Knightmare
Nate Temple Series Book 12
Shayne Silvers
Contents
The Nate Temple Series—A warning
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
TRY: UNCHAINED (FEATHERS AND FIRE #1)
TRY: WHISKEY GINGER (PHANTOM QUEEN DIARIES BOOK 1)
MAKE A DIFFERENCE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT SHAYNE SILVERS
BOOKS IN THE TEMPLE VERSE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, 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.
Shayne Silvers
Knightmare
Nate Temple Series Book 12
© 2019, Shayne Silvers / Argento Publishing, LLC
[email protected]
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
The Nate Temple Series—A warning
Nate Temple starts out with everything most people could ever wish for—money, magic, and notoriety. He’s a local celebrity in St. Louis, Missouri—even if the fact that he’s a wizard is still a secret to the world at large.
Nate is also a bit of a…well, let’s call a spade a spade. He can be a mouthy, smart-assed jerk. Like the infamous Sherlock Holmes, I specifically chose to give Nate glaring character flaws to overcome rather than making him a chivalrous Good Samaritan. He’s a black hat wizard, an antihero—and you are now his partner in crime. He is going to make a ton of mistakes. And like a buddy cop movie, you are more than welcome to yell, laugh and curse at your new partner as you ride along together through the deadly streets of St. Louis.
Despite Nate’s flaws, there’s also something endearing about him…You soon catch whispers of a firm moral code buried deep under all his snark and arrogance. A diamond waiting to be polished. And you, the esteemed reader, will soon find yourself laughing at things you really shouldn’t be laughing at. It’s part of Nate’s charm. Call it his magic…
So don’t take yourself, or any of the characters in my world, too seriously. Life is too short for that nonsense.
Get ready to cringe, cackle, cry, curse, and—ultimately—cheer on this snarky wizard as he battles or befriends angels, demons, myths, gods, shifters, vampires and many other flavors of dangerous supernatural beings.
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Chapter 1
I sat atop my mountain, idly regarding the countless miles upon miles of sprawling land far, far below me: from calm, secluded ponds to bioluminescent forests; from turbulent seas of boiling sands to frigid, fingernail-splintering tundras; from oceans of molten stone to fields of glass reeds, and even a monochromatic island with a white mansion, white walls, white everything.
But that was long gone now. I’d introduced it to color. And destruction.
Every inch of this savagely breathtaking world was inhabited by multifarious hordes of nefarious, exotic, and alien creatures that could have only been birthed from the darkest depths of a god’s nightmare—all majestically malicious and insatiably malcontent.
The less frightening they appeared, the more horrifying they likely were.
And most lucky souls would never discover that the ecosystem, let alone the organisms within, even existed, unless they had their heads firmly tethered in the clouds, wasting away their days by reading strange, fantastical—allegedly fictional—scribbles that had been scratched into dismembered, prehistoric titans known as trees by mad men and women living out their days in voluntary solitary confinement.
Readers of mythology and fairy tales were the only beings with forewarning of the dangers—and beauties—that the world truly had to offer. Because those gullible souls had technically earned a PhD in Faeology and had a survival guide built into their subconscious mind.
For the non-readers, or readers of more mundane genres, ignorance was bliss—they just didn’t know that the joke was on them.
Because the Land of the Fae was very real.
And it had been my new home for…a while now. I’d claimed this mountain for myself—Mount Wylde. My neighbors were succubus sprites, feral fairies, conscious elementals, pitiless goblins, kings, queens, talking trees…
Except none of them dared visiting me atop my mountain. They’d tried—in the beginning.
I had dissuaded them. Violently.
I knew that much, but I had trouble recalling any specific altercations. I was fairly certain that I had first come here to recover from a mental malady; some days that thought was nothing more than a vague reverie, leading me to question whether it was fact or fiction.
Because I knew that I had been born here.
However…
I had strange dreams of another place—an entirely different world where every moment didn’t revolve around the mastery of my instincts, dominance, and power. A different life where I wore a disguise and a different name. A life where visiting the Land of the Fae had been an objective, not an odyssey.
Which story was true? Was my mountain in Fae a new home or my true home?
Was I Wylde, or someone else?
Maybe this was my mental malady—not knowing which life had been real.
One thing I knew for certain—emotions were dangerous for me to entertain, let alone try to control. And dwelling too long on thoughts of that other life threatened to suffocate me with emotions I normally avoided.
Even acknowledging this now—that dream of a different life—I felt a storm brew
ing deep within me, a violent hurricane threatening to rise to the surface of my mind and annihilate everything within one hundred paces. I rolled my shoulders irritably, shaking off the sensation—and the tempting dream—with a shudder.
Instead, I focused on the currents of power curling through the very air as I took a calm, measured breath. The constant ebbs and flows of power were ingrained into every facet of the Land of the Fae—the trees, the creatures, the air, the water. And I could manipulate it, make it dance to my desire.
Life lived here, birthed and strengthened by the constant battle of give or take, do or die, kill or be killed.
Any existence that was less chaotic seemed pointless to me. In nature, stagnation was decay, and growth—movement—was life.
What was the point in any other method of living? A life of sedentary suicide? No. Death feasted on the unambitious, those content with the crumbs of mediocrity rather than scavenging for the slightest morsel of self-betterment—in any scope whatsoever.
Those who chose to never challenge and improve any aspect of their lives for the better were no different than lambs led to a slaughter.
Power was the answer. The more power one attained, the longer they lived. Power was the key to happiness, and happiness was the art of living.
A sudden burst of wind rustled my hair, whipping up cyclones of snow and grit as it screamed loud enough to send most creatures hissing and fleeing back into their hiding places.
Without moving a muscle, I stopped it.
The wind immediately fell flat, squashed down as if it had only existed in my imagination. It may as well have. I grunted dismissively, the simple flex of power helping to reestablish my sense of self, banishing those errant thoughts of some other paler reality.
Reality was my imagination.
Existence was granted only by my approval.
Because on this mountain, I’d found power. I had reclaimed my power here. I wasn’t sure where I had lost it, or how, but I’d found it again—like I’d momentarily lost my shadow only to find it had simply been obscured by another larger shadow beside me.
I settled my palm across the staff resting across my lap. Shadow, I thought to myself, feeling uncomfortable for some reason. I squeezed the shaft hard enough for part of it to crack and crumble over my knuckles. With no outward movement, I instinctively grasped the dust and reforged it into the very fabric, the very essence, of the staff.
Then I settled it back across my lap, forcing my pulse down to forty beats per minute.
I tried to remain in that zone, knowing that it kept my mind—and thoughts—devoid of all but the most relevant of concerns. That was the lowest pulse rate I’d been able to attain.
Then again, I’d grown bored with attempting to lower it any further.
I’d grown bored with almost every activity or momentary hobby in my time here, as a matter of fact.
My education was advancing, but not at the pace I desired, and thinking of it made me angry, impatient, and bitter. I quickly forced my pulse to slow again, refusing to let my emotions take hold—only danger awaited me on that path.
I needed new adventures, new skills to learn—before I turned into yet another lamb.
I sensed movement to my right and almost flinched in surprise, having forgotten that I wasn’t currently alone. My winged unicorn—alicorn, technically—had glanced over at me as if having read my thoughts on boredom. “Never you, Grimm,” I murmured, not meeting his gaze. “I’ll never be bored with you.”
Grimm snorted softly before returning to his meal—a faint wisp of a rainbow, this time. It had been a while since we’d seen any truly vibrant rainbows—as if they knew a rainbow killer now occupied the once solitary mountain.
I could have simply made a rainbow for him, but he’d argued that me doing so took all the fun out of killing them. Like breeding cows or sheep and calling their slaughter a hunt.
Which made sense.
Domestication was weakness.
Still, the diluted diet—and poor company—made him antsy, hungry, and…cautious.
There had been other visitors, but I couldn’t recall them staying for any measurable length of time. One had stayed by my side, but she was a mentor of sorts, a wielder of great powers that I was still struggling to learn—an elusive, fickle branch of power dissimilar to my other methods of wielding power.
But I cared about those visitors. Some of them…
Didn’t I?
I risked a glance at Grimm. Yes. I cared about him. If I looked closely enough, I would notice the wings of black smoke sprouting from his back, but they would only become visible to others when he consciously chose to unfurl them. Usually, when it was too late to save themselves from instant death.
It was hard for anyone to hide magic from me now, though. Not after my time on this mountain. My mountain. Magic…spoke to me. Sang to me. It was simply a part of me.
I glanced down again, unimpressed by the thousands upon thousands of feet of open air between me and the base of my mountain.
My world.
I sighed wearily.
Maybe someone else wanted it. I was running out of entertainment, and stagnation was a very tempting suggestion at times—even though it meant certain death.
Because all of Fae stretched out before me—all the magic, monsters, stories, fables, and legends told over campfires for hundreds and thousands of years. They were down there, living, drinking, eating, fucking…
And I couldn’t seem to remember why I cared about such things.
Like being concerned with the daily schedule of an ant colony.
The metaphor caused a weak bubble of a memory—a rarity for me, lately—to slip past my defenses. I focused on it, curious.
And it slowly began to clarify in my mind’s eye. I remembered that the Fae Queens—Summer and Winter—had both sent armies to the base of my mountain, allowing a single messenger to travel to the peak to demand an explanation of my intentions.
And I’d thrown each of them off the cliff—right here, in fact—without uttering a single word, and without my pulse climbing higher than forty-one beats per minute.
Summer’s representative had flown further, but Winter’s had hit a tent full of fellow soldiers, so it had been a wash, really.
They hadn’t sent anyone else since, and had soon departed, leaving me in peace. No. That wasn’t right…
I absently scratched at my beard, frowning. “Hey, Grimm?”
He jolted in surprise, not accustomed to hearing me talk twice in less than an hour. He quickly regained his composure and glanced over at me, licking rainbow-colored blood from his lips. The snow beneath his meal was liberally painted in matching splashes of color. His nostrils flared, and his black feathers rose briefly—the red orbs on the tips glinting wetly in the pale sunlight—before the long feathers fell back down to rest against his flesh.
“Yeah?” he asked guardedly.
“Didn’t the Queens send more messengers after the first two?”
Grimm studied me thoughtfully for a few long moments before finally nodding. “Yes. They brought written messages the second time, fearing their voices might offend you.”
I frowned, shaking my head. I vaguely recalled the exchange. “What did they say again?”
He paused long enough for me to glance back at him. “You didn’t read them,” he replied cautiously. “You said you didn’t care what ants had to say, request, or demand, and that it was better for them if you didn’t read anything they’d sent…”
Ants.
That was what had jogged my memory. I nodded absently, shifting slightly in the snow, still only recalling the topic as if it had been a foggy dream from my childhood.
“You want to read them?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts. “I kept them. In case you changed your mind later.”
I considered it for about ten seconds before finally shrugging. “Sure.” Because I could think of absolutely nothing else more interesting to do at the moment. It was marg
inally better than stagnation.
“Alice put them inside your satchel,” he said, jerking his chin to my right. “I’d offer to grab them, but I don’t have thumbs,” he said dryly. I turned to see the white-scaled leather satchel beside me, and I frowned, feeling a momentary flash of alarm.
Something about that leather was dangerous. I’d heard numerous people say so, but I couldn’t recall any of their faces, or any of their actual warnings. I shook off the thought, reaching my hand into the satchel. Almost instantly, I felt two folded papers. I pulled them out, frowning down at the wax seals of the thick parchments.
One was a blue snowflake.
The other was a golden flower.
I felt a sudden wave of anxiety, but I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like I was afraid of the Fae Queens, but…some instinct was screaming at me in a muffled voice.
I set the folded letters in my lap, choosing to regain my composure before opening them. I glanced over at Grimm. “Where is Alice?”
Grimm arched an eyebrow at me. “Well, she was sketching over on that rock a few hours ago. Then she suddenly decided to go pick elderberries.”
My shoulders tensed of their own accord, something about his answer making me uncomfortable. I couldn’t place why, but it felt similar to the danger I had felt from my satchel. “Why did you say suddenly?”
Knightmare: Nate Temple Series Book 12 Page 1