Firestorm

by William Stacey

  Firestorm

  The Awakened World Book 3

  William Stacey

  Copyright © 2020 by William Stacey

  Cover by Ravven Design

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  William Stacey Starter Library

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  26 August 2053

  The underground temple of Zolin, Baja California

  Eighteen years after the Awakening

  Two days before the full moon

  While the human woman prattled on about the war, the ancient black dragon daydreamed of immortality.

  The dragon's true name was lost to the ages and now known only to her, and she barely remembered it herself, but her Tzitzime cultists called her Itzpapalotl, the Obsidian Butterfly. The name was apt. Foot-wide black scales covered her underbelly, forming a coat of armor. Three-foot-long curved black claws jutted from her powerful arms and legs. Her magnificent dark wings were formed from near-impenetrable black membranes with wing fingers tipped with black bone spikes. Her powerful, long body was covered with pebbled black hide almost as tough as her scales. Her long black horns curled back from a serpentine head the size of a truck, with dark eyes that saw everything. Long black spikes ran down her spine to a powerful spiked tail that could shatter stone. Her teeth … ah, her teeth … they were her finest attribute. Each was longer than a sword and stronger than steel, and each tooth was the same beautiful black as the rest of her. She was darker than a starless night, darker than the depths of the sea … almost as dark as her daydreams.

  Yes, as far as names went, Obsidian Butterfly would do.

  Itzpapalotl was black death.

  The woman, overweight with fleshy jowls and short dark hair, was named Tlaco and was her new Mother Smoke Heart, the new high priestess of the Tzitzime, the cult of human fools that worshipped Itzpapalotl. For a high priestess, so far, this one had been a dismal disappointment, considerably inferior to the previous Mother Smoke Heart, Rayan Zar Davi, who had served Itzpapalotl and her brother for more than two hundred years. But Rayan Zar Davi had failed the dragon and allowed intruders to attack the underground temple of Zolin and steal away the only prize that mattered, the Haanal X’ib, the elven changeling whose blood held the power to free Itzpapalotl’s sire, Memnog the World Eater, from his prison of stone. And for that, Rayan Zar Davi had to die. But this woman … Stars and Fire, she prattled on. Itzpapalotl grew more annoyed as the woman described the unimportant details of the recent fighting far to the north. She had more pressing concerns than the inevitable military victories of the Aztalan Empire.

  "I don't care about that," Itzpapalotl said, interrupting her, her voice a powerful hiss. "I should devour you for wasting my time."

  The fear scent, the prey scent, wafted through the cavern, pleasing Itzpapalotl, and she shifted position, her scales grinding against the stones of the underground temple's surface. The other Tzitzime servants wisely drew back, as far from Itzpapalotl as they could get atop the wide stone surface of the temple of Zolin.

  Itzpapalotl’s dark eyes narrowed on the woman before her, who was now shaking in fear. Her brother Tezcatlipoca had always believed fear ruined humans’ meat, made it too tough, but Itzpapalotl preferred her prey chewy. She liked it when, days later, her tongue would work free a morsel of tough flesh wedged between her teeth. Those morsels were always a special treat.

  "Where are those who defiled my temple?" she demanded. "Where is the Haanal X’ib? Nothing else matters."

  "We..." The woman's fear scent grew stronger, becoming near irresistible. "We have found their wrecked helicopter. They will never escape Baja California."

  Itzpapalotl shifted one of her forelegs, and her clawed talons scraped across the temple's surface, scoring a groove in the stone. She sighed, her breath like a bellows. "It’s been three days now. I grow weary of your useless promises."

  "They can't escape, Beautiful Mistress," said Tlaco. "Not on foot."

  "Yet so far, they have."

  Itzpapalotl curled her powerful wings tighter about her frame. Even with her wings wrapped about her, her beautiful body covered most of the temple's surface, leaving little room for her advisers: the woman briefing her, a handful of other cultists, and Aernyx, now pretending to be a young human man with pale white skin and long dark hair. Aernyx was so ordinary in appearance, humans often failed to see him until it was too late.

  But that was an evolutionary design. Aernyx was as much a predator as she.

  "And what of your children, Aernyx? Have you done as I asked, or do you disappoint me as well?"

  The young man stepped forward. He wore a simple brown toga and was barefoot. Unlike the humans, he did not have the fear scent—he was wary; she could smell his cautiousness—but he wasn’t terrified of her. That was a mistake. But it wasn’t yet time to teach him the error of his ways.

  That would come when she no longer needed him.

  Aernyx inclined his head in respect—albeit not enough, never enough for her. The worm should grovel on his belly before her. "I have, Beautiful Mistress," he said in a quiet, calm voice designed to put others at ease. "Each military outpost within two hundred kilometers now contains one of my Night Kin. I will know what they know."

  "Good," the dragon rumbled, steam hissing from nostrils a foot wide.

  She wanted to punish those who had dared attack her temple, but she needed the female changeling back, the elven woman who wore a human face—Wyn Renna, she was named, the daughter of the elven queen Elenaril Cloudborn, which meant that Elenaril herself must have sent the intruders, the stupid elven cow. They had dared to assault the underground temple of Zolin, slaughtering her servants and stealing away the elven changeling. And they had lured her twin brother Tezcatlipoca out into the open, where he had been ambushed and killed by the feathered serpent, the coward Quetzalcoatl. But Itzpapalotl had avenged her brother, ripping the feathered serpent's craven head from his snakelike body. She should have been relieved.

  She wasn't.

  More than two thousand years ago, an Olmtec Seer—one blessed with the magic to see t
he future and known as the Golden Dawn—had predicted the blood of the Haanal X'ib, the female who was changed, held the power to undo the stone binding of the treacherous wyrms. That could only mean that Wyn Renna's blood would free Itzpapalotl's sire Memnog the World Eater, a being so powerful he was more akin to a god than a dragon. Memnog had been basely turned to stone by a cabal of other great dragons. But prophesy was a tricky matter, and the Golden Dawn's predictions had been originally recorded in ancient Olmtec and then translated into Mayan and Aztec. Mistakes became inevitable. Itzpapalotl herself had studied the translations, and she knew something even her twin brother hadn't: there was another part of the prophesy, one known only to Itzpapalotl—"the feathered serpent would forecast doom for the dark butterfly."

  Quetzalcoatl might kill her.

  There could be no other meaning. But Quetzalcoatl was dead at her own claws, so perhaps the translation had meant something subtly different, that Quetzalcoatl would doom the brother of the dark butterfly? Or perhaps it referred to the Jaguar Knight, the human champion of Quetzalcoatl who had also been rescued during the raid on the temple. Prophesy was maddening, but one thing was clear: Itzpapalotl was now the last dragon on Earth, the last of her kind. She had nothing to fear.

  But the prophesy...

  And there was another matter that bothered her. When her brother had pursued the fools who had attacked their temple, he had breathed fire on their aircraft. Dragon’s breath should have melted the aircraft to slag, but it hadn’t. Something had shielded the aircraft with magic. Her enemies were keeping a secret from her, and what she didn’t know might kill her. Her anger burned white hot. No. She would never die. She would devour her enemies and free her sire. And when Memnog the World Eater, the dragon god of destiny, was free, he’d reward Itzpapalotl with her own divinity: true immortality.

  Her eyes narrowed on the Tzitzime blood mage Tlaco. "Rayan Zar Davi," she said, her voice like thunder. "She lives still?"

  "Yes, Beautiful Mistress. The traitor is in a cell awaiting punishment."

  "Good. Rayan Zar Davi has served us faithfully for more than two hundred years. It is fitting she serve us one last time. I wish to summon Sudden Bloodletter, the Death Bat."

  Tlaco's fear scent surged deliciously.

  Chapter 2

  Fog covered the broken ground as the two women slipped through the old graveyard, edging past the weathered, crumbling tombstones. The night was pitch-black, the southern stars obscured by clouds, but Angie Ritter wore a set of fourth-generation night-vision goggles—NVGs—strapped to her face and saw the ancient cemetery in crystal-clear shades of green. Her companion, Erin Seagrave, didn’t wear NVGs but probably saw more clearly than Angie thanks to her werewolf condition, which also gave the young red-haired woman enhanced hearing and smell, as well as near-superhuman speed and strength. Angie was a small, superbly fit woman, but Erin was like a Greek goddess come to life, all muscle and beauty. Both women wore camouflaged combat uniforms, with their faces and hands darkened by camouflage paint, and each carried a silenced sub-gun, but Angie also wore her hexed side-sword Nightfall on her hip. She had wrapped a piece of cloth around its polished hilt to hide its shine.

  The small village’s graveyard sat at the base of an old Catholic church. The church, with its tall steeple, was surrounded by an eight-foot-high stone wall and sat atop a hill overseeing the small mountain village through which Angie and Erin had passed. They had neither seen nor heard a soul. Both village and church were dark and silent, hopefully fast asleep. With luck, she could use her magic to scout out the church, and then both women could return to the others.

  Weeds grew wildly in the graveyard, some reaching their knees. The wooden fence had fallen apart in places, and many of the tombstones had collapsed—or been kicked over. It was clear that no one in the village had maintained the graves since the arrival of the Aztalan military garrison in the church. The Aztalan government had contempt that bordered on hatred for what it termed the "New World" religions—meaning any religion that had its roots in Western civilization and not Mesoamerican culture. The distinction was pointless in Angie’s mind. Eighteen years after the Awakening—after the great dragons had brought down the Fey Sleep, awakening humanity to the supernatural that had been hidden from it since the Spanish Inquisition—there was little point to terms like New World, Mesoamerican, or Western civilization.

  There was only the Awakened World now.

  Angie took care to avoid stepping on the graves, but Erin walked where she'd make the least noise, not that the other woman ever made a sound anyhow, even with a bullet wound in her hip. Fortunately, the bullet had only torn through the muscle, creating superficial damage, and Angie had helped Erin’s oldest brother, Rowan, stitch it closed. Erin claimed it was nothing, but Angie was pretty sure if it had been her, she wouldn’t have been able to walk on it, let alone sneak through the wilderness. But Erin wasn't like other women, maybe because she was a werewolf, maybe because she was a badass who had grown up surrounded by warrior brothers. Angie was just glad she was her best friend.

  As they slipped closer to the hillside, Angie tasted sweat beading on her upper lip. Even this late at night, almost two a.m., the air was muggy. After days of hiding and hiking through the mountains of southern Baja California, her clothing chafed her skin. She was pretty sure she smelled worse than a Feral tribesman. They needed to get out of the wilderness and get to safety. If anywhere was still safe during an invasion.

  When Erin froze, Angie did the same, her breath catching in her throat. What was—

  Less than a dozen paces away, two large dogs, their eyes flashing green in Angie’s NVGs, stepped out from behind a set of crumbling tombstones. The dogs’ hackles were raised menacingly, their teeth bared in a silent growl. Both dogs looked wild, but if they barked this close to the fort...

  Angie's finger drifted over the trigger of her sub-gun, but she didn’t want to use the weapon. This close, even a suppressed gunshot would awaken the fort. Erin stood tall and glared at the dogs and then growled, baring her teeth. Goose bumps rose on Angie’s skin. The dogs' heads dropped in frightened submission, and a moment later, both darted into the underbrush. Erin looked over her shoulder and smiled at Angie, her teeth flashing.

  Dogs didn’t mess with werewolves.

  Erin moved on, and Angie followed. They approached the worn path leading up the hill to the church and its high stone wall. Angie did her best to walk as Erin had taught her, setting each foot carefully along its outer edge and then rolling forward on the foot’s edge—ghost walking. She was getting better at it, even she realized that, but she felt like a lead-footed clown next to Erin. Angie had been a soldier, a mage in the Commonwealth of Cascadia’s Home Guard, and she had been trained in fieldcraft, tactics, and weapons, but she’d never be as stealthy as Erin. Erin could sneak up on a squirrel without it noticing. But then, Angie had been the unit S2, the intelligence officer, while Erin and her brothers had been the unit’s elite door-kickers, a family of werewolf assault troops. Of course, that had been before Angie and the Seagraves had become traitors to the Commonwealth. If they returned home now, they’d be hanged on sight.

  It was a price Angie had been more than happy to pay to save her friends.

  It was hard to see from the base of the hill, with the stone wall surrounding it, but Angie knew the old Catholic church was a large single-story structure with a high bell tower. The church was ancient, probably well over a hundred years old, and built of wood and adobe, a sun-dried brick of clay and straw that didn't really age very well. Once, it had been whitewashed, but the paint had long since faded away through exposure. Old or not, the church remained the highest place in the mountain village and easily defensible. This close, she now saw that a tall radio antenna rose above the church tower—The fort has a radio?

  After the Awakening—or A-Day, as it came to be known—the magical backlash that followed the breaking of the global Fey Sleep spell had also destroyed most of the planet's el
ectronics, plunging humanity into a new dark age. Some electronics had survived, the rare equipment that had somehow been shielded, and some others—the simpler stuff—had been rebuilt by the survivors, but working radios, much like functioning generators, were always hard to come by and worth more than lives. If the Aztalan military could afford to put a radio in a small outpost like this, so far removed from the war, then they were far better equipped than anyone suspected.

  And that was a disturbing thought.

  Erin brought Angie up the path to the stone wall and wrought iron gate, closed and locked, of course. From this close, the scent of wood smoke was strong, most likely the embers of a still-smoking campfire.

  Rowan had estimated the garrison’s strength to be no more than a section of men, eight to ten soldiers with a senior sergeant in command, but they needed to know for certain. Erin had tried to scout out the church from a higher vantage point a kilometer away but couldn't see much over the wall. She had seen horses and a makeshift wooden stable next to the church, which was what had interested Rowan the most. Here, at the southern end of the Baja California peninsula, they were more than a thousand kilometers from safety, deep within hostile territory with the Aztalan military actively hunting them. If they wanted to escape, they needed horses. Two of their party didn’t even have footwear, and there was no way they were going to walk a thousand kilometers barefoot.