Feathers and Fire Series Box Set 1

by Shayne Silvers

  He had used that pain to strengthen, to grow, and to gird himself.

  He had re-forged himself around one single motivation.

  That what he had experienced would never…

  Ever…

  Happen to anyone again. Not if Beckett was nearby.

  Like a pricked bubble, the vision washed away, and the sudden blast of color physically hurt my eyes. Beckett collapsed to his knees, crying without sound, tears staining his cheeks.

  I realized I was kneeling in front of him, holding his hands.

  And I was crying as well. With sorrow, adoration, and relief.

  He wasn’t a bad guy.

  The furthest thing from it, in fact.

  He stared back in wonder, not bothering to hide his tears. “What… was that?” he whispered.

  I smiled back apologetically. “I wanted to make sure that you were who you said you were. You could say I have… trust issues,” I admitted guiltily. “Nothing against you, Beckett. But I’ve been lied to by pretty packages before. Because their magic was hidden deep inside of them, where I couldn’t see. I tried something different this time…” I said, feeling breathless.

  “You could have warned…” then he realized what he was saying. “Well, I guess you couldn’t, could you?” he admitted. He looked hurt by my lack of trust, but also understanding. “Well? Did you see what you needed to see? I sure hope so, because I don’t know if I could handle another of whatever that was. I feel scrubbed raw.” Then he cocked his head, frowning at me. “What did you see?” he asked very softly, almost guardedly.

  I opened my mouth a few times, wondering exactly what I had seen. “Your heart?” I guessed out loud. “Maybe your soul? Whatever you want to call it,” I said, realizing we were still holding hands. I withdrew them carefully, hiding my blush. “It was beautiful.”

  He watched me for a few moments, and then climbed to his feet. He held out a hand, and I smiled up at it. Then I took it, and let him pull me to my feet. My fingers tingled against his, whether imagined, or some aftershock of my new magic touching his soul, I didn’t know.

  “I want to travel your way,” he said in a rush, pocketing his keys as if that act would eliminate the possibility of taking his car.

  I frowned at him. “You sure?”

  He nodded stiffly. “Yes.”

  I thought about it. I remembered how Roland had once Shadow Walked Claire and I – when we first met him – so knew that a Regular could easily survive it without any ill effect, but it was still a big thing to ask. He was testing himself. His bravery. His resolve. And I couldn’t take that from him.

  “Okay. Hold my hand, Beckett.”

  He did, his jaw tightening. And then I Shadow Walked us to the mansion where I had fought Johnathan. And where I had teamed up with an Angel after watching a Nephilim tortured in front of me. Where I had seen that dark, sinister, horrible reflection of a demonic king in Johnathan’s eyes before he died by my hand.

  Where the Spear of Longinus had last been seen.

  Where I had last seen Amira.

  And where I had first kissed Nate Temple. Kind of.

  And where a drop of Angel’s blood had struck me in the forehead, filling me with power.

  The wind whipped at us, almost chilly, snapping me out of my thoughts as I released Beckett’s hands. He was too stunned to notice, staring around us in awe.

  Then he hooted with laughter, hoisting a fist into the air triumphantly.

  “Boys,” I chided, heading towards the mansion. “Get your cop glasses on, and be ready for anything. This place isn’t safe.”

  I heard the mechanical sound of him checking his pistol behind me, but I didn’t turn to look. The gun likely wouldn’t stop Amira, but maybe it would be enough of a distraction for me to send her screaming, sobbing, and pissing herself back to hell with her dearly departed brother, courtesy of Kansas City’s resident bitch and demon-hunter.

  Callie Fucking Penrose.

  Chapter 27

  We paused before the house, staring up at the looming façade of marble pillars and widow’s walks. The house was a not-so-silent display of wealth, like a giant middle finger from the one-percenters to the rabble.

  Beckett grunted in approval, and I wondered again where he stood on the financial totem pole. “What exactly are we doing again?” he asked me, eyes alert and wary.

  “Demon hunting. Or demon tracking, I guess.”

  The place hadn’t changed. As I quested out with my wizard’s magic, I sensed no other presence had been here. But the air did feel… thick. Almost humid, despite the cool wind.

  But my magic had failed me in the past. Specifically, when dealing with demons. It hadn’t shown me Johnathan’s true colors. That he was very literally from Hell. In fact, none of the wizards who met Johnathan had known he was a demon.

  Which meant that I couldn’t rely on my wizard’s magic to find a demon trail. Because the two I’d met seemed to know a way to thwart that. But what about my new power? This cracked door. It had pierced the illusion of the fleeing stalker in the alley, and had shown me things when looking at Beckett, almost as if letting me see into the future – and also his past.

  The Angel’s blood had also been silver…

  And since then, my wizard’s magic would sometimes be white, and significantly stronger. But it was still my wizard’s magic, operating exactly the same way. If that white boost to my magic was a result of the Angel’s blood, then what was this silver vision… thing. This cracked door. Were the two changes related? If so, why did they operate so differently?

  And could one help me here?

  I was a little nervous to try, since I didn’t truly understand what it was, exactly. Was it something to do with my birth, or the Angel’s blood? Johnathan had mentioned a ward placed on me at birth, but I didn’t know anything about that. Was that ward unraveling? Was I some kind of hybrid Nephilim wizard?

  Heaven was in for a bit of a disappointment if they had secretly decided to recruit me. And if they had recruited me, why hadn’t I been able to track any of them down? Shouldn’t they have held a coming out party for me?

  “Are you doing something magical? Because it looks like you’re just standing there.”

  I scowled at him pointedly. “Always assume I’m doing something magical. It’s safer.” He chuckled as I took a deep breath and walked up to the doors.

  I muttered a word under my breath, and pulled open the doors, checking the wards we had placed here. We hadn’t had keys for the place, after all, but needing to search the place, we had decided it was acceptable to add a crime to our resume – breaking and entering. Not wanting anyone else to enter the property, Roland had added a few different wards to the place. One was a shock that would strike any Regular who tried to break in. The other was a magical lock of a sort. If you didn’t know the counter spell, the door wouldn’t open.

  I obviously did, so the door opened with ease.

  No one had disturbed the home.

  But it felt different, and I began to realize that with the demon’s ability to hide their presence, maybe our spells were too juvenile to prevent Hell from taking back what was theirs. Or, since they owned the home, that our wards didn’t apply to them. Which would actually make sense.

  “Be alert for anything strange. Trust your gut. Shoot first and think later,” I said in a cool, distant tone.

  “Okay,” Beckett said from behind me.

  We entered the home and stepped into a giant marble foyer, complete with a round center table that stood before a giant marble staircase. The table had three vases, all with synthetic black roses. Like Halloween decorations. Black and white tiles – like a giant checkerboard – covered the floors throughout the house, revealing a giant dining room and a massive living area. The open concept was made all the more impressive by the thirty-foot ceiling, which was painted with Angelic artwork of sorts. Like a rendition of the Sistine Chapel.

  But different, somehow.

  The pressure
was stronger here, more noticeable, almost like I needed a breeze to make it breathable. I pointed in one direction. “Keep your weapon out, and check everywhere.”

  He nodded, checking the slide of his pistol – a great big chrome-looking piece. “What am I looking for?”

  I felt distracted, drawn to something in the living area, like a whisper of a whisper. “I don’t know. A secret entrance of some kind, maybe…” I began walking away, leaving him to his own search. I was soon in the kitchen, running my hands along the walls, opening every cabinet, door, and drawer, but other than the typical ware, I found nothing. No library cards, ID’s, or utility bills. The place had been cleaned. Wiped of anything personal, but leaving behind the other typical things in a lived-in home. Rubber bands, paperclips, pens, note pads.

  I even checked those in the light, hoping to find an indentation of an address or phone number – any kind of lead. I cursed as I tossed them back into the drawer, and continued on.

  I picked up a large kitchen knife absently, spinning it around my knuckles as I moved onto a bookshelf. I checked every book with my other hand, hoping against hope to find one was actually a lever of some kind. But no dice.

  I heard a sound, and spun, hurtling the knife through the air on instinct.

  The knife slammed into a painting on the wall. The painting showed a man in a Victorian Era suit sitting on a velvet chair with a woman in petticoats on his lap. His smile seemed evil, and the woman was crying. The knife quivered in the center of his throat.

  But as I looked closer, ignoring the quivering blade, I saw no such thing. Both were smiling. But… I spotted blood slowly dripping down the painting from the edge of the knife. I gasped, staring down at my hand, wondering if I had cut myself on the blade before throwing it. But my hand was whole and unharmed. Which meant… the painting was bleeding.

  I jogged closer, staring up at it. Definitely blood. I climbed the shelf and tugged the painting off the wall. The knife surprisingly stayed with the painting, rather than tearing through it. The painting was ridiculously heavy, but I kept my hand on it as I set it on the ground and climbed back down. I spun the painting around, staring at the back. A still-beating heart thumped, oozing blood down the back of the painting where my knife had pierced it. I hissed in both disgust and fear to find a living heart behind a painting.

  That meant someone had been here. Placed it behind the painting. But…

  How had I sensed it? Behind a painting? And why hadn’t the wards gone off.

  I spun at a new sound, ready to unleash a blast of magic, but let out a gasp of relief to find Beckett staring at me and then the heart with a disgusted frown.

  “What the hell is that?” he asked, pointing with his gun.

  “A living heart,” I said, turning back to study the painting.

  Chapter 28

  Beckett sucked in a breath. “That’s… ominous.” I nodded absently, inspecting it. The fact that it was still beating pretty much told me that Amira was behind it. This was some dark shit. “I checked the entire floor but found nothing,” Beckett continued. “And architecturally, I don’t know how anything on the upper floor could lead to a secret room. Is there a basement?”

  I shook my head. “Not that we’ve found, but that doesn’t mean one isn’t here.” The silence stretched as he waited for my next command. But I didn’t have anything else, still staring at the heart.

  “Are we just going to chalk up the heart as normal and continue on, or…”

  I felt that faint power again, and frowned. The thick air, the heart. The whisper of sound I had heard in the first place. I was missing something.

  I reached out a hand behind me, not knowing why, and was comforted when Beckett placed his free palm in mine, squeezing tightly. Rather than accepting the comfort, I led him towards the center of the living area, stopping when I felt I was in the thickest of the sensation.

  Beckett was silent, and his eyes continued to scan the house.

  I closed my eyes, and reached out to the cracked door in my mind, hoping it might have something to show me. The door immediately began to rattle and shake as if standing against a storm that was trying to force it closed, and a chorus of dark whispers abruptly surrounded us.

  Drink the blood, gobble the kidneys…

  Come play with us, Heaven Walkers…

  We’re all mad here. Everything’s all topsy-turvy…

  I pushed the voices away, trusting in Beckett to see any immediate threat since my eyes were closed. But his grip tightened, letting me know he heard them, too. As those voices fought to slam the door closed…

  I strained to yank that motherfucker open.

  Because if they wanted it closed, I definitely wanted it open, no matter what was behind it. The door squeaked open another inch, and I figuratively fell on my ass, eyes opening.

  The world flashed silver, as if splashed with chrome paint.

  And my stomach dropped out of me as if I was on a rollercoaster.

  Beckett gasped, and his grip was suddenly painful.

  Because we were standing on the ceiling – the painting at our feet – and staring up at the checkered floor on the ceiling. Nothing else had changed. The furniture, the fireplace, everything was where it had been – on the checkered marble floor. But Beckett and I were standing on the ceiling, like some giant optical illusion.

  My silver vision winked out, and my shoulders sagged with sudden exhaustion, my eyes burning slightly. Nothing changed, though, thank god. We still stood on the painted ceiling. And my hair wasn’t pointing straight up, telling me that we weren’t actually upside down.

  I nervously pulled a quarter from my pocket and dropped it from my shaking hand. It struck the painted ceiling at my feet.

  “Callie?” Beckett asked, staring down at the quarter. “Tell me this isn’t normal to you…”

  “I think the house is spelled…” I said in a faint whisper, scanning the ceiling around us.

  “You think?” he asked nervously, a hint of sarcasm plain in his voice. “Why?”

  I very carefully let go of his hand, ready to grasp him if he began to fall, not sure if it was my new ability that kept us up here or if it was now our new reality. Beckett stood without issue, not falling, but his eyes were wide at the anticipated fear that he might – at any moment – plunge to his death on the marble floor above us.

  I laughed mirthlessly, and followed Beckett’s now curious gaze. His eyes riveted on something to our right. I turned to look and found the painting sitting on the ceiling with us, the heart still beating where my knife pierced it.

  But if this was the natural way of the house, why hadn’t the items from the drawers shot up to the ceiling? Or the furniture? Not really wanting to understand it, in fear that it would make me insane, I approached the painting. It felt disrespectful to walk across such a beautifully painted floor, but knowing the house belonged to a demon, the feeling quickly vanished. Also, some of the figures in the painting seemed to be watching me. I ignored them entirely, and stared down at the framed painting with the knife and still-beating heart. I nudged the frame with a boot, and it moved like a normal painting would if kicked. It didn’t suddenly fall back to the marbled floor above us.

  “This is fucking trippy, Callie. Are you doing this or is the house doing this?”

  “The house,” I confirmed, scanning all around us, wondering why we were up here, and why the painting had followed us. I scanned our surroundings, and noticed a slight discrepancy in part of the painted floor, where it met the crown molding against the corner wall. I approached it, motioning for Beckett to follow. I knelt down closer, wondering what exactly had caught my attention. As I reached out a hand to touch a goblet in the painting, I almost gasped when my hand seemed to sink into the painting to grasp a very literal goblet. I crouched down, leaning to the side, and realized that the goblet had been included into the painting like an optical illusion, but that it was very real. It had a faint hole in the bottom, making it useless as a cu
p.

  I tugged at it, wondering if it was the lever I had been searching for – something that would open a door to a secret room. It didn’t budge.

  Beckett crouched down, inspecting it. “Does that say communion?” he asked, pointing at a cursive word carved into the base of the goblet.

  I looked closer, nodding slowly, my stomach wanting to revolt. I turned back to him with a disgusted look, and then pointedly glanced at the still-beating heart on the back of the painting. His face paled, but he finally stood and walked over to the painting. He hesitated before gripping the heart in one hand and tugging it free.

  He jumped back a step as the framed painting and knife flew straight up into the air, crashing and shattering on the marble floor above us. He crouched warily, as if fearing he was about to fall at any moment. But I couldn’t stop staring at the blood dripping from the still beating heart. It pattered to the painted floor at his feet.

  He followed my gaze, frowning as he saw the blood at his feet. Then he shivered, and forced himself my way, looking sickened by the pulsing hunk of flesh in his fist. The painting and knife had fallen, but the blood had dripped onto the ceiling, confirming my disgusted assumption. The heart was a key, the goblet a lock.

  What did it say about me that I kind of understood what was required next? Or that some part of me had been able to recognize the heart in the first place, even though hidden from view? Was it some instinctual part of me to see through hell’s trickery?

  Or was I just as twisted as the demons?

  I took the heart from him, my stomach twisting as it throbbed in my fist, and quickly set it inside the goblet. The blood began to form a small pool inside the goblet, and I jerked my hand back as rows of teeth suddenly erupted around the interior rim of the goblet, chomping down the heart like a Venus flytrap.

  Beckett retched slightly, turning it into a cough. “That is not communion,” he whispered disgustedly. For hell, it probably made a sort of sick sense. An unholy communion.