Blackstorm (Nightwraith Book 2)

by Gaja J. Kos

  As hard as it was to admit, I did.

  “Now try.”

  He moved the blade back into the first position, and I mirrored the way his palm and fingers rested against the knife. Emerald eyes watched me like a hawk, and once he seemed pleased by what he saw, he flicked the blade around. Again, I studied his grip, mirroring it until it felt and looked right.

  And it did feel right.

  Despite my aversion for cold weapons, the energy linking me to the dagger wiped away any grief I might have had about using it earlier. While I still wasn’t completely sold on the idea of taking a life, at least I wasn’t repulsed by the thought of using the blade to fight.

  I switched between grips a couple of times, just to make sure I had the movements down, then met Alin’s gaze. “I’m guessing this is where the hard part comes in…?”

  A ghost of a smile touched his lips, breaking the all-business facade he wore like a second skin and implying just how right I was.

  Wonderful.

  I’d cut myself more times than I thought was possible, but I didn’t give up. Not that Alin would have allowed me to even if I wanted it. My teacher seemed adamant not to let me go until I had the basics down, and kept patching up my slashed arms in those brief intervals of repose before dragging me onto the middle of the floor once more. Luckily, with a trickle of my own protective power lining the blade, the gashes weren’t as deep as they would have been otherwise, but I certainly wouldn’t have been opposed to using a dummy knife while I stumbled through the basics.

  The demon lord of Maribor’s underbelly, of course, had a perfectly reasonable explanation for that as well.

  The connection I shared with the dagger made it easier to wield. Without it, we could have stayed down here for a week before I made any progress. He wasn’t wrong—I knew that much—but it didn’t make me any happier, either.

  Gritting my teeth to counter the sting of the cuts, I came at him again. He was dulling his speed, toning it down to a level most mid-rank supernaturals would have, but the bastard was still fast.

  Only I didn’t let him frustrate me.

  Determined to end the damned exercise, determined not to be helpless, I kept attacking. My feet were light as I danced around him, in hopes of finding a hole in his defenses, my every action a combination of immaculate planning and instinct alike. I let the anger of everything that had happened bloom and grow inside me, let the fear of Martin’s safety, the safety of every other necromancer in this country infuse my every cell, and I honed the dangerous mixture into something just as sharp as the dagger resting in my hands.

  I was panting, sweat dripping down my temples, my back, a damned river of it trailing down my chest, but still I tried. It didn’t help that Alin was more than a head taller than me and possessed twice my strength—if not more. And for all that muscle he had, the bastard sure moved gracefully.

  But that was the point.

  I was already able to handle individuals of a similar power rank as mine. It was the big guns I needed to learn how to best.

  I came in low, then jerked to the side and slashed high. Alin reacted just a tenth of a second too late. The curved tip of the blade touched his cheek, creating a thin, nasty line of pure crimson.

  I stilled at the sight of the blood. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

  The full weight of his gaze fell on my face, but it wasn’t anger making the emerald burn brighter. It was pride.

  Regardless, I opened my mouth to apologize again, when the deep, smooth sound of his laughter smacked the words right off my tongue. “That was excellent work,” he said, wiping away the blood with the back of his hand. “You didn’t telegraph your movements at all.”

  Another laugh rumbled from his chest, and I tried to ignore the fact that I was becoming just a little hotter than moments before.

  “Now let’s see if you can repeat that performance, love.”

  Gods, he was actually enjoying this.

  I bit my lip, then nodded.

  We came at each other again, evading, attacking, blocking until the strain in my muscles became too much to bear. I flipped the blade around just a little too slow, but it was enough for Alin to knock the dagger from my hand that split second my finger wasn’t hooked through the ring.

  I would have sworn if I’d had the time.

  If Alin hadn’t cast his karambit aside and came at me with bare hands.

  I yelped, threw myself to the left, then spun around to face him. Flesh met flesh in a blur of punches and steel-hard grips that reverberated through the wide, empty space.

  For a while, I parried, but my entire body was burning up from the strain of the lengthy exercise, my juices running on a dangerous low. I knew if I gave in even an inch, he’d have me. And that would be it.

  Sadly, I also knew it was inevitable.

  When my muscles finally did bail on me, Alin used the gifted opportunity to knock me down. He was on me the instant my back hit the floor, pinning my arms above my head with terrifying skill. I thrashed and bucked, but the bastard was straddling me, his muscular thighs an unmovable force that held me steady.

  Fucked. I was so fucked.

  I jerked one last time, hoping to at least free one of my arms, but he simply applied more pressure, crushing my far-fetched dream like the butt of a cigarette. I glared at his smug expression, watched it shift into something far, far more dangerous. He leaned even closer, his powerful torso now nearly brushing against mine, but what made my breath hitch was the way he looked at me.

  Those hard, cunning emerald eyes were nothing but flames of hunger and desire, the sentiment echoed in the slight parting of his sensual lips. All I had to do was reach up, and I would feel them on mine. Feel that warmth that still tingled across my knuckles, the taste of his power on my tongue.

  He shifted his hips as he cocked his head to the side, and I couldn’t stop the small gasp from escaping my lips. A sound he echoed as the hardness of his erection pressed against the vee of my thighs, tightening things low in my body and making my nipples strain against the fabric of my bra.

  Small tremors riddled my limbs—tremors that had absolutely nothing to do with fear. I felt as if my body would erupt if I didn’t touch him that very moment, if I didn’t feel the press of his lips against mine…

  His breath danced across my skin, the weight of him still keeping me immobile. Captured. I shuddered, something close to a moan building up in my throat.

  He studied me, yet never left my eyes, our energy the single thing that still moved around us. The thick length of his arousal grew ever harder against me as our powers reached for one another, seeking to entwine, to merge, his breaths becoming ragged—as were mine.

  Unable to think, unable to do anything but ride this wave of desire, I parted my lips in invitation just as a vine of my power coiled around his. But before the two touched, Alin shot up, a snarl tearing itself from his powerful chest as he strode across the room, as far away from me as the space allowed it.

  Still breathless, I pushed up into a sitting position, trying to shake the daze from my mind. My efforts were unsuccessful, but it didn’t matter. Because Alin’s voice slithered over and sobered me up more than any cold shower ever could.

  “The black market is coming to The Hag tonight. I need you to be ready. And armed.”

  Chapter 12

  It was odd to see The Night Hag devoid of patrons as I lingered behind the high counter and gazed at the large windows dominating the opposite wall, observing the slow crawl of dusk settle upon Maribor once more. It was a sight I always liked, with its promise of another evening surrounded by music and the easy laughter of my patrons, my magic on full display and accepted as something to be celebrated—more than likely with several rounds of cool beer.

  Tonight, however, the gently falling blanket of darkness left me on edge.

  I’d already woken the zombies a couple of minutes ago, not wanting to divide my attention once Alin’s gang finally arrived, but even more so, not wanting
to be alone when they did.

  Alin had made it clear that I was under his protection, but somehow I had a feeling the demon lord himself would be a no-show tonight. We’d barely spoken after he sprung off me as if my proximity had stung him. I didn’t know whether I should be relieved or frustrated that things hadn’t gone farther than that. Right now, I’d say it was a blend of both.

  The way our powers were drawn to one another, their soft, yet fierce cry to merge… I shook my head, refusing to even entertain that particular thought and all that it implied for a second longer, then glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes to go.

  The additional storage chamber in the back was already cleared, and I even put up a couple of extra wards just in case the merchandise they would bring in emitted a stronger power signature than my necromancy. It was bad enough that I would know what my bar stored. I certainly didn’t want anyone else catching a whiff of it.

  Not for Alin’s protection, but mine.

  Painfully aware that I needed to keep myself busy before I lost my nerve, I lowered the blinds on the windows and got to work. I scrubbed down the counter until it was spotless, checked every damned glass for any cracks or other nasties waiting to snag an unsuspecting patron, then restocked the two small vending machines with tins of peanuts and flavored chewing gum. I’d just gone over to check on the stock in the fridge when my phone rang, vibrating in my back pocket.

  It was a number I didn’t recognize, but knew full well what it meant.

  Showtime.

  After blowing out a not exactly steady breath that did nothing to ease the trepidation running high inside me, I walked into the back and made my way towards the door leading out into the private alley. My magic preceded my steps, making sure that it was, indeed, Alin’s gang waiting on the other side and not some new stalker with the fabulous idea to try a different approach. Sweat coated my palms and inky nausea pooled in the pit of my stomach, but I reached for the handle nonetheless, dissolving the ward at the precise time the door swung open.

  A tall, handsome vampire with turquoise eyes and golden hair was staring back at me from the other side. “Lana?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Ilya, one of Alin’s lieutenants.” He extended his right hand. “I believe you’re expecting us.”

  I didn’t know why, but the smoothness of his voice and the grace with which the vamp carried himself surprised me. Perhaps I’d simply seen too many movies and had the typical thug image burned in my brain. If anything, Ilya seemed more mafia than gang. Not that it made any difference.

  He was still dealing in black market merch, and I still had to show him around.

  “Please, come in,” I said as I shook his hand, though my voice lacked any true conviction. “I’ll take you to the storage chamber. You can set up everything in there.”

  Ilya glided over the threshold and followed my lead. While I couldn’t see him, I still felt his gaze taking in the surroundings, taking in me. Not in a sexual way—far from it. More as if he were assessing if I could become a problem somewhere down the road. If my lack of gang involvement—aside from our stint now—would threaten the operation.

  Honestly, even I didn’t have the answer to that.

  Ilya went to inspect the room while I stayed behind, my back pressed against the wall to give him more space. There were a few bare, iron shelves up by the wall, but other than that, the place was completely empty—an untouched canvas for the black marketeers to paint whatever vile shade they chose. The vamp circled around, noting every detail of the stripped down storage area before he came back over.

  Regardless of what my thoughts were on Alin’s operation, there was no denying he certainly picked his men well. Ilya was nothing if not thorough.

  Turquoise eyes met the black of mine. “You’re the one who put up the wards?”

  I nodded.

  “Impressive.”

  While I was good, thanks to years of practice, I wasn’t nearly the virtuoso Liva was. My sister could create the setup I had here in her sleep. But I didn’t point it out. If Ilya was satisfied, then so was I.

  “You can sense the magic?” I asked as I led him back down the corridor, this time walking by his side instead of in front. Another security check passed, I guess.

  “I wouldn’t have become Alin’s lieutenant if I didn’t,” Ilya said, his tone easy. “I was made vampire, not born, so I retained my previous abilities.”

  A shiver crept down my spine, but I didn’t let it show. Given the sheer age I felt rolling off Ilya, he must have been turned back in the days when the process was done without permission. The majority of the time, the forcefulness of the act that was the change when the person hadn’t prepared for it—or wanted it—drove the newly born vampires to follow a far darker path from the sunlight-loving vamps the world at large knew. For Ilya to even be here, to be a twentyfourhourly, a mainstream vamp, and not one of the bloodlust-ridden traditionals reigning in the dark, was a miracle. And it testified to a kind of unimaginable strength only few possessed.

  Gang or not, I couldn’t help but admire the man.

  He stopped as we reached the door, gave me a quick nod in warning, then let out a whistle. The sound somehow managed to be piercingly strong and unobtrusive at the same time, spreading through the night as if it knew it had to reach only a few select individuals. Once the echo died down, Ilya turned to me, a half smile resting on his classical features.

  “Alin said your zombies were going to aid us with the transport.”

  I nodded.

  “Better get them ready, then. The boys are rolling in.”

  He hadn’t been kidding. The gang was all male, and they literally rolled in the merchandise on sturdy trolleys that reminded me of those found at airports, only much, much bigger. I sat perched on the edge of my office desk, watching the procession march past my open door as my magic instructed the zombies to help the group of supes unload the crates in the other room.

  Unlike Ilya, the rest of Alin’s flunkies certainly fit the description of thugs. Muscular and scarred, they came in a wide range of species. From vampires and werewolves to spirits who could take flesh. There were even a few demons in there, but none that I recognized. However, despite the variety, they all had that unmistakable air of violence around them—leashed violence, as Alin had said once before. The kind that was sharp like a blade and designed to be wielded by their lord.

  But despite seeing so many gang bangers marching about my bar, it wasn’t them who caught my attention. No, the merchandise they handled was far more interesting then a bunch of crime-loving supes.

  Beyond the confines of the warded storage room, I had no difficulties sensing the power oozing from those magic-laced crates the thugs rolled by. The magic barriers placed upon the iron and wood tried to dull the magnitude of the objects’ presence, but for someone who was as sensitive to the metaphysical as I was, the energy signatures were still very much readable. Especially the tendrils of darkness that seemed to be in majority.

  And while I couldn’t see what lay within those crates with my own eyes, my zombies sure had no such problem.

  It was part of the reason why I took up position in the comfort—and solitude—of my office. I didn’t want anything to slip past me, so instead of running my necromancy in the back of my mind, I brought it to the surface, monitoring every damned thing the zombies heard or saw.

  Some of the artifacts I knew. Amulets imbued with the Kolduny’s magic, stone idols depicting our gods, and weapons, not unlike the dagger Alin had gifted me, possessing the ability to channel a person’s magic. But there were others, too, items that did not belong to our culture, like Fae objects of power or djinn lamps, Aztec mirrors, as well as a variety of ancient tomes to invoke the dark arts.

  I didn’t know if it was my demon blood or some different, twisted part of me, but I couldn’t help but admire the collection Alin had accumulated. Yes, it didn’t feel right that he was selling all these things for profit, giving them into the
hands of the highest buyer without a thought as to what they planned to do with them. Yet not even that was enough to dampen my intrigue.

  I wasn’t a material empath like Liva, not even an antique collector, which was my sister’s day job when she wasn’t busy ruling the Court of Earth, but I still appreciated the power and beauty the artifacts exuded. There was so much history in them, so much strength, that I didn’t have any difficulties seeing their appeal.

  Sadly, the awed bliss was only a temporary infliction.

  A shriek pierced the steady, lively humming of the bar, and my gaze fell on the cage that had just rolled past my office door.

  A domovoi. A domovoi was thrashing inside the small space, attacking the bars and trying to get free. The household spirit’s dark fur was matted, a few spots eerily reminding me of dried blood.

  I swallowed bile, unable to move from my perch on the table.

  Another cage fell into my line of sight then, and another. A rarog in his fiery bird form, followed by a shishiga—a nude, goblin-like creature whose small beaded eyes were dripping with hatred.

  Oh, fuck.

  While shishigas were nasty, vicious little things, they still didn’t deserve to be caged and sold like poached animals. None of these beings did.

  A rush of anger surged through me, and I shot off the desk, marching straight up to the two demons manning the live merchandise. Their hard faces didn’t even flinch as I crossed my arms and let just a small amount of power trickle down my skin.

  “You take those cages out right now, or the deal is off.”

  The dark-haired demon, built like a godsdamn wrestler, took a hulking step towards me. “I don’t think so, babe.”

  “Well, I do,” I hissed. “You can stash all the shit you want, but I won’t support your fucking supe trafficking.”