Table of Contents
THE WATCHER
Acknowledgements
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
THE WATCHER
REBECCA E. NEELY
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
THE WATCHER
Copyright©2016
Rebecca E. Neely
Cover Design by Wren Taylor
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-68291-277-5
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To my Mom,
who’s my biggest cheerleader,
and who’s read every single thing I’ve ever written.
Thank you.
To the dear lady who calls me Red,
and whose dog inspired the one in this story.
Acknowledgements
A big thank you to all the people I’m blessed to have in my life, including my mother, my daughter, and my boyfriend. Your inspiration means the world to me, every day.
A special thank you to Jim and Ann, for letting me ask all the questions I wanted about motorcycles.
As always, I’m deeply grateful to, and humbled by, my readers. It means the world to me to share my stories with you.
A big thank you to Wren Taylor for the fabulous cover!
My deepest gratitude to my editor, Char Chaffin. Your knowledge and expertise is vast, and I learn from you every time we work together. I’m touched by your generosity. You help to make me a better writer. Thank you!
CHAPTER 1
Eighty-three days earlier, Dev Geary died.
On the dawn of the eighty-fourth day, he clawed his way up the south face of Mount Verdant. The rising sun, barely a glimmer on the horizon, shone with the mere promise of warm. The Watchers’ realm, unlike the human one, lacked seasons. After the mists had lifted, he’d discovered every day was the same. Not too hot. Not too cold.
He hated it.
Grunting, Dev dug his fingers into the crevices between two jagged rocks a foot above his head, shredding the already raw tips. Blood trickled along the backs of his hands, mixed with a coating of filth. Scowling, he watched them bleed, took perverse pleasure in it. Did nothing to stop it. They would heal soon enough in this realm where, with a high -octane quarry of energy nearby, he need not wear a Vitality stone.
Not that he had one anyway. It too had been stolen from him.
Shifting slightly, he repositioned his six-foot-two frame against the unyielding boulders. Beads of sweat leaked past his soaked bandana, fashioned from the third ‘standard issue’ uniform shirt he’d ruined this week. Squinting, his vision burning, the shirttail dangled at the back of his neck, teasing the space between his shoulder blades. He raised his two-hundred-twenty odd pounds another painstaking inch.
The ledge crumbled slightly beneath his bare heels, showering the froth of greenery below him. The sound was acute in the massive stillness, save for the birds and wildlife beginning their day and the thud of his heart.
He ogled the view, thrilled yet terrified by the heights separating him from the ground. On this ledge, an inch too far to the left or right could end him. And it was between those inches where he felt alive, achingly so.
Here, on the edge of death. His drug of choice.
Always, it could go either way. Clinging madly to the excitement, he embraced it, quashed the fear on this tightrope walk. It didn’t matter the means, whether it be Mount Verdant in this realm, or his Harley, or the scaffolding he’d used as a carpenter in the human one. Only that he got where he wanted to go.
Between the inches.
In that sliver of space he could even pretend to claim a shadowy glimmer of his former self, his former life. A life, like his Vitality stone, that’d been stolen from him.
He would exact his revenge. For his death. And more.
His vow served to sharpen the oily undercurrent of darkness that’d skittered along his roughened edges most of life and now, openly mocked him. A war of rage and fear festered in that darkness, in his soul, as thick as the mists that’d nearly suffocated the Watchers’ realm a few months ago. And it’d grown every day since the life drained out of him. Since Libby had killed Haenus Vickery, the bastard who’d ended him.
Since eighteen years and counting.
He grimaced. Always he wondered if the Keepers, the Watchers, knew what a fraud he was. The darkness haunting him spat on the very foundations governing his clan, and his existence for the last twenty-five years. In the human realm, he supposed he’d done well enough keeping his Vista under wraps. Here, in the Watchers’ realm, all bets were off. He figured the ‘Wise Ones,’ as he’d termed them, could see past it and then some. It was a darkness no self-respecting Keeper or Watcher should feel, or be capable of feeling.
But he was no longer a Keeper. And he sure as hell was no Watcher. Nor did he want to be. Oh, they’d slapped a label on him, ‘Working Watcher’ and uniformed him like the others. Only he knew better. He wasn’t like the others. Never had been.
And he’d spent the last eighty-three days making sure the Watchers knew it, too. He’d been dutiful enough, showing up for instruction when he felt like it, paying half-hearted attention. He ditched when the opportunity presented itself, or not, openly
defying their authority. He didn’t choose this. They had.
Dammit! He was supposed to be in the human realm, rocking his Compulsions, jamming to Coldplay or with Nick on the guitar, him on his harmonica. Or riding his motorcycle, a hot, willing woman wrapped around him on the back. Or sawing and hammering alongside Nick in the sun, making plans for camping trips and cold beers.
Instead, he spent his days being schooled in things he had no desire to learn, wasting time with old fogies who’d had their fun, sown their oats, and lived their lives.
Sweat dripped down his nose. Gritting his teeth, Dev tasted briny frustration. In this place he was closer to certain things than he’d ever been, but still realms away. He had no desire to accept or eventually become resigned to his situation. So he fought. Much as he’d been fighting all his life, it seemed.
Here there were no hammers, no Harleys. Hell, there weren’t even any weights. Ever resourceful, he’d taken to climbing Mount Verdant and lifting boulders, fiercely determined not to lose—on top of everything else—the strength and the muscles he’d invested in, for years.
Perched on this jagged precipice, those muscles bulged, flexed, gleamed in the rising sun. He narrowed his eyes. They served—not to impress, though they often did—as a personal and powerful victory. Hours in the gym, thousands of reps, strain and rigor had yielded cut abs, granite thighs, and strapping biceps, as well as a mind and body where weakness had no place. Yet that same mind and body could, and had, defended the weak.
Those muscles were a testament to a lifetime of fighting the darkness, of finding those inches, of preparing for battle as a Keeper, for the fights he saw coming. And the ones he didn’t.
Especially the ones he didn’t.
All that, and for what? So he could scale mountains and learn skills he had no business learning? Nor any desire to learn? He’d demanded to know why. Why? The gods knew he wasn’t one to keep quiet. The Watchers had merely responded with the same timeworn phrase.
They worked in mysterious ways.
“Fuck their mysterious ways,” he grumbled. “And fuck this.”
Another chunk of the ledge subsided. His heels swayed, and he dug in with his toes. His right foot slipped another inch. Lingering for perhaps a moment longer than was wise, he tightened his grip on the rock above him. Sickly fascinated, again he stared at the ground crumbling beneath his feet, the ravine stories below him, its kaleidoscope of color ready to swallow him whole.
Or what was left of him.
“Nearly six weeks have passed since he has come to us. It is inevitable this day has arrived.” His voice thick, his back to a sun that had only begun to rise, Mataeus stood with Laird and Eden in the sharp bend of the third switchback winding its way around Mount Verdant. He raised a hand to encompass the landscape, reflected in the other Watchers’ silvery eyes. “Our realm is not yet healed completely. Though the mists have dissipated.” He sighed, his heart still heavy over the scourge that had been dealt their realm. “Our energy grows stronger, each day.” He paused. “As does theirs. Soon, he must go.”
Laird pressed his eyes closed. “You know what a powerful store of energy it demands. I am not sure we have it to give.”
“Perhaps not.” His oldest friend spoke a truth Mataeus could not deny. “However, I believe there is no better way to spend it.”
Laird smoothed the folds of his robes and frowned into the dim light. “He is reckless.”
Eden joined hands with Laird. “He has also done much good.”
Mataeus inclined his head. “You will recall I had doubts about the Compulsion for Nick.”
Laird rocked on his heels. “That situation was different. We were acting under duress. This, we choose.”
“You are right.” Fear seized Mataeus at what he proposed. “Nonetheless, I gave you my trust then. Now I am asking for yours in return.”
Raising his hands, Laird implored, “My friend, you have my trust. Always. However, I wonder if—”
“Do not wonder.”
Laird laid a hand on his shoulder. “His death was hard on us too.”
Mataeus fought the tears clogging his throat. And straightened to his full height. “I have not let that compromise my judgment.”
Laird drew in a sharp breath. “Must he go alone? Others have volunteered.”
“The opportunities have their own way of choosing, as you know. I believe this one has chosen him,” Mataeus said softly, wanting badly to believe in the judgment he’d just defended.
“He holds bitterness in his heart.”
“Which can be channeled.”
“Or turn a man,” Laird countered. “The transition is hard on them. You know this, perhaps better than any of us. We could lose him permanently if he goes.”
Again, Mataeus could not argue with the truth of his friend’s words. Dread leeched drops of venom into his soul. “And I fear we could lose him permanently, if he does not go.”
“This realm has only started to heal.” Laird’s voice rose with every word. “You know the consequences of undertaking this action. I say the risk is too great!”
“Yes,” Mataeus answered quietly. “And he may be the only one capable of taking it. For it is that which will fuel him.” Keeping his voice low, he sought to placate Laird and Eden, as well as himself. “Do not forget that we still hold, as the humans say, some of the cards.”
“Yes. And for him to return, we could be giving up that advantage.”
“Risk must be taken to achieve a greater good,” Mataeus said, with more conviction than he felt.
“Only if he succeeds,” Laird argued.
Eden linked arms with Mataeus, extending a hand to Laird. “Then he must,” she murmured. “If he does not we will not exist.”
Laird turned to Mataeus. “I know you understand him, in a way we do not.” As one, Eden and Laird nodded. “Soon we must channel.”
Mataeus trained an unsteady hand over the fall of his beard that reached the middle of his chest. A single bird greeting the day, its solo melody soon to become a chorus, rang mournful in his ears. “These must go with him.”
From the folds of his robe he withdrew a drawstring pouch and unknotted its leather strap with long, bony fingers that had seen the passage of years, nearly two hundred of them. He slid the contents into his palm.
The trio studied the stones; one, the color of spring grass, the other, black as jet. Both gleamed in the first rays of the rising sun. Mataeus cleared his throat. “I believe each has an equal chance at saving or endangering our future. There are consequences for every action, every choice we make. What will be the cost? To them? To us? Darkness. Light.” The sounds of a new day thrummed in his brain, in tandem with the angst of their chain. “And I fear he may need both to succeed.”
Dev swayed on the ledge, his pulse thumping. In terror. And excitement.
Time slowed, his life measurable in moments.
Bony fingers clamped around his shoulder.
Dev’s head shot up, and his eyes met Mataeus’ gaze, gleaming like polished steel.
He glared. “Take my hand. That is not a suggestion.”
Dev squinted into the sun and did as ordered. Only, he told himself, because Mataeus was the Watcher he minded the least. Dude looked like a skinnier, taller version of Jerry Garcia, talked like Lord Byron, and gripped his hand with a strength that surprised him. He shifted, then found purchase with his shins and feet. With Mataeus’ help, he used the hard-won leverage to raise his body the ten inches remaining between him and the top of the mountain.
“Have you no regard for your safety?” Mataeus boomed. “Or yourself?”
Wiping his hands on what remained of the uniform pants he guessed loosely resembled scrubs, Dev shrugged, refusing to be cowed. “They’ll heal soon enough.” He angled his head in the d
irection of the quarry. “What do you care?”
“Silence!” Mataeus seized Dev’s hands.
Seconds later, he released them and Dev rubbed smooth, unmarred fingers over his palms. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
“Always somewhere you’re not supposed to be. You missed instruction this morning. Again. And it seems along with being where you’re not supposed to be, it follows you have a penchant for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or perhaps it is one and the same.” Mataeus raised an eyebrow at the crumbling ledge.
“Yeah?” Dev sneered. He’d spent a lifetime being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And it seemed that life—and death—had gotten the last laugh. Only this wrong place, this wrong time, was permanent. Again, he shrugged. “What’re you going to do about it?”
Mataeus flexed his fingers and spoke, his voice commanding. “It is not what I am going to do. It is what you are going to do. For the Watchers. For the Keepers. For all of us. To sustain the future of our clans, of our realms.”
Dev raised his chin. That place where the darkness lived, deep inside him, pulsed. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
Mataeus’ silvery eyes clouded. “Return to the human realm. And discover the secret for rendering Similitude, in order that we may reclaim our stones.”
CHAPTER 2
Fire, air, water, and earth converged in one mighty blast. Coughing, spitting, Dev rolled to one side, groaned, and opened his eyes. Crossing realms was a bitch. Maybe others were able to do it with more finesse. Not him. The leather pouch he’d tucked into his pocket dug into his thigh. Cursing, he sat, gave himself a quick once over. He was whole, unharmed. And alone.
He could only assume Nick was running interference for him, and that was why more of the clan wasn’t waiting to greet him.
Fog clung to the earth and rolled over the landscape in misty waves. Early morning dew coated the grass, soaking his pants. He breathed in humid, midsummer air spiced by the scent of a freshly cut lawn.
The Watcher (Crossing Realms Book 2) Page 1