holster on his belt, and strapping on the ankle holster, he grabbed his worn black leather bomber jacket off the back of his chair, slipping it on as he strode to the door. It may be June in Santa Luna, but with the gloom, mornings could still be cool. As a half-demon, he also had the oh-so-enjoyable sensitivity to weather.

  By the time he reached the narrow sloping side street, north of the main beach, the scene was chaos.

  Tourists blocked the end of the street, lookie-loos expecting a show. Bran pushed through the crowd, flinching at the emotions that swirled around him. The quartz he usually carried with him was sitting on the nightstand at home. He didn’t take a full breath until he reached the alley—then wished he hadn’t.

  Nick Phillips strode forward. “Thanks for coming, Bran.”