Scattered Ashes

by Annie Anderson

  Scattered Ashes

  Ashes to Ashes Book One

  Annie Anderson

  Scattered Ashes (Ashes to Ashes Series)

  © Copyright 2015 Annie Anderson

  Published by Annie Anderson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Scattered Ashes is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Editing by Alchemy and Words

  Cover Art by Design by Definition

  Formatting by Tattered Quill Designs

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my husband.

  Babe, thank you for being awesome enough to inspire a leading man based on your hotness.

  Love you.

  Contents

  Glossary of Terms

  Warning

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  FALLING ASHES

  Are You Part of the Legion Yet?

  Never Miss A Thing!

  About the Author

  Also by Annie Anderson

  Glossary of Terms

  Aegis – A special type of Phoenix outside the Primary’s control. An Aegis can shield themselves against offensive attacks with an electrified shield. Most Aegis have trouble controlling their abilities and are nearly extinct. Because of their shield, Oracles and Seers have trouble locating the Aegis, and, therefore, have trouble seeing their future, penetrating their mine, or predicting their deaths.

  Binding/Bond – The bond between an Oracle and Soldier is similar to an arranged marriage. An Oracle does not choose her Soldier and in most cases is not allowed to see them prior to the blinding ceremony. The Primary decides for her and assigns the Soldier whom she believes is a perfect match.

  Covenant – The rules and laws of the Phoenix as set forth by the original families.

  Fireskin – When phased, a Phoenix can blaze an aura of fire around their body known as Fireskin. It does not damage clothing, but can be used to burn surroundings and enemies when enough concentration is used.

  Gentry – Regular Phoenixes with no additional powers. The main function of the Gentry is to support the Oracles, Soldiers, and Scholars and to receive word from Oracles so they may send souls on to be reborn.

  Guardian – A protector in the Wraith culture.

  Healer – A Phoenix outside the Primary’s control. Healers have extensive medical knowledge and possess abilities that can speed the curative process of wounds inflicted with Morganite.

  Morganite – a rare gemstone of the Beryl family known for its rich orange to pink color. Lethal to Phoenixes.

  Oracle – A Phoenix originally born as a Seer. At maturity, a Seer is transformed into an Oracle by having their eyes permanently removed so their precognitive powers may grow and in turn, have enough advanced warning to change the future.

  Otherside – Be it Heaven or Hell, the place the souls go when they pass on.

  Phasing – A process of transformation from one’s resting form to the ethereal. Phoenixes and Wraiths can only ferry souls in their phased form. One’s phased form is dependent on their species, and partial phases are possible depending on the control of the individual. A Phoenix may partially phase in that their Fireskin may emerge alone. A Wraith’s partial could singularly involve the changes to the teeth, talons, or eyes.

  Phoenix – A perpetually regenerating creature with an indeterminate life span. Appears human when resting, but when fully phased, displays Fireskin and Wings. They can heal from any and all wounds unless the wound comes into contact with Morganite. They congregate in groups known as Legions, led by a Primary Oracle as their leader. There are different types of Phoenixes with added abilities.

  Primary – Among the Phoenix, this is the oldest or most powerful Oracle. The Primary is the leader of the Legion. Presides directly over Oracles and Scholars, cultivating their knowledge for generations to come. A Primary controls what the Oracles under her see. Due to their age, it is possible for the Primary to consult with other ethereal creatures including Witches, sorcerers, mages and the like. After a certain age, a Primary’s power can include the casting of spells, controlling of the minds of her retinue, etc. These actions are against the laws of the Covenant.

  Revenant – If a Wraith becomes ill or insane, they can become a Revenant. A Revenant eats the heart of the evil after they have died. As the madness consumes them, they will begin to eat the hearts of any dead soul they come across. Typically, they do not kill for their meals but eat the flesh of the already dead.

  Scholar – A type of Phoenix with supreme intellect. They record the Oracle’s visions and analyze patterns to avoid threats to the Legion.

  Secondary – The heir to the Primary. Presides directly over Soldiers and performs bonding ceremonies.

  Seer – A type of Phoenix who sees visions of death so that they may direct the Gentry Phoenixes to the dead or dying to send the souls on to be reborn. Seers cannot change the outcome of their visions. They are recognized by the milky consistency to their iris and pupil.

  Selection – The process of assigning a job to young Phoenixes.

  Soldier – A guardian and protector of an Oracle. A Soldier’s role can evolve from protector to lover to husband. During an Oracle’s blinding ceremony, they are bound to a Guardian, thereby nullifying any marriage, and linking the physical and mental from one body to another. If an Oracle is bound and injured, the Guardian is also wounded.

  Wings – Phoenixes can fly and display wings when they have phased. Phasing and displaying of wings is initially an agonizing very painful process but loses its agony after full maturity. The wings can damage clothing and nearby objects. Every Phoenix’s wings differ, and bonded mates’ wings usually match. When a Phoenix is sick, near death or if their soul has turned evil, the wings will begin to molt, shedding their feathers rapidly.

  Wraith – A perpetually regenerating creature with indeterminate lifespan. A Wraith appears human when resting, but when fully phased the iris and sclera of their eyes bleed to black, they grow talons and fangs and can hiss like snakes. Most Wraiths can move from one place to another on a wisp of smoke after they reach maturity. As they age the distances, they can travel increase. A Wraith’s main function is to ferry the souls of the evil to hell.

  Warning

  This book is intended for readers aged 18 and older. Within these pages are situations containing effluent cursing, torture, blood, guts, gore, sex, love, despair, war, heartbreak, corruption and death.<
br />
  If you are unable to handle these situations, I would advise putting this book down immediately.

  Because shit’s about to get real.

  Prologue

  AURELIA - 1855

  I can’t breathe. The trees are a blur of green, brown, yellow, and red, the colors tumbling and writhing together as I whip my head searching. I can’t see them, but I know they’re out there. Just like I know something’s wrong.

  I can’t find him. I can’t. I can’t.

  But more, I don’t want to find him. I don’t want to see another reality to a vision I can’t change. I don’t want to confirm the truth that is etching its way into my soul.

  The bracken and rocks on the forest floor crunch and squish together under my feet as I scramble through the bedrock and finish climbing the first foothill.

  Stupid skirt. Stupid slippery shoes.

  I’m not moving fast enough, but in my state, I’m surprised I can move at all. A stitch in my side cuts off my breath, stealing my air as I try to climb faster.

  Where are they? I stop and search the sky for them - for their flames, for their wings, but I know it’s too late. The sky is rapidly turning the inky black of evening in the early Fall, and with no moon out tonight, I’ll never see the sky as properly as I should.

  The first blow comes, ripping against my flesh, and I cry out in agony as a wound splits open on the back of my forearm.

  But I’m alone.

  I hear no one and see no one, but a large gaping wound has torn open my arm from wrist to elbow. I smell the coppery bite of blood as the warm, sticky stream seeps down past my fingers and drips onto the dirt, swiftly devoured by the dry soil below.

  Blackness clouds my vision for a minute, but I force myself to forget the constant pulse of my wound and pull myself together. I rip a swath off my billowing skirt and use the fabric to bind my arm in an effort to stem the bleeding. The navy blue patterned fabric turns indigo from the blood quickly oozing from my wound.

  I should be healing already, but I’m not. This is not good.

  I pick myself up off the gritty forest floor and start walking, rather than the panicked pace of before. I can’t run with this wound. I’m already pushing it with this silly corset and dress, especially in my delicate condition. As if motherhood was anything but delicate.

  There.

  I hear it, and I know I was right. They are clashing together somewhere in the distance. They are going to kill each other.

  The chilling growl of an angry male carries through the trees, and I know I’ve found them. I begin to run again, but when I get there, I realize I should never have stopped to catch my breath.

  I should never have bound my wound.

  I shouldn’t have waited.

  My husband is on the ground, and I know he’s dead. I know just how I knew I was with child long before my cycle refused to come. How I knew so many things that I wished I didn’t.

  “Lucien,” the whisper falls from my lips on a sob.

  Lucien’s eyes don’t move. Not towards me. Not at all. They simply stare at the rapidly darkening sky. Neither does his chest rise nor his mouth respond.

  He’s not breathing, and Rhys is just standing there bleeding, holding what I’m assuming he used to kill my husband. Holding that blasted knife.

  No. No. No.

  I don’t know what made me do it. And looking back, I don’t know how the knife got from Rhys’ loose grip and into my hand or how I knew just where to pierce his flesh to hurt him the worst.

  But as I thrust the knife into his belly, I knew then that when my arm was sliced, it was actually Rhys who got the cut first. It was Rhys who bled first.

  As I drive the blade home in his flesh, blood instantly pours from my belly, down my bodice, and through my skirt. I cut him, but we both bled.

  Then the contractions start.

  And I will forever blame Rhys for two deaths that day.

  1

  Visions Are a Bitch, What Can I Say?

  AURELIA

  It started just like they always do, from the blackness of sleep so deep the fabric of what was real and what was dream wove together to make what would be.

  The room is small, an entryway or vestibule. A little girl had opened the door. It was a lovely walnut wood inlaid with a blue, green, and red stained glass window. A little red flower decorated the center of the oval. The floor was cream tile, Travertine or maybe marble. The mother’s heels clicked with an urgent gate as she walked towards her daughter.

  The mother was tall with dark blonde hair, dressed in a pink skirt suit and elegant cream stilettos. She wore a simple strand of understated pearls around her neck. The girl was white blonde with two dutch braids in her hair and was wearing a nearly matching pink dress. She was young, maybe six or seven. She was deeply tan, as only children can get with their terminable immunity to the heat and sun.

  The mother moved behind the girl, the surprise on her face morphing to fear so quickly, her face seemed to warp, like a piece of untreated wood left to the elements to rot.

  Her hands gripped the daughter’s shoulders, shaking her violently in an attempt to get the poor girl to move, to back away from the looming shadow. The shadow was male, certainly, but the figure was backlit by the rising sun, so his face was left a mystery.

  The mother recognized the man, though. She didn’t need to see the face to know what danger was before them, she could easily see the large caliber handgun gripped in his meaty palm.

  The mother shrieked for the daughter to run, and roughly tugged the poor girl behind her back. But the daughter was either in shock or too scared to move because she stayed right there, clutching to the seat of her mother’s designer suit.

  The man raised the gun slowly, calmly, as if he had all the time in the world to take his shot. The muzzle fired once, and a tiny hole appeared in the mother’s chest. A small trickle of blood bloomed over the heart of her blouse where the tiny hole appeared. She went down slowly, dropping to her knees first, sliding to her bottom and then to her side. Even in death she was careful not to fall on her child. The muzzle fired again and this time, the daughter fell, her wound considerably less pretty, given the caliber of the gun and her small size.

  And right there in that tiny little vestibule, in what was surely a beautiful home of a nice family, the mother and daughter were left to cool in their drying lifeblood.

  * * *

  I should wake up screaming, but I don’t. After these many years, dreaming night after night of the horrors people inflict on one another, I stopped screaming many decades ago. As per usual, though, I sat bolt upright in my bed, bedclothes tangled with my legs, damp with cold sweat.

  My best friend Evan would call me a psychic, but I tell her daily she’s full of shit. Psychics know things before they happen - and I do on occasion. But not enough for me to actually make a difference. Not enough to save the people who need saving.

  For curiosity’s sake, I pull my laptop onto the bed praying I don’t blow this beautiful piece of equipment up. I have a bad habit of frying electrical devices. In fact, this is my fourth laptop this year. I type the local news site into the browser. Sure enough, the breaking news story is of Victoria Ness, thirty-four and Vivian Ness, seven, who were gunned down in their University Park home two hours ago. The shooter, Victoria’s ex-husband, then turned the gun on himself.

  Figures.

  What kind of psychic am I? Well, I’m the shitty kind. I see maybe ten percent of what I should, and I can’t change a second of it. I see what I see, and then I brace because it’s going to happen. There isn’t a thing I can do.

  Believe me, I’ve tried. It’s a waste of time, and it weighs too much on my heart.

  And let’s not forget about the tenuous hold I have on sanity. I just thank the fates I live alone now. How many times could I have woken a roommate, looking like a horror movie reject before I booked a one-way ticket to a padded cell? I’ve already lived through one involuntary incarceration und
er an insane Primary’s thumb; a repeat stay is not in my future.

  I’d rather chew a bullet.

  Hiding my abilities when under constant surveillance is almost impossible. I’m a Seer, born with the ability to observe things that will come to pass in vivid Technicolor inside my little noggin. I also sometimes randomly electrocute people without meaning to. Well, sometimes I mean to, but not all the time, and that is pretty scary. If people weren’t already looking at me funny before, which they are because as a Seer, my eyes freak people way the fuck out, they would after I zapped them randomly.

  Then there’s the phasing. As a fledgling, I sometimes transitioned from my resting form to the Ethereal without even trying. Meaning, when I got angry or upset, I would burst into flames, and my wings would pop out. I got angry a lot in those days. Puberty sucks - even in the 1800’s.

  Then, there is my eyes, which are a very pale, milky green. All the time. You remember old westerns where the old guy is blind, and he has those freaky eyes where the iris and pupil nearly blend into the sclera? Yep, you guessed it, that’s what’s going on here. Only I’m not blind. I can see better than most humans. Probably better than most Ethereals, too.

  I wear contacts when I go outside my home because if I don’t people assume I’m blind, for one, and they act all awkward and try to help me do stuff. Or their face says they are squicked way the hell out, for numero dos. Also, when I’m pissed they kind of, well, glow. Like an incandescent bulb, glow.