by C. J. Pinard
THE ENCHANTED IMMORTALS SERIES
By C.J. Pinard
Copyright 2012-2013 C.J. Pinard
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Cover art for box set by:
Kellie Dennis @ Book Cover by Design
Cover art for individual books by:
Cyndi Henry
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Photos used with permission by Dreamstime Photography
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ENCHANTED IMMORTALS
ENCHANTED IMMORTALS 2: THE VORTEX
ENCHANTED IMMORTALS 3: THE VAMPYRE
ENCHANTED IMMORTALS 4: THE VIXEN
BSI: BUREAU OF SUPERNATURAL INVESTIGATION
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY C.J. PINARD
Enchanted Immortals (Book 1)
By C.J. Pinard
Copyright 2012 C.J. Pinard
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to Tim O’Rourke, for giving me my first chance and showing me that no act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.
SYNOPSIS:
Thomas never thought he would live this long; he expected the usual lifespan of 60 to 70 years. But one terrifying night in 1946 San Francisco has changed all that; he has now been alive 86 years and still looks 20. He and his associates, Jonathan and Kathryn, have been granted Immortality by a group of sylphs belonging to the Zie Council – lead by their queen, Malina – who possess an elixir called Enchantment. But what they and the rest of the Immortals have to do in order to keep receiving this elixir involves protecting sylphs and humans from the faeworlders – vampires and shapeshifters – who want nothing more than to eat, violate, and kill them. For Jonathan, Thomas, and Kathryn, policing the fae is a dirty job, but somebody has to do it. And the payment is eternally priceless.
“Youth is wasted on the young.”
George Bernard Shaw
Prologue
∞∞∞
It was an initiation ceremony. Upon reaching eighteen, the Zie threw a ceremony for each sylph. Drinks flowed freely and all the new female sylphs stood around, dressed in bright colors, holding girlie drinks, and talking with each other.
The year was 1940, and they were so ahead of their time.
Surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico, they were all alone on the Island of Nymph. Never heard of it? Of course not. You won’t find it on a map. It’s glamoured from humans. Sylphs didn’t like to fraternize with humans, but sometimes they did. They liked things clean, quiet, and drama-free.
Okay – maybe that last one wasn’t very accurate.
The island was encompassed by balmy turquoise water, and was inhabited by sugar-white sand, palm trees, and grass. A warm wind blew, and hammocks swung quietly between trees while peacocks and toucan birds flitted carelessly around the island. There were both grass huts and modern houses built from the hands of human men, who were quickly glamoured and sent back to their respective homelands upon completion of the building of these homes for the sylphs.
The ceremony was in full swing, as about a dozen sylphs stood, barefoot inside one of the carefully decorated huts waiting for the ceremony to start.
Sylphs are only female. They are born, not made. How, you ask, when there are no male sylphs? They are born when a sylph falls in love with a human man and has a female child. She knows she has to give up her daughter at eighteen to the Zie. She also has to give up her immortality and become human upon giving birth. And usually, she’s okay with that. Sylphs do not have wings, they use air portals; they are the Faeries of the air. They look human, but are very tiny in stature and love bright colors and practical jokes. They dislike shoes.
The Zie Council controlled the Fae world – or at least they tried to. The council was made up of ten sylph queens who drafted a Treaty with the Fae – the vampires and shapeshifters – in the ten regions of the world. Each region had a sylph queen who enforced the Treaty.
She stepped out of her portal, seemingly out of thin air, dressed in a purple pantsuit, her wavy, light brown hair tucked neatly under her twisted crown headpiece. She stood on tiny bare feet and surveyed the room as a long silence ensued.
Then, she finally spoke. “Greetings, ladies. My name is Malina, and today we learn how to make Enchantment.”
A beautiful blonde sylph dressed all in pink raised her free hand. “Excuse me, Miss Malina, but I thought we were here for a ceremony?”
“What is your name, Pinky?” Malina asked, eyebrow raised.
With a slight hesitation, she answered, “Serina.”
“Serina, come here.”
With trepidation, she approached Malina.
“And what’s Enchantment?” Serina asked while she made her way to Malina, drink in hand.
“Give me your finger,” Malina commanded, holding out her hand.
Tentatively, Serina put out a perfectly-manicured finger. With lightning speed, Malina pulled out a small needle and pricked Serina’s finger, drawing blood.
“Ouch!” Serina bellowed, immediately pulling her finger to her mouth and sucking on it, much like a child at a doctor’s office.
Malina then pulled out a very tiny vial of pinkish-red liquid from the pocket of her purple pants. She yanked off the stopper and tilted the needle with Serina’s blood on it, dumping three drops into the vial. Immediately, the liquid started to thin out and turn aqua-colored. It then began to swirl violently, as all the sylphs watched in amazement.
“To answer your question, Serina, Enchantment is what we make for humans to make and keep them immortal,” she answered with a twinkle in her eye.
“And why would we want to do that?” a pretty sylph with black hair asked. She was holding a heavy martini glass containing clear liquid and an olive.
“Because, my dear, the Immortals police the Fae world. Ever run into a vampire or shapeshifter in a dark alley?”
At the hesitant shake of the curious sylph’s head, Malina continued. “I didn’t think so,” she winked. “And you can thank the Immortals for that.”
Chapter 1
∞∞∞
1946 – San Francisco, California
Fog. Always fog. How am I supposed to get any deliveries done in this mess? he thought. He continued to cycle through the busy streets to get his job done. There’s no rest for the weary, as his father always reminded him. He knew he would be working into the evening with the amount of deliveries he had to make today. Grateful for the work, he kept pedaling through the dense fog and decided to skip his lunch break. He didn’t need to spend an extra quarter on a sandwich; he’d had a big breakfast anyway. He’d stop at dinnertime and get something.
Later, after an exhausting day, he was finally on his last delivery. He stopped at the tall bank building on Hyde Street and parked in the shade of the massive brick structure, noticing how the dwindling sun cast its large shadow all the way down the street. The fog seemed to now be a fleeting mist in the last remaining sunbeams. Chaining his bike to a fire hydrant directly in f
ront of the building, he went inside. Opening the heavy glass doors, he informed the pretty, neatly-dressed, receptionist that he was there to make a delivery to Jonathan Murphy on the sixteenth floor. The receptionist pointed him toward the elevators, as she always did, and the messenger thanked her for her graciousness. She smiled sweetly at him. He switched the tube-shaped package to his left hand as he pushed the call button for the sixteenth floor.
As the elevator jerked to a start, he thought about what was waiting for him at home. He dreamed of moving out of his parents’ home; he was twenty years old after all, and should be on his own. His father had taught him to work hard, but with the Depression a not-so-distant memory, work was still scarce. His father was encouraging him to follow in his footsteps and try out for the SFPD, but he had no interest in becoming a cop. He wanted the high-rise good life, just like the folks who worked in the very building in which he now stood. He was saving his pennies, but it would be a while before he could move out. He thought of his high school girlfriend, Barbara, who had broken up with him after leaving to attend an all-girls college in Southern California.
Since when did girls go to college and become doctors anyway?
The shrill of the elevator bell bolted him out of his daydreams and he exited the squeaky elevator onto the sixteenth floor and padded down the plush hallway. Nice digs, he thought as he searched the mahogany doors for office number six. Finding it, he rapped on the beveled glass painted with the words Murphy Architecture and announced he had a delivery for a Mr. Jonathan Murphy. A gruff voice bade him to come in.
His eyes took in the office, which was decorated nicely, but humbly. A dark maroon-colored carpet covered the floor and a large blue sofa sat in the front of the office. Open blinds partially shaded the windows, casting a striped shadow over the multiple wood-framed awards and certificates adorning the cream-colored walls.
“Hello, sir, how are you today? I’ve got a delivery from the Richardson Firm for you,” the humble bike messenger said, handing the man a beat-up clipboard and ink pen.
“Yes, yes, young man, just set it down on the desk there,” Mr. Murphy replied, using his pen to indicate a large partners desk in the corner of the office.
He thought he detected a slight accent when Mr. Murphy spoke, and he couldn’t help but notice the older man’s strong hands; it seems he had seen hard physical work some time in his life. He was very tall, at least six-four, and his wavy blonde hair boasted gray at the temples; his eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the edges when he smiled, indicating years of experience. Yet, he didn’t look older than forty, the bike messenger thought. He was wearing a very expensive-looking three-piece suit.
Mr. Murphy handed the clipboard back to him. “Thank you, son. You’re out late this evening, aren’t you?” He said, pressing a quarter into the boy’s palm after handing off the clipboard.
“Yes, sir. There’s no substitute for hard work, as my father always says,” he smiled, pushing a strand of black hair from his forehead. “And thank you,” he indicated the quarter in his hand.
As the messenger turned to leave, the elder man asked him to wait. “Young man, what’s your name?”
“Thomas O’Malley.”
“Ah, what a nice, strong Irish name. Your parents immigrants?” he asked boldly.
“Yes. They came here from the ‘Old Country’ about twenty-five years ago, before I was born. My dad is a police officer here in the city now.”
“And how long have you been with the messenger company?”
“About two years, sir, since graduating high school. I’m trying to save enough money to get my own place, hopefully meet a nice girl, and settle down.”
“You interested in going to college?” Mr. Murphy quizzed.
“Oh, yes, I would love to. But my parents are barely making ends meet, I have to help them with the numerous notes they have due each month. Even my mother has taken to doing odd sewing jobs to help with the finances.”
Jonathan Murphy paused for a minute, looking intently at the young man. Thomas shifted uncomfortably then turned to leave, assuming the strange and imposing conversation was over.
“Son, I can see that you’re a hard worker, I can tell by the way you carry yourself and your good attitude. Every time you’ve made a delivery here, you’re on time and have confidence and respect. If you would like a job in my firm, I would be happy to take you under my wing and teach you my architectural trade here. Is that something you would be interested in?” Jonathan fixed him with an intense, steely-gray stare.
Thomas has to mentally tell himself to close his mouth as he turned back around to face Mr. Murphy. He was fairly sure his blue eyes were about to pop out of their sockets. “Uh… oh, wow. Of course, sir, that would be very gracious of you!” he practically spit out.
Jonathan walked over and shook his hand. “I don’t normally take chances like this, but you have a winning quality about you. And I’m a very good judge of character.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m so very grateful for this opportunity. I promise I won’t let you down. My father will be very pleased to hear this. When would you like me to start?” he stammered.
“This Monday would be fine, if your current employer will let you go that quickly,” Jonathan smiled.
“There are a hundred guys like me wanting messenger jobs, as my boss likes to remind me on a daily basis. I’m sure they won’t have too much heartburn over my short notice, Mr. Murphy,” Thomas quipped with a returning smile.
“All right, sounds like a plan. See you Monday, Thomas O’Malley.”
∞∞∞
Thomas pedaled his squeaky blue bike down Hyde Street, his messenger bag swinging wildly on his back. His mind was reeling. He couldn’t believe his luck; it was almost too good to be true. He had always admired Mr. Murphy when he would make deliveries there. He was always in awe of his nice office, his expensive suit, and his pretty receptionist. He couldn’t wait to get home to tell his parents the good news. He knew his father, especially, would be so proud.
Thomas finally reached home and dismounted his bike. He opened the large door to the small, detached garage, placing his bike inside and hurriedly closing the creaky door with a slam. He swiftly leapt over the neatly trimmed shrubs that lined the front of the house, and ran up the four rickety porch steps as they wailed in protest under his weight. He burst through the front door and went straight to the kitchen where he knew his mother, Nell, would be inside cooking. He found her in her usual attire; a simple tea-length dress and yellow apron. She turned around when she heard Thomas come in. She greeted him with a smile, while he hurried over and pushed a strand of auburn hair off her face, kissing her cheek.
“Hi, honey. How was your day?” she asked, stirring what appeared to be beef stroganoff on the stove. The smell wafted up into Thomas’s nose and made his stomach summersault, reminding him he’d skipped lunch.
“Mom! Where’s Dad? I have great news!” Thomas said, nearly tripping over his words.
“He’s in the front room reading the paper. Why, what’s going on, Tom?”
“Come with me, Mom. I need to talk to you both.”
Nell set her wooden spoon on the stove’s spoon-rest, wiped her hands on the handmade floral towel that hung on the front of the oven, and followed Thomas into the living room. He went over to his father and sat down on the adjoining sofa.
“Hey, son. What’s the good word? You look awfully excited,” said his father, Joseph, a strong Irish brogue still present in his speech. His navy blue police uniform pants were still on, but he wore only a plain white T-shirt. His duty belt was hanging by a hook on a hall tree in the house’s entryway.
“Mom, Dad, you’re not going to be believe this! Today I was making a delivery to this man named Jonathan Murphy at that huge bank building on Hyde Street. Well, he said he saw good qualities in me and wanted to give me a job! He’s going to teach me the architectural trade, Dad! Can you believe it? I was quite speechless.”
“Wow,
that’s great news, Tom. When do you start?” his dad asked, a little less excited than expected, his voice vaguely masked in skepticism. He was also trying to hide the disappointment in his son not following in his career footsteps.
“Monday. I gave Mr. Smith my notice today. He took it well.”
Nell walked over and gave her only son a hug. “I’m so proud of you, Tom. You’re a good boy. You deserve this. Just don’t let him down, okay?”
“Oh, Mom, I won’t!”
She smiled at him. “Also, I can make you some new dress shirts. I’m thinking you’ll need at least five more. All you have are a couple for church.”
“Yes, mom, that would be great, thank you.”
His father eyed him curiously, deciding he would use his influence to do some digging on this Jonathan Murphy once he got to work the next day.
∞∞∞
It was his last day of work, finally Friday. Thomas was to start at the Murphy Architectural Firm on Monday. He was still in utter shock of his luck. He had just completed the last delivery of the day, well actually of his life, when he was on his way home to enjoy the upcoming weekend. He was thinking about the new Alfred Hitchcock film he was anxious to see at the local movie house. He began to pedal even faster, as it was now dark.
Because he was clearly not watching where he was going, and because it was almost pitch-black out, Thomas took a corner a little too fast and crashed right into… something. He flew off his bike, ass-over-teakettle, and the next thing he knew, he was laid out flat on his back in the middle of the Mission District. He moaned, then shook off the smack to the head, and sat up, looking around for his bicycle. He then heard the sounds of laughter. Not happy laughter, either; it sounded to him like nails on a chalkboard. He quickly pulled himself to his feet and headed for his bike, not really wanting to find out where the laughter was coming from. He began to rub the back of his head where he had hit it and felt it was wet. Gosh-darn it, I hope I don’t need stitches, he thought, wiping his hand on his trousers.
