Last Chance (DarkWorld: SkinWalker Book 3)

by Ayer, T. G.

  Cassia stared at me, her honey-gold eyes as expressionless as she could make them. “Hello, Melisande.”

  “Hi, Cass.” The skin at her eyes tightened. She hated it when I shortened her name. But it didn’t matter. She pretty much hated everything I was and everything I stood for, all on account of the fact I ruined her life. I wasn’t in the mood for a stare down so I tugged my keys from the lock, and took special note of the dark glare Cassia gave them, as if I had no right to have them. I brushed past her and headed for the stairs.

  “He’s not taking visitors,” she said, her voice dripping ice as she pushed her tightly spiraled curls away from her face.

  I stopped, my foot on the first stair, my hand on a banister badly in need of staining, and glanced back at her. I smiled sweetly. “Well, good thing I’m not a visitor then, isn’t it?” I watched as blood rushed to her dusky cheeks. She smoothed her skirt down, tamping down her anger with the same action. I really shouldn’t bait her. She did take care of Samuel. But I could care less if she left. I’d just hire someone else to look after him. I turned my back on her and left her to stew in her fury, taking the threadbare stairs two by two, knowing even Cassia would disapprove. Poor Cassia. Samuel’s niece hadn’t inherited his teleportation powers, and being born normal into an almost entirely magical family was a great burden to bear. The problem with Cassia was she bore it with vicious anger.

  Sighing, I pushed Samuel’s door open and walked silently to the table by the window. Today, he sat in his rocking chair beside the open bay windows. White gauze curtains billowed on a soft breeze and he seemed to gaze out at the trees but I knew he saw nothing of the view. My heart twisted for him.

  I drew a rickety chair close and sat beside him. “Hello, Samuel,” I said, taking his hand in mine. His skin was papery thin, the fingers bony, muscles weak and wiry. His hand twitched as I held it and I smiled. I knew he knew when I visited.

  Samuel Fontaine was not an old man. He was in his late thirties, not the age of a man who should be lingering in a rocking chair. I stared at his once handsome face, high cheekbones now jutting out too far, and gorgeous green eyes now faded to a pale luminous non-color.

  But sexy Samuel’s been gone a long, long time. Ever since his brain got scrambled doing a jump for Melisande Morgan. What a way to go. My fingers tightened on his and I had to force myself to remember his frailty. I began to pull away when his fingers gripped mine with an intensity I hadn’t felt in months. My heart stuttered as I stared at him, eyes wide.

  “Mel?” his voice rasped, as if he hadn’t used it in years.

  “Samuel? Yes, it’s me.” I nodded and smiled, tears threatening to overflow.

  He blinked, his expression slightly unfocused. Then he frowned. “Are you eating? You look skinny.”

  I snorted. “Don’t worry about me. It’s you we are concerned about. We need you back Sam-sam.” I leaned close and he placed a palm on my cheek. The curtains billowed into the room, white clouds surrounding us in this impossible dream.

  “I know, baby. But I’m not done yet,” he said, smiling. “The girl . . . She needs me.”

  My stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”

  A few seconds of silence crawled by as Samuel studied my face with far away pale green eyes. “Patience, Melisande. And don’t forget what I taught you,” he said softly, his voice fading. “Don’t forget . . .”

  “Samuel?” I called him, but I knew he was already gone and my heart ached for him.

  “He spoke to you?” Cassia’s voice rang out, so bitter and cold it dropped the temperature in the room by a few degrees. Maybe the woman was magical after all.

  “Yes.” I whispered, still holding on to his hand. He’d spoken. He was still there. And what had he meant? ‘I’m not done yet?’ What did that mean?

  “What did he say?” Her question broke through my thoughts, an angry tide breaking onto my happy, grateful shore.

  I looked up at Cassia and grinned. “He said I was skinny. And he told me not to forget what he’d taught me.” I didn’t see any reason to tell her the rest. I suspected she’d overheard the last of Samuel’s words so that’s just what I gave her.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Cassia snapped, her honey eyes flashing. “He hasn’t been lucid for months, and you waltz in and he just talks to you out of the blue and says don’t forget what he taught you?” She snorted, hands on her hips, eyes wide. “Who the hell do you think you are? You just come in here whenever you feel like, say whatever you want and then leave him to me? Who do you think looks after him? And he talks to you?” Her laugh was hoarse, underlined by a deep bitterness.

  I watched Cassia, her anger an almost palpable thing. She was struggling with her own burdens but all I wanted to do was to slap her as hard as I could across the face.

  “You know what? I’m a bit tired of your whining and moaning. I know you’ve had it tough but we all have our own bloody demons to deal with. As far as I’m concerned you can just suck it up.” The color drained from her skin and I was certain she wasn’t sure whether to be shocked, upset or angry. “Take Samuel for instance, he’s way worse off than you. Maybe someday we will have him back – from what he said today, I am hoping his condition is temporary and wherever he is he’s okay and he will come back. But until then we have to wait. So quit feeling sorry for yourself. If you feel this is all too much and looking after Samuel is a burden, then by all means leave. I’m sure we can find someone else to take care of him.”

  I’d never voiced my opinion to Cassia before. I’d always steered clear of her, left her to her anger. Now, in the face of my words and my own fury, she seemed startled, unsure of herself.

  “You can’t make me leave.” She lifted her chin.

  Really? After everything I said, that was all she got? “I’m not making you leave, Cassia. I’m just saying if you aren’t happy taking care of Samuel, we can find someone else.” I was careful to use the word ‘we’. A gentle reminder that my presence here was with the kind permission of Samuel’s extended family. Not that I needed their permission, but they had eased Cassia into accepting me in the house and I appreciated that.

  Now, I watched Samuel’s niece as she considered my words. She didn’t respond and for Cassia, being short of words was unusual. Then she turned abruptly on her heel and left the room.

  “Well, I suppose I got my answer, then,” I said to myself.

  Samuel chuckled and when I glanced at him, a little shocked, my heart sank with disappointment at the blank expression in his eyes. Then he tilted his head and stared out the window. Sighing, I got to my feet and kissed his cheek. Then walked out of the room and left him there alone again.

  As I drove, all I could think about were Samuel’s words.

  I’m not done yet. The girl . . . She needs me.

  ***

  BLOOD MAGIC - Chapter 2

  Saleem shifted in his seat. It felt like he was sitting on a rock rather than the supposedly comfortable seat of Chief Roger Murdoch’s office at the Chicago police station. He eyed Pete Fulbright who commanded the seat beside him, his stomach making him look more like a whale every time he breathed.

  Saleem didn’t like the guy he’d been assigned to. Didn’t appreciate his attitude toward his job or toward his investigations. But he was going to give Pete Fulbright the benefit of the doubt. And he supposed his own presence would do some good in allaying suspicions that Chief Murdoch wasn’t taking full responsibility for Fulbright’s investigation of a paranormal operative.

  Fulbright’s sudden aggressive interest in Melisande Morgan had caught the attention of the High Council, and because of their already comfortable working relationship with the CPD they asked Omega, instead of their own investigative unit Sentinel, to look into it.

  Omega and Sentinel, both powerful paranormal agencies were interested in a rash of paranormal disappearances in the last six months, something that seemed to also have caught Fulbright’s attention.

  “So, I
trust you will ensure Saleem here has full access to all our Missing Person’s files?” Chief Murdoch said as he rose from his seat.

  Fulbright reddened as he stood, his back ramrod straight. “Of course, Chief.”

  When he stalked out of the office and shut the door with a click, Saleem turned to Murdoch. “I don’t need those files you know?” Chances were Omega’s files on the disappearances were much more substantial than what Fulbright could come up with.

  Murdoch smiled from beneath his mustache. “Of course I know that. It’s just better that Fulbright doesn’t.” The Chief sat, his massive frame threatening to crush his creaking chair.

  “So what has he been up to?” Saleem glanced through the window at the warren of desks. Fulbright stood at one of them, flipping through a stack of files while repeatedly glancing at Murdoch’s glassed in office. Fulbright’s stomach rose from mid-chest and hung low on his hips, so low over his waistband the man needed suspenders to hold his pants up. Not that body image bothered the detective at all.

  “Investigating all of Mel’s cases but especially focusing on the abductions and deaths involving paranormals. I don’t know how, but he’s managed to hone in on the paranormal cases too well for my comfort. Ask him yourself. He doesn’t mind sharing his suspicions.”

  Saleem nodded left the Chief’s office, heading to the two desks that sat facing each other. A floor to ceiling window looked out onto traffic and block after block of aging high-rises.

  Saleem sat and the sound of the chair brought Fulbright’s head swiveling toward him. Fulbright did not expect conversation with Saleem. In fact, he’d made it clear enough he didn’t have much respect for Saleem or his presence. He’d barely glanced at the Djinn since he’d arrived.

  He knew what that meant. Race always played a big part in heightening emotions. But Saleem didn’t care. It was bad enough his Persian descent was clear in his deep olive skin, dark hair and black eyes. As far as his appearance went, Fulbright had him pegged. But imagine if this normal human realized he had a bloody djinn sitting next to him. A real, honest to goodness genie. He’d be off searching for a lamp so fast Saleem would probably choke on his dust.

  Silencing a snort, Saleem sneaked a glance at his partner. Saleem wriggled in his seat. Time to find out a little more of what made the whole Fulbright-Morgan relationship tick. “So what’s the deal with you and Mel Morgan anyway?” Saleem asked, pasting on the innocent rookie face he’d practiced with his team leader, Logan Westin, yesterday.

  Fulbright gave him an impatient glare as he stacked his files in a pile and pushed them aside. The detective took a deep breath, grunted. “Just something about her that doesn’t add up. Her ability to find people when we can’t is strangely coincidental. Most of the cases we close end up with her. And she solves then. Finds the people, dead or alive.”

  “And you find that strange how?” The sounds of the office hummed around them. Saleem had his own reasons for being here, for watching Mel Morgan and the more he knew about her the better.

  “Nothing I can put my finger on really. Just strange.” Fulbright was being reticent and Saleem understood. Most cops didn’t like Omega or Sentinel.

  Saleem stared out the window for a moment then looked at his new partner. Fulbright shifted and threw Saleem an annoyed glare.

  “It’s an old case, nine years to be exact. A kid went missing. House trashed. Blood everywhere, parents’ throats slit. And this Morgan kid standing there, covered in blood not saying a word. Then we found there’s a kid missing, her younger sister. And from the blood and the condition of the house we knew the chances the girl was alive were slim to none. Case closed.” Fulbright shook his head.

  “So why keep an eye on her now?” Saleem couldn’t keep the criticism from his voice but Fulbright was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t even seem aware.

  “I’ve been looking at the files. And she’s just too good at her job to be … normal.”

  The hairs on the back of Saleem’s neck stood on end. “And this friend of hers you are investigating?” Saleem asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  “A guy named Samuel Fontaine.” Saleem went cold. Samuel, the Master tracker. So Fulbright was on the paranormal trail after all. Saleem just had to find out how much he knew.

  Human mage trackers were rare. Which is why almost every available paranormal tracker was on both Omega’s and Sentinel’s contractor lists. Including Melisande Morgan. And Fontaine. Until he’d toasted his grey cells on a jump.

  If Morgan’s paranormal identity was blown, everyone else would soon follow. Fulbright was more dangerous than he could ever imagine.

  The detective snorted, reminding Saleem of the unpleasant presence of the other man. Saleem didn’t want to talk to him anymore so he started up the computer and logged into Omega to give his report.

  # End of BLOOD MAGIC Excerpt #

  BUY Blood Magic – Book 1 in the SoulTracker Series

  ***

  Want more Urban Fantasy fro Tee? Try RETRIBUTION!

  Read Retribution – Book 1 in the Angels of Irin Series

  RETRIBUTION – A CHRONICLES OF THE IRIN NOVEL #1

  Retribution - Chapter 1

  Evangeline ducked into the shadows as Baltazar crossed the street. When he reached the sidewalk, he glanced over his shoulder and stared straight at her. Evie silenced a gasp. For the briefest second, she feared she’d been spotted.

  Then he turned, looked ahead and continued walking.

  Evie remained steeped in darkness until she felt assured he wouldn’t be turning around to investigate the shadows.

  The Boston night was cold. Icy enough to snare her breath and weave misty coils with it in the air before her face. But she paid scant attention to the weather. She had followed Marcellus’ directions and arrived at the demon’s lair. Her search had come up with nothing so she had followed Baltazar hoping the object the Master was after was on the demon’s person. She had tracked him through the warren of old, red-brick Colonial buildings along Acorn Street and its narrow cobbled roads. She was careful to soften the sound of her heels on the smoothed stones. Hugged by fresh green moss, the worn stones shone in the pale moonlight, brightening the street. But the iridescent beauty of the multi-hued, red-and-grey cobblestones was lost on Evie.

  It only put her on edge.

  She kept her eyes on Baltazar’s muscle-bound shoulders, stalking him as he loped to the edge of a small tree-lined park, which hugged the darkened neighborhood. Old gas lamps cast pale, buttery light on his dark head as he walked the stone pathway that curved through the elms and oaks. He was large with the body of a wrestler and limbs and muscles to match. But that didn’t matter to Evie.

  He was no match for her.

  Baltazar slipped through an opening in the tree line up ahead and disappeared down the hillside without a sound. Evie followed, avoiding branches and shrubbery as adeptly as her quarry. She tailed him until he arrived at a cliff-top clearing that gave a glittering, magical view of the city.

  Tiny pinpricks of lights flickered and blinked in the valley below, like multi-colored diamonds thrown carelessly on the dark surface of the land.

  While the view held his attention, Evie bent and drew her silver dagger from her boot, releasing her Damascus blade from its leather sheath. She held her breath, weighing both blades in her hands, gaining comfort and strength from their familiar weight.

  She was ready.

  Evie, coming up behind him, closed the distance between herself and the demon Baltazar, silent as a leopard stalking its oblivious prey. Her feet whispered over the dew-kissed grass. So light was her step she may as well have floated across the small field.

  Trees sighed behind her in a deceivingly gentle breeze. Evie drew closer—just close enough that an obliging gust would carry her scent to him.

  She counted the seconds under her breath.

  His back stiffened, his neck muscles rigid as he turned so slowly she could almost see the hair on his skin undul
ate as he moved.

  Her scent evoked similar reactions with all her marks. The perfume of death, their very own Reaper come to call. And she never tarried with them. Social niceties somehow seemed out of place where knives and blood and imminent death were intertwined. Besides, these creatures wallowed so far beneath her on the moral and genetic ladder as to be untouchable, unworthy.

  Baltazar swallowed.

  The tendons in his neck remained taut as bowstrings. Then he drew a ragged breath and opened his mouth. He may have intended to ask her a question. Something typically innocuous. A ridiculous gesture as none of their questions received an answer. If they ever got the chance to ask one.

  The demon didn’t.

  In a swift and viciously smooth swipe of her left hand, Evie plunged the silver dagger deep into his chest. So deep only the carved hilt prevented farther penetration. The slim blade embedded itself securely within his heart, flaying open arterial walls, penetrating the center of his demonic soul. Creatures of the Underworld had a seething dislike for anything silver. Perhaps it was the metal’s innate ability to end their miserable lives. The accuracy of her aim was helped by the conveniently human location of his heart.

  She followed quickly with her right hand, sweeping the curved blade of the Damascus dagger clean across his throat. The deadly edge slid smoothly through glamor, demon hide, and bone.

  Quick. Clean.

  Landing in a crouch, Evie held her breath and watched him through the strands of her hair, which had escaped its bindings at the back of her head. It had happened so fast. Too quickly for the demon to defend himself. His body fell slowly, crumpling awkwardly onto his back until he landed beside her. Evie met his eyes. And sucked in a breath, an unconscious pause as she waited to see the last emotions fly across the demon’s face.

  Always, she watched the last light in the eyes of her mark flicker and fade. She’d made herself do that whenever it was possible to be sure she never lost sight of the significance of her job. Evie had witnessed final moments of pure rage and comical disbelief. As a warrior of the Irin, she’d been doing Marcellus’ bidding for six months now, and she’d begun to notice a pattern to the behaviors of her targets. They were always pissed when they got caught and always a little more than upset to find their existence about to be permanently terminated.