Feathers and Fire Series Box Set 2

by Shayne Silvers

  No. This was literally the size of a city. We were on somewhat of a rise, overlooking a vast section of the castle-grounds below, since Dracula hadn’t bothered to level the grounds before construction. No. He’d just built his castle around the nature of the land itself. I saw at least ten gardens, a maze, a few cemeteries, gardens seemingly filled with only statues and other marble monstrosities, and stairwells that wrapped up around the sides of most of the towers before continuing on in vast swinging or solid bridges to connect some of the loftier heights. I shook my head in awe. It felt like I was parked on one of those point lookouts that stood on a mountain above a city like Hollywood—construction spreading as far as the eye could see.

  I realized Samael hadn’t answered me, so I turned to look at him expectantly.

  He noticed, turning away from the city below to meet my eyes. “A Beast powers Dracula’s Castle. The place is quite literally alive, possessed by this Beast. Have you ever heard of something like that?” he asked. Then he shook his head, frowning. “Why am I even asking that? You know the Temple family’s Beast, Falco.”

  I swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. I’ve heard of Beasts,” I said, recalling the one he’d just mentioned. Falco occupied Nate’s 17,000 square foot mansion…

  Although it was nothing compared to the size of this. Falco was an outhouse compared to this place.

  The thirty-foot-tall door opened on squeaking hinges, ever so slowly, dust falling from the joints. Faint piano music drifted out from within.

  As did a rumbling purr of the Beast inviting us into her jaws.

  I didn’t bother waiting for Samael. I placed one boot before the other until I was walking—even though it felt robotic and awkward. Samael stepped up beside me and let out a breath.

  “There’s only one way to kill Dracula,” he said. “And it is well-guarded. Dracula’s Bane lies at the heart of this Beast,” he said, gesturing at the doors about to swallow us up.

  I nodded. “At least we know where we’re going…” I said with hollow cheer.

  Samael nodded, his eyes distant. “Into the belly of the Beast…”

  Nate was going to be so jealous.

  I got a Master first, I got a Master first…

  Or he would never hear from me again.

  One of the two...

  Callie returns in GODLESS. Get your copy online!!

  DON’T FORGET! VIP’s get early access to all sorts of Temple-Verse goodies, including signed copies, private giveaways, and advance notice of future projects. AND A FREE NOVELLA! Click the image or join here: www.shaynesilvers.com/l/219800

  Turn the page to read a sample of OBSIDIAN SON - Nate Temple Book 1 - or BUY ONLINE. Nate Temple is a billionaire wizard from St. Louis. He rides a bloodthirsty unicorn and drinks with the Four Horsemen. He even cow-tipped the Minotaur. Once…

  (Note: Nate’s books 1-6 happen prior to UNCHAINED, but crossover from then on, the two series taking place in the same universe but also able to standalone if you prefer)

  Full chronology of all books in the Temple Universe shown on the ‘Books by Shayne Silvers’ page.

  TRY: OBSIDIAN SON (NATE TEMPLE #1)

  There was no room for emotion in a hate crime. I had to be cold. Heartless. This was just another victim. Nothing more. No face, no name.

  Frosted blades of grass crunched under my feet, sounding to my ears alone like the symbolic glass that one shattered under a napkin at a Jewish wedding. The noise would have threatened to give away my stealthy advance as I stalked through the moonlit field, but I was no novice and had planned accordingly. Being a wizard, I was able to muffle all sensory evidence with a fine cloud of magic—no sounds, and no smells. Nifty. But if I made the spell much stronger, the anomaly would be too obvious to my prey.

  I knew the consequences for my dark deed tonight. If caught, jail time or possibly even a gruesome, painful death. But if I succeeded, the look of fear and surprise in my victim’s eyes before his world collapsed around him, was well worth the risk. I simply couldn’t help myself; I had to take him down.

  I knew the cops had been keeping tabs on my car, but I was confident that they hadn’t followed me. I hadn’t seen a tail on my way here, but seeing as how they frowned on this kind of thing I had taken a circuitous route just in case. I was safe. I hoped.

  Then my phone chirped at me as I received a text.

  My body’s fight-or-flight syndrome instantly kicked in, my heart threatening to explode in one final act of pulmonary paroxysm. “Motherf—” I hissed instinctively, practically jumping out of my skin. I had forgotten to silence it. Stupid, stupid, stupid! My body remained tense as I swept my gaze over the field, sure that I had been made. My breathing finally began to slow, my pulse returning to normal, as I noticed no changes in my surroundings. Hopefully, my magic had silenced the sound and my resulting outburst. I glanced down at the phone to scan the text and then typed back a quick and angry response before I switched the cursed phone to vibrate.

  Now, where were we…

  I continued on, the lining of my coat constricting my breathing. Or maybe it was because I was leaning forward in anticipation. Breathe, I chided myself. He doesn’t know you’re here. All this risk for a book. It had better be worth it.

  I’m taller than most, and not abnormally handsome, but I knew how to play the genetic cards I had been dealt. I had shaggy, dirty blonde hair, and my frame was thick with well-earned muscle, yet still lean. I had once been told that my eyes were like twin emeralds pitted against the golden-brown tufts of my hair—a face like a jewelry box. Of course, that was two bottles of wine into a date, so I could have been a little foggy on her quote. Still, I liked to imagine that was how everyone saw me.

  But tonight, all that was masked by magic.

  I grinned broadly as the outline of the hairy hulk finally came into view. He was blessedly alone—no nearby sentries to give me away. That was always a risk when performing this ancient right-of-passage. I tried to keep the grin on my face from dissolving into a maniacal cackle.

  My skin danced with energy, both natural and unnatural, as I manipulated the threads of magic floating all around me. My victim stood just ahead, oblivious of the world of hurt that I was about to unleash. Even with his millennia of experience, he didn’t stand a chance. I had done this so many times that the routine of it was my only enemy. I lost count of how many times I had been told not to do it again; those who knew declared it cruel, evil, and sadistic. But what fun wasn’t? Regardless, that wasn’t enough to stop me from doing it again. And again. Call it an addiction if you will, but it was too much of a rush to ignore.

  The pungent smell of manure filled the air, latching onto my nostril hairs. I took another step, trying to calm my racing pulse. A glint of gold reflected in the silver moonlight, but the victim remained motionless, hopefully unaware or all was lost. I wouldn’t make it out alive if he knew I was here. Timing was everything.

  I carefully took the last two steps, a lifetime between each, watching the legendary monster’s ears, anxious and terrified that I would catch even so much as a twitch in my direction. Seeing nothing, a fierce grin split my unshaven cheeks. My spell had worked! I raised my palms an inch away from their target, firmly planted my feet, and squared my shoulders. I took one silent, calming breath, and then heaved forward with every ounce of physical strength I could muster. As well as a teensy-weensy boost of magic. Enough to goose him good.

  “MOOO!!!” The sound tore through the cool October night like an unstoppable freight train. Thud-splat! The beast collapsed sideways into the frosty grass; straight into a steaming patty of cow shit, cow dung, or, if you really want to church it up, a Meadow Muffin. But to me, shit is, and always will be, shit.

  Cow tipping. It doesn’t get any better than that in Missouri.

  Especially when you’re tipping the Minotaur. Capital M.

  Razor-blade hooves tore at the frozen earth as the beast struggled to stand, grunts of rage vibrating the air. I raised my arms triumphantl
y. “Boo-yah! Temple 1, Minotaur 0!” I crowed. Then I very bravely prepared to protect myself. Some people just couldn’t take a joke. Cruel, evil, and sadistic cow tipping may be, but by hell, it was a rush. The legendary beast turned his gaze on me after gaining his feet, eyes ablaze as he unfolded to his full height on two tree-trunk-thick legs, hooves magically transforming into heavily-booted feet. The thick, gold ring dangling from his snotty snout quivered as the Minotaur panted, and his dense, corded muscle contracted over his human-like chest. As I stared up into those brown eyes, I actually felt sorry…for, well, myself.

  “I have killed greater men than you for less offense,” he growled.

  I swear to God his voice sounded like an angry James Earl Jones. Like Mufasa talking to Scar.

  “You have shit on your shoulder, Asterion.” I ignited a roiling ball of fire in my palm in order to see his eyes more clearly. By no means was it a defensive gesture on my part. It was just dark. But under the weight of his glare, even I couldn’t buy my reassuring lie. I hoped using a form of his ancient name would give me brownie points. Or maybe just not-worthy-of-killing points.

  The beast grunted, eyes tightening, and I sensed the barest hesitation. “Nate Temple…your name would look splendid on my already long list of slain idiots.” Asterion took a threatening step forward, and I thrust out my palm in warning, my roiling flame blue now.

  “You lost fair and square, Asterion. Yield or perish.” The beast’s shoulders sagged slightly. Then he finally nodded to himself in resignation, appraising me with the scrutiny of a worthy adversary. “Your time comes, Temple, but I will grant you this. You’ve got a pair of stones on you to rival Hercules.”

  I pointedly risked a glance down towards the myth’s own crown jewels. “Well, I sure won’t need a wheelbarrow any time soon, but I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  The Minotaur blinked once, and then bellowed out a deep, contagious, snorting laughter. Realizing I wasn’t about to become a murder statistic, I couldn’t help but join in. It felt good. It had been a while since I had allowed myself to experience genuine laughter.

  In the harsh moonlight, his bulk was even more intimidating as he towered head and shoulders above me. This was the beast that had fed upon human sacrifices for countless years while imprisoned in Daedalus’ Labyrinth in Greece. And all of that protein had not gone to waste, forming a heavily woven musculature over the beast’s body that made even Mr. Olympia look puny.

  From the neck up he was entirely bull, but the rest of his body more resembled a thickly-furred man. But, as shown moments ago, he could adapt his form to his environment, never appearing fully human, but able to make his entire form appear as a bull when necessary. For instance, how he had looked just before I tipped him. Maybe he had been scouting the field for heifers before I had so efficiently killed the mood.

  His bull face was also covered in thick, coarse hair—even sporting a long, wavy beard of sorts, and his eyes were the deepest brown I had ever seen. Cow shit brown. His snout jutted out, emphasizing the gold ring dangling from his glistening nostrils, catching a glint in the luminous glow of the moon. The metal was at least an inch thick, and etched with runes of a language long forgotten. Thick, aged ivory horns sprouted from each temple, long enough to skewer a wizard with little effort. He was nude except for a beaded necklace and a pair of distressed leather boots that were big enough to stomp a size twenty-five imprint in my face if he felt so inclined.

  I hoped our blossoming friendship wouldn’t end that way. I really did.

  Get your copy of OBSIDIAN SON online today!

  Turn the page to read a sample of WHISKEY GINGER - Phantom Queen Diaries Book 1, or BUY ONLINE. Quinn MacKenna is a black magic arms dealer from the mean streets of Boston. Everything was going fine until she accidentally robbed Nate Temple…

  (Full chronology of all books in the Temple Verse shown on the ‘BOOKS IN THE TEMPLE VERSE’ page.)

  TRY: WHISKEY GINGER (PHANTOM QUEEN DIARIES # 1)

  The pasty guitarist hunched forward, thrust a rolled-up wad of paper deep into one nostril, and snorted a line of blood crystals—frozen hemoglobin that I’d smuggled over in a refrigerated canister—with the uncanny grace of a drug addict. He sat back, fangs gleaming, and pawed at his nose. “That’s some bodacious shit. Hey, bros,” he said, glancing at his fellow band members, “come hit this shit before it melts.”

  He fetched one of the backstage passes hanging nearby, pried the plastic badge from its lanyard, and used it to split up the crystals, murmuring something in an accent that reminded me of California. Not the California, but you know, Cali-foh-nia—the land of beaches, babes, and bros. I retrieved a toothpick from my pocket and punched it through its thin wrapper. “So,” I asked no one in particular, “now that ye have the product, who’s payin’?”

  Another band member stepped out of the shadows to my left, and I don’t mean that figuratively, either—the fucker literally stepped out of the shadows. I scowled at him, but hid my surprise, nonchalantly rolling the toothpick from one side of my mouth to the other.

  The rest of the band gathered around the dressing room table, following the guitarist’s lead by preparing their own snorting utensils—tattered magazine covers, mostly. Typically, you’d do this sort of thing with a dollar-bill, maybe even a Benjamin if you were flush. But fangers like this lot couldn’t touch cash directly—in God We Trust and all that. Of course, I didn’t really understand why sucking blood the old-fashioned way had suddenly gone out of style. More of a rush, maybe?

  “It lasts longer,” the vampire next to me explained, catching my mildly curious expression. “It’s especially good for shows and stuff. Makes us look, like, less—”

  “Creepy?” I offered, my Irish brogue lilting just enough to make it a question.

  “Pale,” he finished, frowning.

  I shrugged. “Listen, I’ve got places to be,” I said, holding out my hand.

  “I’m sure you do,” he replied, smiling. “Tell you what, why don’t you, like, hang around for a bit? Once that wears off,” he dipped his head toward the bloody powder smeared across the table’s surface, “we may need a pick-me-up.” He rested his hand on my arm and our gazes locked.

  I blinked, realized what he was trying to pull, and rolled my eyes. His widened in surprise, then shock as I yanked out my toothpick and shoved it through his hand.

  “Motherfuck—”

  “I want what we agreed on,” I declared. “Now. No tricks.”

  The rest of the band saw what happened and rose faster than I could blink. They circled me, their grins feral…they might have even seemed intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that they each had a case of the sniffles—I had to work extra hard not to think about what it felt like to have someone else’s blood dripping down my nasal cavity.

  I held up a hand.

  “Can I ask ye gentlemen a question before we get started?” I asked. “Do ye even have what I asked for?”

  Two of the band members exchanged looks and shrugged. The guitarist, however, glanced back towards the dressing room, where a brown paper bag sat next to a case full of makeup. He caught me looking and bared his teeth, his fangs stretching until it looked like it would be uncomfortable for him to close his mouth without piercing his own lip.

  “Follow-up question,” I said, eyeing the vampire I’d stabbed as he gingerly withdrew the toothpick from his hand and flung it across the room with a snarl. “Do ye do each other’s make-up? Since, ye know, ye can’t use mirrors?”

  I was genuinely curious.

  The guitarist grunted. “Mike, we have to go on soon.”

  “Wait a minute. Mike?” I turned to the snarling vampire with a frown. “What happened to The Vampire Prospero?” I glanced at the numerous fliers in the dressing room, most of which depicted the band members wading through blood, with Mike in the lead, each one titled The Vampire Prospero in Rocky Horror Picture Show font. Come to think of it…Mike did look a little like Tim Curry in all that leather
and lace.

  I was about to comment on the resemblance when Mike spoke up, “Alright, change of plans, bros. We’re gonna drain this bitch before the show. We’ll look totally—”

  “Creepy?” I offered, again.

  “Kill her.”

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, I would like to thank my beta-readers, TEAM TEMPLE, those individuals who spent hours of their time to read, and re-re-read Callie’s story. Your dark, twisted, cunning sense of humor makes me feel right at home…

  I would also like to thank you, the reader. I hope you enjoyed reading this first Boxset as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Be sure to check out the two crossover series in the Temple Verse: The Nate Temple Series and the Phantom Queen Diaries.