The Lost Prince of Cadira (Shadowland Saga Book 1)

by Stephanie Anne

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE SHADOWLAND SAGA BOOK 1

  THE

  LOST

  PRINCE

  OF

  CADIRA

  STEPHANIE ANNE

  THE LOST PRINCE OF CADIRA

  Copyright © 2020 by Stephanie Anne

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact :

  https://www.stephanieanneauthor.com/

  Cover design by Celin Graphics

  Edited by Chloe Hodge

  Book Formatting by Derek Murphy @Creativindie

  ISBN: 978-0-6488520-0-1 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-6488520-1-8 (e-book)

  ISBN: 978-0-6488520-2-5 (hardcover)

  FIRST EDITION: OCTOBER 2020

  To my mum, Jennifer, for introducing me to the world of YA and letting me find my passion and purpose there.

  1

  NEW ORLEANS

  The hairs on the back of Eliza’s neck bristled as she crept through the night. Barbs of ancient magic prickled her skin; it danced across the night with the power of a thousand stars, pulsing throughout the New Orleans cemetery like a dazzling conduit of enchantments and curses. The whispers of the dead were carried on the chilling autumn breeze, brushing over her skin like phantom fingers, sending a course of shivers up her spine.

  The prickling sensation did not cease as her own magic formed a living barrier around her. It speared out into the night like creeping vines, connecting her with the essence of New Orleans and its dead, who lay in the maze of stone tombs around her.

  Eyes followed her, their gaze watchful. Keys clutched between her steady fingers, Eliza stepped around cement blocks and withered flower bouquets, stopping before a towering white mausoleum, heart pounding in her chest.

  In the branches, she heard the screeching caw of crows. They sat perched in the skeletal limbs of the dilapidated tree to her right, their beady eyes as bright as the stars that glared down at her from the sky. They continued their dangerous song, even as she glared from the shadows, but they were the only thing she could hear in the endless night.

  She still felt it, though, that sense of not quite being alone. Despite the precautions she had taken to protect herself—charms sewn into the hems of her jeans, the iron ring on her pinkie finger—it did not stop the shiver of doubt that coursed down her spine. The sensation of being followed had sent her careening into the cemetery. The familiarity of the cemetery steadied her racing heart, but not by much.

  Eliza’s green eyes flickered over the shadows, searching the cracks in the mausoleums. They darted down the small alleys between the white stone structures that usually housed spirits who had been forgotten, bound to the land and not their resting places. Despite that knowledge, she let herself imagine she was completely alone with the dead. But even the dead weren’t that quiet.

  As if summoned by the deep entanglement of power, Eliza’s magic rose and swelled until it surrounded her like a protective shield. A flash of silver caught her eye, and drawing in a shuddering breath, Eliza looked up to the space above the white marble mausoleum.

  The air continued to pulse with that strange and dangerous magic; its ancient thrum drew her out of the darkness, sent her own magic spiralling back to her out of fear. In the back of her mind, she felt that ageless power whisper to her, a tangle of raw energy. The iron on her finger heated. Something told her to run.

  Her blood ran cold, fear rearing its head. She wanted to turn around and run, but she was caught between terror and stupid curiosity.

  Silver moonlight reflected off a drawn sword; Eliza’s gaze travelled up the shining blade to the armoured hand that held it. Even in the dark, with the dim light of the city illuminating the cemetery, she couldn’t mistake what she saw as she continued eyeing him—pointed ears and piercing green eyes. Faery. Lithe and tall, his silhouette stood out against the blankets of light that made up the New Orleans skyline. Only one thought entered her head as she took him in: I am in deep, deep shit.

  Sitting on his shoulder, with irises of molten gold, was a raven with the darkest feathers. The ancient power she had sensed thrummed from that being, Eliza realised, as she took a hesitant step back. A Changed One. That deceptive power of Shifting radiated from the gold-eyed raven.

  They were not of the mortal realm, where magic was squashed, and darkness lay in the hands of humans with power. Nothing as ancient as the Changed One, with its immeasurable power and immortal status, would be caught dead wandering through the mortal realm, or following Eliza through a New Orleans cemetery. And she knew they had not been banished to this world, either. Not in the same way she had, not like Kay.

  They were something else entirely. They did not belong here.

  Eliza ran.

  Mausoleums and graves stretched out around her, filling her senses and her vision, until all she could see was death—perhaps even her death, too.

  A Faery Knight and a Changed One. She snorted, even with the fear drumming deep in her bones. Never in her life had she felt such power, and never before had she imagined it would be directed at her. It both terrified her and excited her. But she knew to run first and ask questions later.

  I’m terrified of a freaking bird, she thought. Eliza skidded to a halt and swore. Standing by the exit, the Knight waited, his ancient sword still drawn. His back was to her, and despite her situation, Eliza poked out her tongue before turning away. She eyed the mausoleums with frustration before running once again.

  She knew the place better than the reapers who guarded it. And she should have been able to get herself out. Overhead, the caw of crows signalled her appearance. But her gut told her it wasn’t the mortal creatures who dwelled in New Orleans who gave her away.

  Twigs snapped beneath her feet, and though she stayed upright, every so often her feet would snag on a piece of loose rubble or slip on stray flowers that had blown off the mausoleum doors. Eliza’s breath turned to ice in her lungs as she continued her sprint through the darkness, only stopping when she slammed into the side of a soot-stained mausoleum, shaking free the dried flowers and layer of wet leaves that cascaded down her back.

  “Shit.” She hated the feeling of wet leaves clinging to her neck. They reminded her too much of slimy bugs.

  Swinging around, she ploughed straight through the half-visible silhouette of a spirit.

  Walking through a spirit was not like walking through air, e
specially when she—and she alone—could see them. For a regular mortal, or her grandfather or Kay, a spirit felt like a cold patch of air. For Eliza, it felt like stepping through a wall of jelly and coming out the other side unscathed.

  The spirit in question took a dignified step away, her loud, “Excuse you!” filling the air. Eliza flinched and stepped into the safety of the darkness behind a mausoleum, though for the most part, she knew the Faery Knight and his raven could not possibly be able to hear the two-hundred-year-old ghost standing in the light of the waning moon.

  “Hush up,” Eliza said, forced to keep her voice low. They might not be able to hear Miranda, but they certainly could hear her. “Something is following me, and I need you to be quiet.”

  Eliza had met Miranda years ago by chance—the spirit had been newly awakened in modern day New Orleans after being dug up in light of an old murder investigation… Or so Eliza had been informed by the young woman’s spirit. Miranda had been shot in the chest, the bullet recovered—and matching that of a recent murder victim. It had been Eliza’s first—and only—attempt in helping the spirits. At the time, it had been exciting, but Eliza had quickly learned how dangerous her magic could be in the eyes of mortals. It had been enough for her to be discrete with the power that came so naturally to her.

  The spirit’s gaze followed Eliza’s; together, they half-heartedly searched the darkness between the mausoleums, even the rooves, but everywhere Eliza looked, she could not spot that flash of silver or the golden glare of the raven. That ageless magic still thrummed through her, though she couldn’t feel the full extent of it anymore.

  “Ahem.” Miranda coughed, drawing Eliza’s attention back to where they stood, back to the soot-covered mausoleum and the fences to her right. “What is following you? And will it cause me any harm?”

  Eliza rolled her eyes, though her heart still raced in her chest—from the sprint and from fear. “I thought I was being followed by something...” By a Faery Knight and a creature changed by ancient magic. Because, yeah, that’ll go over well with the traditionalist. She grimaced. Miranda knew nothing of the magical realm and its otherworldly occupants. Eliza wanted to keep it that way.

  “Looked like a Knight,” Eliza continued. “Maybe.” She felt a pang of guilt lying to Miranda, but Eliza doubted she’d handle questions about her world, even if the questions came from a curious spirit.

  Miranda followed at a distance as Eliza walked up to the fence and checked both avenues before setting herself up to climb.

  “I do not believe I have ever seen a Knight here before,” the ghost mused, her gloved hands resting over the top of her bloodied chest. “Was he handsome, like the Knights in Momma’s fairy-tales?”

  Eliza hesitated halfway over the top of the crumbling wall surrounding the cemetery. Below her, on the other side, the streets were nearly empty, as if the people of New Orleans knew to fear the cemeteries at night. She grunted, swinging her other leg over. “I was a little distracted,” she said, sparing the spirit one last look. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miranda.”

  The spirit merely looked up at the wall indignantly, arms crossed tightly over her bloodied chest. “Good night, Miss Elizabeth. I do hope the bed bugs eat you.”

  Eliza laughed. Jumping from the top of the fence, she landed silently on the balls of her feet, and rose.

  Just as quickly as she appeared, Eliza made sure she disappeared. Knowing that she wasn’t alone, that she was being followed, only made her move faster. Even in the swallowing quiet of the street and the enveloping darkness, Eliza felt eyes on her; eyes that did not belong to anything from this world.

  Eliza shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoody and started for the road home.

  Despite the darkness—the shadows that seemed to devour the light and feast on the stars—Eliza could find her way. Ever since she could remember, the streets of New Orleans’ French Quarter was her backyard. The metropolis of light and colour, of people and customs, had swaddled the scared five-year-old when she had first appeared in the mortal world. And since then, she had sworn to care for them in the way they had her.

  The old building Eliza called home appeared before her, sitting between two larger, modern blocks of wrought iron and red bricks. It had two storeys with a red-brick exterior and wraparound balconies, with rooms that held artefacts from another world and a courtyard filled to the brim with magic. Eliza couldn’t imagine herself living anywhere else. Not in the mortal world, and certainly not in the world she had been born in.

  Sometimes, she forgot that she was not entirely from Earth.

  Sometimes, she wished forgetting were the easy part.

  Standing across from the house, Eliza hesitated. Still, that feeling of being followed did not leave her. Had she been wrong to come straight home? No, she thought. Her grandfather would know what to do, surely.

  She bit her lip and looked back down the street towards the cemetery. She thought the Knight would be there, watching her from the other side of the road. But there was nothing.

  A light flickered on in one of the front rooms, then another in the courtyard. Pursing her lips, Eliza already knew what trouble would be coming for her, especially if her grandfather and Kay had sensed her arrival, and knew that midnight had already clicked over without so much as a word from her.

  With a sigh, Eliza crossed the street, shoulders hunched. She stopped at the dotted line in the centre of the road, brows furrowed. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled once again, and her gaze darted behind her shoulder. She searched the dimly lit street for that flash of silver or the golden irises of the raven but found nothing. Not even a blip on her radar.

  Nevertheless, she sprinted the rest of the way, skidding to a stop once inside of the wrought iron doors, then slammed them shut.

  If they followed her home, they’d be pissed to know how fortified the house was. Magic protected them there, though it was only a whisper of what belonged in the other world. It was that sense of safety that calmed her racing heart.

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, Eliza slowly uncoiled herself.

  “Elizabeth.” The darkness that surrounded the entryway receded as the courtyard lit up, revealing not only herself, but her grandfather, who stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. At his side, their flat-nosed cat, Odin, paced, copper tail twitching, one blue-green eye blinking up at her. Both, unsurprisingly, looked disappointed.

  She stood at her full height—nearly as tall as her grandfather—and spoke. “I can explain, please.”

  Fortunately, her grandfather, Davis, was a forgiving man, but with his arms crossed and thin lips pursed, Eliza could not help but wonder if perhaps she was slowly destroying that trust he had in her. She had promised to be home by eleven, and yet the large grandfather clock in the courtyard continued to tick past midnight, until it was closer to the witching hour than her curfew.

  “Something was following me,” she said, releasing a heavy breath.

  Almost like breaking a trance, her grandfather sighed and shook his head, silver hair mussed. Odin ran into the courtyard situated at the centre of their house and beckoned them to follow. At a distance, Eliza walked behind her grandfather as he said, “Something is always following you.” His voice was soft, not reprimanding, but not forgiving either. Tired. “What was it today?”

  At seven, she had constructed an elaborate story about how she had become friends with the gnome who walked her to the babysitter’s on Fridays, and at age ten, Eliza had claimed an ogre had been following her home from the park one day. Saying something was following her wasn’t a surprise, and she knew that. It didn’t stop her heart from dropping; the lack of faith she felt from her grandfather stung.

  But Eliza hesitated nonetheless, biting down on her bottom lip. It wasn’t that he would not believe her, but Eliza knew the story of the boy who cried wolf too many times. But still, she tried. “I’m not lying,” she said, following him into the courtyard. Sitting at a wrought iron table and chairs, K
ay poured three cups of tea. “Or joking. Something is out there, and it was following me.”

  Kay, who had been in her life since Eliza first entered New Orleans, sat with her thin arms crossed over her chest. Eliza’s first memory of her was bright and magical; the New Orleans city park and the Botanical Gardens; willow trees with limbs reaching for the grass, children running through the gardens. Eliza had been five. Kay had told Eliza about her own world, of a girl lost to her people for a crime she did not commit.

  Eliza’s grandfather did not turn around as he said, “I did not say that you were.” His voice took on a softer tenor as he pointed to one of the faded, paint-chipped chairs. “Sit.”

  The inner courtyard of their home was decorated like that of a movie set, Eliza thought, like something a Hollywood director imagined up about how Witches or faeries lived in their enchanted homes. Creeping vines dressed in white, black, and red roses climbed up the walls and over into the balconies, creating a wall of flowers. It was like nature was slowly reclaiming the foundations of her home. Taking up one side of the courtyard was a garden, tended to by Kay, and in it grew plants that would not usually survive the New Orleans climate, or the mortal world’s limited magic.

  At the other end of the yard was the grand, mahogany grandfather clock her grandfather had brought from their world, and it, too, had been overtaken by the creeping vines that filled their home.

  Kay slid her the cup of steaming peppermint tea with a tight-lipped smile; the older woman withheld her disappointment, but Eliza could see it sparking in her violet eyes. “Took you long enough to get home,” she said.

  Eliza merely shook her head, exasperated. “Like I said, I can explain.” Her guardians remained silent as they watched her. Davis had finally taken his seat at the table and sipped slowly at the cooling tea in his withered hands, while Kay stretched her arms out. Odin, too, joined them, sitting at his own place on the fourth chair.

  A strange sense of foreboding settled over her, like the other shoe was about to drop. Almost like a snap, and it was gone. It left her feeling somewhat apprehensive, anxious as she stared down at the swirling mint tea. But she could not shake that feeling of being watched, of being observed by the raven and the Knight.