Dawn Slayer
Copyright © 2019 by Clara Coulson
Cover Design by Christian Bentulan at www.coversbychristian.com
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
For more information:
http://www.claracoulson.com/
To contact the author, email [email protected]
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
The Story Continues
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Books by Clara Coulson
About Clara Coulson
To everyone who’s ever had a flight redirected due to inclement weather. At least your travel plans didn’t end as badly as Calvin Kinsey’s.
Chapter One
A sharp jolt wakes me from a troubled sleep.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The screen on the back of the seat in front of me is blank, the stranger sitting to my right is snoring like a lawnmower, and to my left there’s nothing but a white curving wall. Those odd details don’t add up to a sensible answer.
But when another tremor rocks my seat, I sit up straight and get a peek at the rest of my “lodgings,” and then the memories quickly fall into place. I’m in a cheap economy seat on a dimly lit and sparsely populated plane, soaring thousands of feet above the ground at hundreds of miles per hour.
The plane is carrying me away from Aurora.
Away from my home. Away from my friends.
I rub my tired eyes and stretch, ignoring the dull aches that resonate through my muscles and bones. I might’ve developed one hell of a healing factor since I gained access to my magic, and whatever nonhuman legacy it carries, but Alexander Targus still did a number on my body when he “taught me a lesson” in reprisal for ruining his carefully laid plans.
Even so, the lingering pains will fade eventually. The physical pains at least.
Checking the area around me, I find that nothing much has changed since I settled down for a nap. Most of the passengers are asleep, seats tilted back and coats utilized as blankets. A few are reading ebooks or playing games on their tablets or phones. A few more are watching movies on the screens stuck to the backs of the seats. And so on and so forth. No one’s doing anything out of the ordinary. There is no danger here, supernatural or mundane.
The plane jolts again, more gently this time, and I realize it was just turbulence that woke me up. Nothing but the wind, Cal. No need to be so jumpy. Targus didn’t follow you onto the plane. The polong didn’t either.
Not that I would put it past Targus to stage a plane crash to get rid of me. (I wouldn’t put anything past a highly trained assassin wizard with my name on his hate list.) But I figure he has more important things to do, like sneakily taking over Aurora from the shadows. And perhaps begging for forgiveness from his High Court bosses after I sent Sadie Wheeler somewhere he couldn’t follow. If Lucian was right, and Targus had never failed a mission before yesterday, then I dealt a serious blow to his reputation as a Rook.
I allow myself to feel smug about that.
It’s the only thing I can feel smug about.
Since, you know, Targus exiled me from my own city for six months and made me quit my job and cut off all contact with practically everyone I know. The only person from Aurora currently excluded by the magically binding oath etched into my wrist is Cooper Lee. And that’s only because Cooper technically doesn’t live in Aurora right now.
I never thought I’d see the day when I was happy that Cooper got banished to Siberia, but here I am. Smooshed into an overly small airplane seat, with nothing but a couple bags of junk to my name. Nowhere to live. Nowhere to work. Nowhere to go but my long-distance boyfriend’s place in the hopes he can put me up until I figure out what to do next.
At least you get to see Cooper though, I remind myself. If nothing else, you can make up for lost time.
With a sigh, I grab the top of the seat in front of me and haul myself to my feet. Shimmying past the older man still snoozing in the aisle seat, I shamble over to the bathroom to relieve my straining bladder. Just as I reach for the door, however, a deep male voice comes over the PA system on the cusp of a crackle of static.
“Folks, this is your captain speaking. I’m afraid we’ve had to make a last-minute change to our flight plan.”
I step back from the bathroom and mutter, “Oh great. What now?”
The captain continues, “Due to unexpected inclement weather across a large stretch of western Siberia, we’re being diverted to Sheremetyevo International Airport outside Moscow. If you’d like to continue on to Omsk Airport, you will unfortunately have to take a later flight out. I deeply apologize for the inconvenience.”
“Of course.” I smack my cheeks, hard enough to send the last remnants of fatigue skittering out of my head. “Because fate can never give me a break.”
I squeeze myself into the bathroom and have a nice long piss, angrily grumbling to myself the entire time. Cursing out Targus and the High Court and my unidentified nonhuman father and Reid the asshole faerie and the Black Knights and the Methuselah rogues, and everyone else who’s gotten on my nerves in recent months. I absolutely do not, however, imagine myself pissing on their faces.
Because that would be juvenile.
When I finish my business, I shuffle back to my seat, just in time to get a small drink and a snack from a passing flight attendant with a cart of goodies. As I munch on my peanuts and sip my water, I work out what to do when I reach Sheremetyevo. If the flights out to Omsk are delayed more than a day, I can’t just lounge around the airport, staring at the ceiling and twiddling my thumbs.
Well, I technically can do that, but if I have nothing to do but dwell on my recent failures and misfortunes for hours on end, I’m pretty sure I’ll finally lose my mind. It’ll be better if I keep myself occupied.
I’ve never been to Moscow before. Maybe I’ll go sightseeing, learn the lay of the land, and get Cooper a gift or something. With Cooper still obligated to work for the Omsk project for a couple more months, I’ll probably end up hanging around in the snowy tundra for just as long. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to familiarize myself with my new surroundings. Especially since nearly all my current enemies are either based in Europe or originated there.
Nothing like showing up at someone’s front door and not knowing if they’ll greet you with a handshake or a shotgun. I snort. Oh, who am I kidding? It’ll be the shotgun. It’s always the shotgun when you’re DSI.
My chest tightens.
I was DSI. I’m not anymore. And can’t be again, thanks to Targus.
On that sour note, I punch the screen on the back of the seat in front of me to bring up the map that shows how far we are from our destination.
An hour out from Moscow. An hour from the moment I’ll have to step off this plane in a foreign country, with no one by my side, and finally admit to myself that a critically important period of my life—my DSI career—has ended with nothing but a pitiful whimper…
I mentally kick myself. No pity parties. You can do better than that. Be smarter than that. You might not have a badge anymore, but you do have something more important: power.
I meant what I said to Targus. When I’m finally able to return to Aurora, I’m going to kick his ass. But to make good on that threat, I first need to learn how to wield my magic properly. No more half-assed shield spells. No more circles blowing up in my face. I can’t rely on basic magic instincts and reflexes to beat someone as well trained as Targus.
I have six months to become a better wizard. I intend to make them count.
Resolved, I settle back against my seat cushion and pull up a superhero movie I’ve already seen a dozen times, only half watching as the plane draws closer to Sheremetyevo. The other half of my mind picks through all the details of this week’s events. Every encounter with Targus and his polong puppet. Every revelation about the High Court’s machinations. Every step I made in the right direction, and everywhere I stumbled.
I won’t make the same mistakes next time.
(I’ll probably make all new ones, but that’s life, isn’t it?)
After what seems like days’ worth of ruminating, I’m pulled from my thoughts when the seatbelt light comes on, accompanied by a quiet ding. A second later, the captain’s voice booms over the speakers again, telling us we’re on final approach to the bustling airport outside Moscow.
I yank up the window shade and peer out at the winter morning. The sky is overcast, and the ground far below is an endless field of white speckled with the dull gray of icy asphalt and frost-coated buildings. A dreary day. Appropriate, considering my mood.
The plane takes longer than usual to land, owing to the fact that numerous flights were redirected to Sheremetyevo. Once I finally disembark, I spend an inordinate amount of time waiting for my checked bag to come around on the conveyor belt, and waste a bit more time repeatedly getting lost in the airport and retracing my steps, until I finally stumble upon a store that sells cheap cell phones. I pick a basic, sturdy phone, pony up some cash, and then continue my confusing jaunt through the unfamiliar building, following the signs that point to the Aeroexpress train platform.
As I hurry along, I periodically glance at the TVs mounted here and there. All of them are tuned to weather programs that are reporting on the same story: the huge storm that literally appeared overnight and has now been dubbed the “blizzard of the century.” The various meteorologists on air shift back and forth on their feet, nervous and confused. None of them can explain the storm.
I pause at the tail end of a crowd watching one TV and complaining about their ruined travel plans. A nagging thought squirms in the back of my head: What are the odds that it’s a coincidence a freak blizzard formed at just the right time to divert my flight away from Omsk?
I instantly banish that thought with prejudice. Because it’s insane.
The amount of power it would take to alter the weather to that degree, to create a storm that covers hundreds of miles and dishes out eighty-mile-per-hour winds and two feet of snow…No way. Not even the High Court practitioners could pull that off.
Still, the radar map of the massive storm haunts me all the way to the train platform, and the video clips of the enormous snowdrifts blanketing the land, the harsh winds whipping ice into the air, play on repeat in my head as I wait in line to buy a ticket to Belorussky Station.
Something isn’t right about this scenario. I can feel it in my aching bones. Can feel someone, or something, watching me. Not literally. Not physically. But in a way I can’t quite fathom, from a great distance that might as well be none at all, and with grave intentions that may or may not be to my detriment.
I feel like I’m being manipulated.
Just what I need. Something else to worry about.
By the time I situate myself on the train and it’s zipping along toward Moscow, I’ve managed to put a lid on my growing paranoia. It’s still festering underneath that lid, but I ignore it, rationalizing that I can’t prove anyone is doing anything to me, or for me, or against me, without more information.
I press my face to the cold window and observe the passing terrain and the unfamiliar architecture, until the monotony of the train’s motion takes the edge off the tension in my body. Then I lean back in my seat and finagle my new pay-as-you-go phone from its overly secure plastic packaging.
After activating the SIM card and adding some minutes, I bring up the internet browser and search for hotels in my price range. The latest news says Omsk Airport will be out of commission for at least three days, so I need to pick a place that won’t totally break the bank.
Some cheap places pop up on the map, but since I don’t want to add back pain from a shitty mattress to my list of grievances, I decide to splurge just a bit and pick the Moscow Marriott Grand Hotel from the list. I make a call and ask if they have any rooms available starting today. To my relief, the man on the other end confirms they have two single rooms available. I pick the cheaper of the two so my wallet won’t start crying.
Room booked, I enjoy the rest of the train ride as best I can. And eventually, I find myself spit out in front of Belorussky Station. My gaze follows the lines and curves of the sprawling building’s classic architecture, the pale green façade an eye-catching pop of color against the cloudy backdrop.
It’s about ten degrees with negative five wind chill though, so I don’t stand around ogling the sight for very long. I hail a cab, tell the driver the name of my chosen hotel, and try to relax as he swerves and speeds along the busy, slush-covered streets of Moscow.
Thankfully, the drive to the hotel only takes ten minutes.
The Moscow Marriott Grand is a pretty, off-white building with green and red accents that delicately curves around the corner of Tverskaya Street and Staropimenovksy Lane. It’s so gloomy outside that the hefty sign perched on the hotel’s roof is still lit, one of many brightly colored beacons illuminating the city’s otherwise drab winter skyline.
I pay the cabbie, grab my bags from the trunk, and waltz into the hotel, hunting for the check-in desk. My scan of the ground floor fixates on an ornate staircase curving upward around a burbling fountain, until it reaches the second-floor mezzanine that overlooks the lobby, the view broken only by decorative white columns trimmed in gold.
Oh yeah, this is a nice place. I’ll feel slightly less bad about my life after spending a night here.
I find the check-in desk and join one of the lines. The place is bustling, unsurprisingly. Business guests unwilling to brave the weather seeking out the hotel’s amenities instead. Stranded travelers like myself taking refuge. And a few tourists milling around, moping about their poor choice of vacation dates. The usual suspects.
The guy who checks me in looks annoyed by my appearance, which I assume is somewhere between “harried” and “hobo.” But I give him my best smile, and my money, which placates him enough to hand over my keycard without much fuss. He directs me to the elevator, and I scurry over quickly enough to catch the nearly full car before it trundles upstairs.
After some jostling and pushing and more than one intentional elbow jab from the crowd in the elevator, I wind up in the third-floor hall, go the wrong way twice before I manage to locate my room, and spend two minutes trying to get the keycard to work until it finally decides to unlock the door.
The room is simply decorated but clean and tidy, which is more than you’d get at a lot of cheaper places. I check the bathroom and find it stocked with fresh towels and travel-sized toiletries, then take a peek out the window. The view reveals the full breadth of the miserably cold and wet winter morning in Moscow. Honestly, it kind of looks like a cold, wet winter morning in Michigan, minus the obviously Russian architecture.
Of all the things to remind me of home, it had to be the awful weather, didn't it?
Grumbling about my poor choice of vacation destinations, I strip off my coat, shoes, pants, and shirt, toss them onto a chair, and flop onto the bed. I need a great deal of rest to restore my energy after healing from serious injuries—and I’m jet-lagged from a long flight across the ocean—so I decide to sleep the morning away and pick up with the day around lunchtime. I sit up long enough to set an alarm on my phone, then peel back the covers and bury myself in a cocoon of sheets, complete with a pillow over my head.
The next thing I know, the alarm is going off. There’s a second where I think I must’ve set it wrong, but when I check the phone, I find it’s already noon. I conked out within seconds of lying down and slept like a log. Which goes to show you how drained I was after all of yesterday’s “excitement.”
I sit up and stretch my limbs carefully. The aches from Targus’ beating have faded at last, and while I don’t feel great, I do feel refreshed. The temptation to go back to sleep anyway and block out the reality of my situation creeps across my mind. But I kick it to the curb. I’m not going to hide away in a depressed stupor for days on end. I’m going to confront the world as it is, even if I have to flip it off with both hands at the end of the night.
I shower, dress in some fresh clothes, and make my way downstairs. A rumble in my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten real food for the better part of a day. The hotel has some restaurant options, but I’m not up for blowing all my cash, so I open Google Maps on my phone and check what sorts of restaurants are within walking distance.
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