Shifters Forsaken: Shifter Romance Collection Bks 1-5

by Mia Taylor

  Something creaked in the distance. A sliver of light appeared, as if emerging from the cracks of a door.

  Isera feasted upon the light. It reminded her for a brief moment of her stint in the mines, the claustrophobic darkness that covered the humans there until they were allowed to leave, and the end of the tunnel revealing a tantalizing glimpse of light. Freedom.

  A silhouette pushed through the spear of light. Footsteps echoed in a tinny, breathless way. Tup. Tup. Tup.

  At first, she thought maybe it might be one of her captors, finally giving her the food and drink she needed. But on closer observation, the individual moved too slowly. Too cautiously. Like they didn't belong here. A hunter prowling for prey.

  And it made her heart sink, and her body slump further against the bars. Still, because it was inevitable and the thirst slowly slid her to madness, she croaked out a, “Hello?”

  The figure moving down the stair froze. Holding their breath. Then footsteps picked up pace. The figure bobbed in and out, obscuring the light, and she saw the glimmer of a male body, big hands.

  And silver eyes.

  What?

  The figure stood in front of her cell cage. Those abnormal silver eyes had a way of piercing the darkness. No one had silver eyes. Gray, maybe, if they happened to be a drake. Not this shade, though.

  It didn’t exist.

  Black smudges covered the figure's face. He crouched down, until he was level with her, looking for all the world like a madman. Something about the way his lips twisted, his head tilted.

  “Well? What is it?” A voice called from above, making Isera flinch again. “Have you found something, Alron? Alron?”

  A growl rumbled through the drake's throat. Had to be a drake with those eyes. Those strange, impossible eyes. His fingers touched the cage bar, and Isera shrank away.

  “Alron!” The light from the dungeon blurred again, and rapid, clanging footsteps rang through. The cultured male voice that called for the drake's name didn't belong to any accent Isera recognized.

  The silver eyed drake turned his gaze upon the newcomer, and growled again.

  “Get away from there, Alron. Let me see.”

  The new figure finally emerged into Isera's sight. Golden eyes. Her heart lurched in an unpleasant, painful way. Fear blocked her throat.

  She'd never seen drakes with silver eyes, or wyrms with golden. Their eye colors had a kind of murk behind them usually. A cloudy gray, or a dirty yellow. That was just the way it was.

  Two impossibilities, standing a body length away from her.

  “Well, well, well,” the newcomer said. His attention flicked over Isera, taking in her ragged, dirty appearance. He noted the corner where she released her waste, covered by the shirt. Shame crept over her skin, even though she had no choice in the way she tended to her needs. “Looks like we did miss someone after all.”

  A smile spread across his lips. Alron shuffled back into the picture, now tugging at the cell door, trying to wrench the bars open.

  “Yes,” the newcomer said. “There's not enough room to transform, is there?”

  Alron shot the wyrm a filthy look, before continuing to tug.

  “You have to forgive Alron,” the wyrm said. “He's been cursed. The gift of speech has been robbed from him, though he still perfectly understands what we say, and makes those little growling sounds to confirm things. Mostly.”

  In answer, the drake bared yellowed teeth, silver eyes manic.

  “W-w-what will you do to me?” Isera had by now backed into the corner furthest from them, hugging herself, shivering. A trickle of water slid down the wall next to her.

  “What do you think, Alron? You want to eat this one?”

  Even as Isera's heart pulsed painfully, she saw the drake shake his head and scowl, before swatting at the wyrm.

  “Alright, Alron. Fine. I was joking anyway.”

  Isera didn’t see the humor in it, and shrank into herself further.

  The wyrm clicked his fingers. “Looks like we're rescuing you. You’re clearly not a friend of the residents here. And not a wyrm, either, if I have your eye color correct.”

  Somehow, Isera doubted that these two would simply “rescue” her. Just before she opened her mouth to say something else, she noticed the wyrm's eyes fall upon her cuffs.

  “Oh...” he tapped Alron's shoulder, and jabbed at her cuffs. “Look at this, my mute friend.”

  Alron's eyes widened. His nostrils flared. Then he tugged at the bars with renewed vigor.

  “Someone's wrong about magic not yet returning to humans...” Again, that disconcerting smile consumed the wyrm's face. “The Old Ones have to see this. This could change everything!”

  Alron seemed to grunt, whether it was in agreement or disdain, Isera had no way of knowing.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Isera's voice came out panicked above the rattling of the bars. She didn't have any weapons to fend herself from their power.

  “I'm Kit,” the wyrm said. He let out a kind of manic giggle. Madness. They're both mad, Isera thought, her breathing becoming faster, until hyperventilation teased at her lungs, constricted her throat.

  With a roar, Alron finally ripped open the cage door. Kit stepped in, his huge hands reaching for her. Isera managed a scream before the wyrm slung her over his shoulder. The direction change made her dizzy.

  Her arms banged against his fur coated back as he strode up towards the light. Her heart remained somewhere back in her dungeon cell.

  Chapter Two

  The light had a wretched taint to it, thanks to the clouds above. Rain dripped upon them, mingling with the damp of fur and the squish of boots in mud. Alron loped ahead of her vision, his eyes fixated on something. In the light, his face took on a squarish shape, with angled cheekbones and deep shadows. With large lips and a flattened nose, Alron gave her the appearance of someone whose face might have slammed into a wall once upon a time, compressing his nose and giving him a large forehead.

  All she saw of Kit was a thin, narrow jawline with severe eyes and an even sharper nose. And now his dark brown robes, and a kind of isolated castle or fortress...

  Isera inhaled sharply, before spitting out her pebble. It sloshed into the mud below, disappearing from sight. She flinched as Alron splashed nearby, sending droplets into her face.

  Bodies lay upon the ground. Red and dark stains splattered small stone walls, mixed with the rain and the mud. The initial blast of fresh, cold air, rather than the stale and stomach churning mess of the dungeon quickly gave away to something else – the stench of death. The scent of terror, painted upon the stone walls like blood. So many bodies. Some of them lay in their wyrm forms, huge and fearsome and very much dead.

  Amongst all this, drakes and wyrms picked through the mess, perhaps checking for survivors. One wyrm spotted Alron and Kit, before stomping over to them in one massive, golden, long bodied form. Gold and silver, Isera noticed. Silver drakes. Gold wyrms. Working together.

  “What's this?” The wyrm's voice came out a deep growl. “Why do you have a survivor?”

  “It's a human, Narak,” Kit replied. “A human with magic.” He exaggerated a bow. Did they like each other? Isera didn’t quite understand the inflections in their voices.

  At this, Narak’s golden eyes bulged. Then he bent down to sniff at Isera. She tried not to yell out in terror as those huge nostrils sucked in her scent, inches from her back. “Yes. Past the filth, I smell magic on this little one.” The wyrm's head jerked away, leaving Isera to exhale in relief. “Why was she here?”

  “A prisoner.” Kit turned, and Isera got another angle of the fort – she spotted huge gates pulled up, walkways, and bodies impaled upon spikes along the battlements.

  What the blasts had happened? Death visited this place, obviously. Death inflicted... by those she saw roaming through the bloodied streets? The wyrms and the drakes with their peculiar colors?

  Was that why no one had visited her in that cell for so long? Her h
eart thumped strangely. Things still didn't make sense. Why she was even here in the first place. Why those wyrms had been around in such a remote location, to grab her as she extracted water from the stream for her group. What happened to Artiz and Fian and the others who had taken the trip with her. All to recruit a potential magic user.

  None of it made sense.

  This whole place didn’t make sense. Could it be that the supposed magic user was a trap?

  No. No way. They’d never have their information compromised like that. Not without traitors turning against the cause.

  She rattled doubts around her head even as the leader asked, “Are there more prisoners? More magic humans?”

  “No. Just this one. Buried deep down. You know they only just built the place – their outpost group had been here for about a week. She was probably one of the first prisoners.”

  “Perhaps.” Narak sounded dismissive. Even a little disappointed. “Amazing they even managed a prisoner at all before we found them.”

  Isera didn't know what to make of the news. One of the first prisoners? Then what did that mean for Artiz and the rest? What did that mean for the friends she had left behind? Because they were all heading to that village, last time she checked. Had they backtracked and discovered the waterskins, scattered on the bank and river? Had they been captured too? Because they weren’t here. Just Isera.

  “Aren't you even a little bit excited, Narak? This proves what the Lost Ones have been saying as false!”

  “It doesn't,” Narak answered. “But you'll be in charge of her when we get back. You and your little mute pet.”

  “Alron's not a pet,” Kit retorted. “He's just a little... damaged. You should know why more than anyone.”

  Narak snorted. “Noted. Both of you should return to Wizen. Show her to the Old Ones, they can take off the cuffs. And we'll decide what to do from there.”

  “Yes, Narak.” Kit bowed once again to the golden wyrm, before whistling for Alron. The drake scampered over, hunched up slightly, giving Narak murderous stares.

  In the meanwhile, all of Isera's neurons were firing off at super speed. None of what these creatures said made any sense.

  Wyrms hated humans. Wyrms killed humans. If a human had magic, it meant instant execution. Or being slung in the dungeons and mercilessly tortured in a bid to somehow extract the magic from them.

  Wyrms. Hated. Humans.

  And yet, two wyrms now candidly discussed releasing the cuffs from her, and talked about returning magic with an enthusiastic air.

  None of this makes any sense! Isera grimaced. She braced her small hands against Kit's back, before managing to gasp, “W-water. Need... water.”

  In response, Narak shifted from his wyrm form, standing before Isera as a middle-aged human, with flecks of gray in his short beard and fringed hair. His human form looked sinewy and thin, compared to the usual barrel chested wyrms Isera saw. He reached for a water jar strapped to the side of his robes, unscrewed the lid, and passed it over to her. “Drink up, child.”

  Kit set Isera down so she could drink with ease. She gulped down the liquid, so desperate that it dribbled over her chin and down her clothes. She took long, relieved gasps, before handing it back. Narak's thin lips twitched in a smile.

  “Thirsty, aren't we?”

  She got a good look at Kit. If Kit's face was thin like a leaf, Narak's was like a knife. Kit had that lingering youth in his face, in the small lines that indicated laughter along his mouth, and the black stubble that gave him a rakish, errant expression. Narak in comparison looked like death warmed up, with an age-old weariness to him. Still handsome, somehow. Still smooth about the face, lacking the wrinkles that should have gone with his graying hair.

  He's old, Isera thought all of a sudden. Really, really old. The way those golden eyes seemed to swallow in everything they observed... she shivered.

  “I didn't get much to drink or eat in those cells,” Isera said.

  Kit cleared his throat. “Well, we did kill your jailers. Sorry about that.”

  Isera kept her expression blank, though fear scratched at her again. Dangerous. These people for whatever reason had just killed an entire town of wyrms. A new town, according to what she overheard.

  Wyrms building in their territory? Wyrms attacking wyrms?

  Questions swirled in Isera's head. Hard to keep them all down, but she didn't want to risk angering her saviors or new captors any more than necessary. Not while she still lacked power. Not while they offered to remove it. For some reason.

  “And I'm sure she's grateful,” Narak replied, sounding bored. He did have that perfected way of perpetual disapproval in his tone. She didn’t mistake that inflection. Their accents still sounded odd to her, though. The vowels were clipped and sharp. The sentences started with power, ended with a soft touch. “Here, little one. It's not much, but I imagine you're hungry as well.”

  Isera nodded gratefully, now chewing on dried beef strips, trying not to wolf them down as she knew that would likely make her vomit everything back up again. When she finished, Alron shifted into his drake form at Kit's behest. The silvery drake stretched out his expansive wings and roared, making Isera's teeth rattle.

  “Really,” Kit said. “Do you have to show off every single time you do that?”

  The drake replied with what sounded like a snorting laugh, before bending himself low for Isera and Kit to scramble on. Although Isera now had drank, the headache remained and her limbs dragged her down, unwilling to move. She forced herself to sit just on the crook of Alron's neck, and Kit clambered behind her, riding uncomfortably close. His warmth pressed, giving her a hyperaware sense of the world. She wanted to crawl up to the frill of the drake, but equally knew she probably needed that warmth. Her hands barely contained the shivering as they were.

  Awkward. Sitting so close to a wyrm made her skin crawl. Sitting next to one of the greatest enemies of her life. One of a race responsible for enslaving humans and making them suffer in their millions.

  “Do you know why we're here, little human?” Kit tapped Alron's shoulder, and the drake prepared himself to lift off with a running start.

  “No. Why?” Isera leaned forward. Panic flicked through her when her rear directly pressed into Kit's hips. But no way was she sitting on this drake without getting a secure grip around his neck. Kit took a moment to reply, adjusting himself to hold on better as well.

  “You see, this little base the wyrmlings were constructing happens to be a little too close to where we live. And although we might be protected by magic, the logical thing to happen is that the wyrms will expand their influence over the eastern Frostlands over time. And eventually, they'll notice something is up about that mysterious, landless void in the middle of an icy swamp. And as the Old Ones say, we've been keeping our little secret for far too long for someone to mess it up.”

  Alron launched himself into the air, causing Isera's stomach to lurch. Gods, she hated flying. She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to look at the shrinking ground and be overwhelmed by dizziness, the kind that made her limbs weak and want to let go. “So... you wrecked your own kind to make sure they didn't find out about you? Why?”

  Kit let out a chuckle, ripped away by the wind. He shifted his arms so that they braced on either side of Isera's stomach. “Those wyrmlings you see, they're not our kind. You did notice the different eye color, right?”

  “I don't understand why that has anything to do with it.”

  “You don’t? It has everything to do with it. You didn't think all wyrms were the same?”

  Isera snorted. “Actually... yeah. Yes I did.” Without question. Isera had seen no wyrms act different from their hateful nature.

  Except than the ones her friend Elise sung to, with that enchanting, otherworldly voice. A voice that wove a kind of magic in her tongue, which changed the nature of those who listened.

  Back at the estate, when Isera used to sneak out to bring food to Elise, she'd try to encourage her
friend to sing as much as she could. Elise didn't think her voice as anything special. Isera knew better. She never dared mention why, though, except in hints. Because having magic was dangerous.

  Something her parents paid the price for.

  “You've seen nothing but the ones taken by darkness,” Kit said. “A long, long, long time ago, things weren't like this.”

  Isera dared to open her eyes for a moment, instantly regretting it. The ground moved slowly underneath in a mass of snow, hills and trees, with tiny pockets of civilization here and there. So high up. Her breathing hitched. Her lungs contracted.

  “Oh?” She squeaked, trying, and failing, to keep the anxiety out of her voice.

  Kit snorted in amusement. “Looks like someone's afraid of flying. Maybe you could have mentioned that before climbing on the drake?”

  “It's not t-terrible. As long as I close my eyes for the whole trip.” Isera pressed her face into Alron's rough, warm scales. They reminded her a little of the open pine cones in the woodlands just outside the estate, where the servants needed to go to pick herbs and mushrooms and berries for dinner.

  “You're missing out on a wonderful view.”

  “And you're missing out on me vomiting.”

  “Right. Okay, you can keep your eyes shut.” Kit fell silent, no longer bothering with conversation. Sensible, since it was hard to hear one another over the flap of wings and air currents, and concentrating on keeping a grip in the light drizzle seeping from the clouds proved a challenge in itself. The mist had a way of digging into Isera's lungs, filling her with wet and cold, making each breath as sharp as a knife. When she risked opening her eyes again, because it was hard to suppress that impulse when the world lurched around her, she saw only clouds, white and gray with a glumness that reached into her beating soul.

  Where did this path lead? Away from her friends, certainly. The friends she didn't know if they lived or died. Away to some secret place or whatever where wyrms and drakes lived with silver and gold eyes, rather than gray and yellow.