by Colt, K. J.
Further inside the room, two strangers filled the space with their dirty lust. One was trying to lift the limp form of Chase’s mother from the ground. Another man waited, undoing his pants. His gaze swung Shanti’s way.
“Look, Rune, another one. She’s young, but I’ll take her.” The man started toward Shanti, exposing Chase’s mom’s face, slackened. Dying.
A white hot light started in Shanti’s gut and grew, rising, filling her with heat. It rose through her body, lighting her blood on fire. It grew within her skull, latched on to the agony, and turned it into rage so hot, so primal, it could only be called the budding of Wrath.
Power ripped from her body, blinding her momentarily. She clutched the two disgusting minds as her teachers had taught her, holding them within her newly awakened grip. With a shot of power beyond anything the town had seen so far, she stabbed into their minds. The men screamed. Fingers white as they clutched their heads, they sank to the ground in agony.
Panting, half-delirious, the girl turned. Headed out into the night. This had to be stopped. These men had to be dealt with. Her town must be protected.
Everywhere her gaze touched was ruin. Blazing houses, bloodied people—her friends, her neighbors. Keshla lay across the lane, face in the dirt, blood matting her hair. Someone else lay in a boneless heap beyond that.
Pain such that Shanti had never experienced brewed, pumping out more power, unlocking hidden depths, power bubbling up, replacing the horror, giving purpose to her tears. She walked along the lane and threw her mind wide, touching everything in range. She clutched foreign minds in a death grip before blasting them with a shot of power. New screams wrenched the night. All male. Beastly, horrific, terrible screams that were filled with pain so acute that death was welcomed.
She kept walking, killing some quickly, slowly killing others. She reached the square, death in her wake. A man sat atop a horse, a smug grin plastered to his disgusting face. He watched the destruction around him with confident pride; carrying out his job with pleasure. He was the leader, and therefore, deserved a special death.
She killed everyone else off quickly, then, every mind Shanti could identify receiving a killing blast. Except for this man. She looked straight at this man, ignoring the screaming, ignoring the cries and the raging fires destroying homes. She cradled his mind like a baby dove. Then she thought of fire. A blue flame, tickling his skin with the kiss of heat. Increasing the pressure, the soft caress became a bite of razor blades. In her mind’s eye it licked between his toes before climbing up his legs and wrapping around his shins. It scraped against the back of his knees before reaching higher, brushing his fingers in a searing embrace.
His cruel smile winked out as confusion stole his countenance. He patted at his body, trying to smother the invisible flame. Not understanding the pain he couldn’t see.
She pumped more power into it.
Pain bit into him, a thousand points of contact. His patting became more pronounced. Harder. Hands slapping at his legs and chest, rubbing at his face. Terrified screams erupted from his throat before he flung himself off his frightened horse. He hit the dirt with a thud and began to roll, feeling the fire though still not able to see it.
Shanti hit him with more flame. Hotter. Licking his face. Burning his eyes. Closing his throat. Excruciating pain so intense he screamed himself hoarse. Writhing now, and free to do so. Feeling death eat away at his consciousness one pain-filled moment after the next. Dying slowly, like Chase’s mother.
Pain stabbing her heart, sorrow eating away at her heart, Shanti lost consciousness and fell.
Shanti awoke, letting the familiar nightmare evaporate like mist. She sat on the hard, brittle ground, sweeping the area with a tired gaze. As before, all she saw was dead, decaying trees dotting the landscape.
She dug in her bag one last time, looking for nourishment—a scrap, a morsel, anything. But she’d finished her water a day ago. Her food the day before that. Her empty stomach sucked the ribs into the middle of her body, trying to fill that void. Her brain thumped against the inside of her skull with dehydration.
She didn’t have long. She had to find something to eat and drink or her journey would end right here, in this crypt that used to hold a forest.
Heaving herself to her feet, she squinted into the bright sunshine. What frustrated her—when she had the ability to feel anything besides defeat—was that she had planned this route specifically for the forest that should’ve been here. For a forest that should’ve resembled the one in which she’d grown up. There should have been animals and water and life, blast it! She should have been resting and rejuvenating, using the life force of untouched lands to renew her Gift.
She was in the last leg of her journey, nearing the Great Sea, and instead of fulfilling her supposed destiny, she was knocking at death’s door.
Fat lot of good it did sending the Chosen. Chosen to waste away then fail. Chosen to carefully select a route based on outdated information and have no alternative. Chosen to let her people die slowly from starvation or quickly from defiance. Actually, either of those would have been better than the alternative.
Shanti washed those thoughts from her mind. She was too tired to feel any emotion. What was the point? What was she going to do, get really angry at herself and punch a tree? That wasn’t nearly as gratifying as punching the enemy. Plus, these trees had had it hard enough. They shed bits of charred bark like soiled feathers, dead all the way down to the root. She could usually sense life within nature, but there wasn’t a single spark of life around here.
Wasn’t that just fitting…
Half a day later she was staggering. Delirious, she had started to hallucinate, seeing strange visions flit through the dead trees. Her brain pounded so hard it felt like it was trying to rip out of the casing of her skull. Worse still, she was freezing in the hot afternoon sun. Dehydration and heat exhaustion had set in. Her body was shutting down. It was trying to save whatever it could to prolong the inevitable, but without its vital needs met, it had no choice but to keep sliding. She sunk down next to a tree to use the last of her resources to search. If there was someone close, maybe she could hold on.
Her squat turned into a tumble, shivers racking her body as the sun beat down on her bare skin. She didn’t even get a chance to open her mind before darkness consumed her.
Her last, snide thought was: Chosen my ass.
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AFTERWORD
K.F. Breene is the bestselling author of contemporary romance, urban and fantasy novels. When she's not writing, you might find her at a café, sipping wine and chatting with her girlfriends. She lives in San Francisco with her two children, one of which duped her into thinking he was a grown man. That was before her daughter came along, of course.
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K. F. BREENE BOOKS
THE WARRIOR CHRONICLES
CHOSEN, BOOK #1
Hunted, Book #2
Shadow Lands, Book #3
Invasion, Book #4
Darkness Series
(Paranormal Fantasy)
Into the Darkness, Book #1
Braving the Elements, Book #2
On Razor’s Edge, Book #3
Demons, Book #4
The Council, Book #5
Shadow Watcher, Book #6
Jonas, Book #7
BLACK EARTH
Dawning Series, Book #1
by
M. S. Verish
CHAPTER ONE
KIROU-MEKUS
IT WAS LIKE slamming face-first onto a bed of
shale. The cold was solid stone, sending shockwaves through his body, forcing the air from his lungs. The Demon blinked before coming to his senses, realizing that the water was closing in over his head. Beneath the depths of the waves, streams of bubbles escaped where the air worked free of his loose and tattered garments. He sank deeper, and the current seized him, pulling him toward the dagger rocks of the shore.
Nigqora!
His arms and legs snapped into action, pushing and clawing at the water in an attempt to free him from the ocean’s grip. His head and shoulder cracked against a jagged, black wall, and torrents of teeth-grinding pain replaced the shock of the cold. Warm, inky plumes of his own blood stained the water, further obstructing his already unsteady vision. His ears rang with a deafening drone, and he fought for consciousness.
When the ache in his head had dulled, and the ringing subsided, the Demon gripped the rock with his clawed fingers and began to pull himself upward. His face broke the surface of the water, and he gulped at the misty air to feed his starving lungs. The salty water and blood burned his eyes, though there was little to see anyway. A short distance from him was the coast, waves breaking and shattering upon the rocks as scattered diamonds. Could he reach it without shattering himself?
The Demon sighed and pressed his head against the rock for support. He was risking his life to save his life. What sense did that make? He pushed the thought away and prepared to kick away from his temporary haven.
Liquid silver slipped beneath the waves. The gossamer fins of a tail cut the water and vanished. He hesitated, knowing he should go—the immediacy of his situation had just increased exponentially.
He drew a deep breath and shoved himself from the rock, kicking forward with as much strength as he had in him. It seemed a futile effort, like a bird trying to fly against the wind. Where once he was drawn toward the coast, he was now in danger of being swept out to open water. He pulled harder, faster, at the waves, but he gained no ground.
His frozen limbs tingled with a growing numbness, and it was all he could do to keep his head above the water. He swallowed a mouthful of ocean and spat it out, only to dip below the murky surface again. His efforts grew half-hearted as he hung there, suspended. The black rocks grew farther from him.
The touch of something smooth and solid startled him, and the Demon glimpsed the pale flesh attached to the silvery tail. To most mortals, such a glimpse spoke of otherworldly beauty and grace. A fair face with large eyes, flowing hair that shone like satin, and round, supple breasts were the mermaid’s superficial traits. The Demon, however, was not a common mortal, and as a creature of magic, he could see the true form behind a being not so different from himself.
Chaotic and murderous, mermaids hunted dark waters for flesh upon which they could feed. Sailors were enticed to abandon their ships when the mermaids sang their songs. The creatures’ melodies were wordless, without shape and form, but the sound was so haunting, so alluring, that few could resist their beckon.
Beneath the womanly guise was a monster of the wild ocean. Swathed in Shadow, a mermaid’s eyes were fathomless and dark. Her teeth were sharp, and her hands had the strength to tear a man’s arm from his body. Folklore said she could read a man’s soul, foretell his future…if she was so inclined. The Demon wondered what use it was to learn one’s fate rested inside a mermaid’s stomach.
She brushed beside him again, pausing to gaze curiously at this fellow creature of Shadow. Her black eyes searched his but found no fear. She reached toward him to graze his face with her long fingers. The Demon blinked, her touch stirring fragments of his past so that they rose like bubbles to the surface of his mind.
He remembered her.
Years ago, when he had sought to escape the islands of his birth, she had been there. She had watched him without malice as he swam for the Human ship. Now she was to witness his demise amidst the dark waters of Secrailoss’s coast.
The Demon did not have the strength to fight her as she took his arm. She gazed at him a moment longer before she turned away—still gripping him—and gave a powerful thrust of her tail. She dragged him through the water so quickly that he could not conjure a single thought. In a breath’s span, he felt himself reeling, then touching lightly against solid stone. There was a flash of her tail, and that was the last he saw of her.
He reached for the rock, pushing himself upward. The cool air was liberating, and it rushed into his lungs as he gasped for more. He could not begin to consider why he had been spared—let alone assisted—though if not for her, his mission would have been a failure before it truly began. There was no time to theorize; he had a job to do.
The Demon looked up at a precipice not far above him. If he could climb atop it, he could see where he needed to go. He took a deep breath, hauling himself out of the water and onto a narrow ledge that had been worn smooth by the waves. Even on his hands and knees, the surface was slippery. His shoulder felt as though someone had ripped it from him and then stuffed it back into place, but seeing as he could still move it, he decided that nothing was broken.
He shivered in the chill air and began to scale the rocky wall. His sight did not waver from the precipice, and when he had reached it, he could see that it was more than an overlook. He heaved himself upon the flat surface and lay there a moment, breathing hard as he stared at the dark opening in front of him. If someone was watching him from within, then he or she was waiting patiently for him to make the first move. The Demon hoped he was alone.
When he had caught his breath, he crawled to the opening and peered inside. Propped on the wall adjacent to him, there was a long pole with a hook and a length of rope attached to it. The rope was connected to a windlass. The Demon turned his attention to the crates and barrels that filled the vast chamber beyond, catching the scent of spices, wine, and other edible supplies. His empty stomach lurched, and he sucked in his breath. He could eat all he wanted later, when he was safely back aboard the ship.
He slipped inside the chamber and allowed his eyes to finish adjusting to the darkness. There were a few dying torches affixed to niches in the walls; whoever had been here had not passed through recently. Regardless, the Demon was not ready to take his chances that the room be unoccupied. He darkened into Shadow as he slunk along the wall and among the crates. He made no sound as he crept toward the opposite end of the room, where he had spied a ramp and a small cart. There was also a set of double doors near the bottom of the ramp: he could either go up or go out.
As he drew nearer the doors, he could smell the outside air, feel its dankness beyond the barrier. His treasure was within the mountain; he would have to try the ramp. Another dark doorway awaited him at the summit, but over the archway were runes carved into the stone. They glowed softly, casting him in their emerald light as he solidified his form. The wizard had given him special glasses, and he reached within his shoulder bag to find them. They were too big for him, but other than their cumbersome size, they did not hinder his sharp vision.
The Demon stared at the archway through the enhanced glass, and the runes twisted until they were legible. “Temple,” they read. He appreciated the simplicity. He kept the glasses on and proceeded through the doorway. He walked along a darkened corridor, also lit with green, glowing inscriptions. These bordered along the walls, providing limited light, but as he discovered, they were not words at all but a pattern. Lines twisted, intersected, and overlapped in a mazelike design as intricate as lace. He had not gone far before the tunnel ended in another archway, though the Demon could see to the room beyond.
Columns of carved stone vaulted to the ceiling. A black carpet spanned the length of the room, beginning at a pair of massive wooden doors and stretching to a dark alcove at the opposite end of the space. There was nothing in the way of adornment, nothing suggestive of familiar forms or images. The temple was vacant, silent, and eerily sterile. A faint odor of incense reached the Demon’s nose, though he could not pinpoint its origin. The mazelike pattern continued along
the walls, the only source of illumination to be found.
The Demon was ill at ease, as though some unseen presence lurked around him. He followed the carpet to the alcove, hoping it would lead him to an exit. Instead, he found himself facing an eye. At least, the symbol reminded him of an eye. There was the diameter of a large circle carved into the recessed stone, and at the center of the circle was a round, black mirror.
Like any mirror, it held his reflection: a slight frame shrouded by tattered clothes that were too large for him. From beneath his hood he could catch the glint of his own violet eyes. Something bothered him about this—seeing himself in this dark, foreign object. Could it be that someone was watching him from beyond the mirror?
Unnerved, he started to back away, but he trod upon the carpet he had—until now—been careful to avoid. The circle around the mirror brightened with that same green light, and the Demon stared in dread anticipation, afraid he had been discovered. It was too late to fade to Shadow, and he would have to escape empty-handed.
But nothing happened. The circle blazed, and that was all. He took a closer look at the alcove, the green light now illuminating something he had not seen before. There was a seam along the edge of the recessed stone. He placed a hand over the crack, feeling the slightest movement of air from behind the wall. It was a door.
Somehow it would have to open. The Demon searched the alcove for any lever or handle but found nothing. His eyes migrated back to the carpet. Unsure what else he could try, he stepped in the middle of the material, just before the mirror. Almost immediately, there was the sound of scraping stone. The alcove slid slowly backward and then downward, revealing a confined space with three blank walls. He craned his head into the space and saw that it was actually a shaft with a rope and pulley that connected to the floor of the room. Cautiously he stepped inside and gave the rope a forceful tug. The effort rewarded him with the upward movement of the platform upon which he stood. He continued to hoist himself upward, ignoring the pain in his shoulder.
