The Caelian Cycle Boxed Set

by Donnielle Tyner

  I stumbled up the walkway, trying my hardest not to make any noise that could wake my landlady, Mrs. Muniz. She was a feisty Hispanic woman in her late 70’s who wouldn’t hesitate to slap the back of my head for showing up on her property piss drunk and then turn around and offer me a large cup of coffee, cooing over me like I was one of her grandchildren. Luckily, I made it up the stairs to my apartment above her detached garage without incident.

  Inside, I peeled off my shirt, tired of the smell of stale cigarettes and sweat, and threw it into the general vicinity of my room. The half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark was calling to me. It had been a gift from Junior a few months back for not telling his father about his late night activities with one of his mother’s friends. She was an older woman who prowled bars like Frank’s looking for a young man to scratch her itch. Right now, that bottle would help keep the demons at bay.

  I took a long pull from the bottle as I walked toward the couch. Careful to not spill a drop on Mrs. Muniz’s lacy slipcover, I dropped down and sank into its fluffy depths. The warmth from earlier came back, but it wasn’t enough. Those seafoam green eyes were there with each blink.

  God, when will those eyes fade from my memory? What do I have to do to redeem myself?

  Another deep pull from the bottle had me coughing from the burn. Tingling warmth began numbing my toes and I knew I had reached the place of sweet relief. My eyes were closed as I carelessly reached out to the table and thumped the bottle down on the wooden surface.

  CLANK! CRASH!

  The unmistakable sound of glass tipping over and breaking jerked me into action. Luckily my drinking binge left but a finger depth of whiskey in the bottle, so it wasn’t the mess it could have been, but a few tablespoons splattered out before the neck of the bottle shattered. The whiskey was quickly absorbed by a handful of papers and files I had thrown onto the table earlier that evening.

  Cursing, I stumbled to the kitchen, grabbed a towel and rushed back to the table. I dabbed the paper as delicately as a drunkard with numb fingers could before scraping the glass bits into my palms and disposing of them along with the bottle in the trash.

  Back on the couch, I stared at the folders. They weren’t cases I had ever been assigned to, but when I had seen the box of cold cases in the storage closet earlier today, I couldn’t help but look at them. A few of the cases were ones that Gordon had had me study before he took me out on my first investigation. Others were from the FBI, CIA, and various local police departments offering hefty rewards for any information that helped solve their respective cases.

  While Gordon had been out catching a bail jumper, I sat in the closest and perused the file box. A few of the names caught my eye. Something bubbled inside my chest as I read those files. An overwhelming need arose and the next thing I knew I was making a stack of cases that caught my interest—narrowing them down to three. Without thought, I tucked them under my arms and brought them home on my lunchbreak—not understanding why I felt drawn to those particular cases, but knowing that what I was doing was right.

  The whole way home, I was thinking that Gordon would be pissed if he knew I was planning on wasting my time looking into cold cases when I should be working on finding jobs that would bring in money.

  As the numbness pressed against my chest, I picked up the first file: a 5-year-old Caelian boy who had been missing for three years. The police presumed him dead, but the circumstances surrounding his disappearance were similar to other disappearances that involved an illegal fight club that had spread across the nation.

  The second file was of an elderly couple who had disappeared without a trace in California seven years ago. It struck me as odd that, although the couple were Caelian, they had day-to-day interaction with the Human Purist Coalition’s founder and yet not one of the organizations that had looked into their disappearance had looked twice at the radical group.

  My eyes rested on the final file. Everyone in the business knew about this case. It was one of those mysteries that stood the test of time and every time I read the details, I felt a tug in my chest. This case was special, but I would be a fool to entertain the possibility of solving a 16-year-old missing infant case tied to the Moreau family. The only clue was the mother’s best friend’s name and the location of the mother’s death.

  Something nagged at my whiskey-addled brain. Seafoam green eyes grew bright in my mind and I remembered. It was when I had been working that job. The one I would regret for the rest of my days. The job for the Koenig family that forever tainted my outlook of the Caelian race. I had overheard some information regarding Miles Koenig’s son and at the time, it seemed important, but my circumstances at that moment had trumped any rational thought and I couldn’t, wouldn’t, think about it. But now, my swimming thoughts brought the pieces together and I remembered why that information was important. Those Koenig family guards had unwittingly revealed new evidence that tied the Koenigs to this missing infant case.

  I walked past the guards again, pacing like a trapped animal as I waited for Miles Koenig to show up for the hand off. Working with the Koenigs went against every instinct I had, but Gordon had insisted that this job would be a good step into the bigger stuff and the pay would be double my usual take home. I pressed a hand against my chest, trying to ease the overwhelming dread that threatened to crush my lungs.

  When I passed the guards again, they were engrossed in a conversation with each other instead of warily watching me like they had been for the past 15 minutes. These men were the ones assigned by Miles himself to accompany me on this assignment. They were loud-mouthed fools and I had learned more about the Koenig family these past few days than in my 18 years of life combined. I was set to ignore them when the name Adrian reached my ears. They had spoken of him before. Adrian was Miles Koenig’s son and the mystery of his death was an urban legend among the Caelians outside the Koenig family, but now I knew the myths were somewhat true. Miles Koenig had his son murdered because he was sharing secrets with another family. Adrian had an attack of conscience and had decided GenCorp shouldn’t be allowed to continue.

  I walked a few paces away from the guards, trying to swallow the unease that threatened to overtake me. For the past few days, the knowledge that Adrian would betray his father and family had bothered me. Why would he do that? What were the Koenigs doing that would cause a son to give his father’s secrets away to another family? Once I was far enough away so that the guards wouldn’t suspect I was eavesdropping, but close enough to hear most of their idle gossip, what I heard nearly dropped my jaw in astonishment.

  Adrian was having an affair with his contact in the other family and months after Adrian died, so did she. In childbirth. Once this assignment was over, they were going to Oregon to look into a tip that there was a Caelian teen who had the same features as Adrian. If the rumors were true, they had to bring in the boy as quietly as possible. The guards straightened their relaxed posture when the doors to Miles’ office swung open. Soon after, I made the exchange with Miles with every intention of going back and getting more information, but that was before they discovered the body.

  The memory faded from my mind. There was something to that bit of information. My stomach turned as I attempted to stand, and it got worse when I fell back onto the couch. Nausea rolled again as I felt every swallow of whiskey press at the back of my throat. The knowledge that I was going to throw up hit me hard, but the numbness in my limbs refused any movement.

  As I threw up all over myself and Mrs. Muniz’s lace-covered couch, I vowed two things. One—to get Mrs. Muniz’s couch dry cleaned before she decided that a swift slap to the back of my head with her hand wasn’t enough. And two—to never drink that much again.

  Chapter 4

  4 months later.

  “Child Missing for 3-Years Found in Underground Fight Club.” I stared at the newspaper framed above my desk, ignoring the bustling office noise with a strange mix of pride and sadness in my chest. The case of Thomas Sokoloff was both t
he savior of my career and the one that initiated the will to conquer my own personal struggles. When I stole the file from Gordon’s closet, at first I didn’t know what I had planned on doing with it, but that night—the last night I touched a drop of alcohol—I felt a deep knowing in my gut, that I could solve this case when no one else could. Not because I was better than the hundreds of others that had tried, but it felt like I was supposed to do it.

  The file indicated that he could be trapped in an underground fighting ring where they kidnapped Caelian youth and raised them in violence and death. They would pit them against other Caelians and even norms if they were brave enough, in gladiator-type matches where sometimes one or both of the fighters didn’t make it out alive.

  Since the government didn’t see Caelians as fully human, it was easy for the FBI and CIA to look the other way when the fight club angle was brought up. When I asked around to other Caelian investigators who had tried to solve the case, I was told repeatedly to back off. There was no way to get in unless I was willing to fight.

  Two weeks into researching the case, I decided I was willing. Catching bail jumpers and taking assignments from families that were either boring or morally wrong wasn’t what I wanted to do with the experience and knowledge I had gained from working with the Robert Gordon. I wanted to help people. Really help them.

  Once my decision was made, I told Gordon I would be taking a vacation of an undetermined length. He knew that I was working on this particular case. Every day since he had learned of my intentions, Gordon would gripe and moan about me wasting time with the cold case. Although he made his opinions very clear, he never took steps to stop me though he could since he was my boss. Instead, he grumbled and took up the slack around the office, allowing me the time to pursue leads.

  Gordon had taught me many talents since I became his apprentice. Two of them would be necessary to my success. From my first day on the job until he wasn’t physically capable, Gordon had trained me to fight—both clean and dirty. I learned how to use my Talent in ways other than throwing a hard punch, from deflecting and evading to practicing Aikido in order to reign in my strength. The other talent was the art of the false identity. With Gordon’s underworld contacts, I had created a new identity and spread rumors about my struggling finances, along with a few truths, like my Talent, trying to make it look as if I were looking to fight for cash. Since my Talent was strength, it didn’t take long for Marcus Gentry to contact me. He knew I had no previous fighting experience, but he was more than willing to throw me to the wolves.

  I lost a lot of fights that first month, but in time I started to win and the more I won, the more Marcus let me in. Two months in, I went to a big fight in west Texas were I saw a boy, about 8 years old, who could have passed for Thomas Sokoloff.

  “What’s with all the kids?” I asked Marcus, trying to not let the disgust slip into my voice.

  “Ahh, yes. This will be your first time to see the children matches. These kids are trained to fight at a young age in order to become great fighters. It’s quite the entertainment.” Marcus’ excitement rolled over me and I had to force the tremors of revulsion down.

  “So the rumors are true?”

  Marcus eyed me as he slowed to a stop. I kept his gaze keeping my face a stony neutral. “We do what we must to survive in this world. Just like you, Caleb. You may not say much, but we all know about your financial troubles. You have fought and injured many men for the sake of your survival. You and I—we are the same.” He turned his back on me and without another word, walked away.

  My lip curled at the memory of Marcus’ convictions. His reasoning was convoluted and if I were one of his other fighters, his words would have resounded with me, but instead I grew more determined to save Thomas. It took a few more weeks and lots of underhanded work on my part, but I got him out. During the escape, my Talent evolved and I learned that I could use my strength to move incredibly fast. This secondary Talent was born out of the necessity of my situation, but I was thrilled to have one. Some Caelians never discover their own Talent’s secondary.

  The world rejoiced at Thomas’ return. Marcus was imprisoned along with the people responsible for the kidnapping and training of the children, but the fighting ring continued. After living in that hell for close to three months, I struggled with the idea of it still going on.

  What if they started kidnapping kids again? Would I go back in to stop it?

  A deep cough broke me from my thoughts. Standing about a foot away from my desk stood a man about my height, but with a slight, leaner frame and his features an interesting mixture between Asian and European. His finely styled cerulean hair contrasted against his dark designer clothing, but it was his eyes that stood out the most. They were angular, large enough to almost be too big. The largeness was accentuated by the color—a hypnotic teal and purple swirl. The man took a few steps forward, his gait confident. Everything about him struck a chord of familiarity.

  “Are you Kian Lane?” Even his voice was hypnotic.

  “I am.” I tore my gaze away as Emma, another investigator and Caelian family deserter, walked by with a questioning look. I gave her a quick nod before returning my attention to the man.

  He reached out a hand. “Hello Kian, I am Dr. Adam Sokoloff.” I took his hand and was surprised by the strength in his grip.

  Sokoloff. He was related to Thomas. My mind went into overdrive trying to place where this man belonged in relation to Thomas and how he figured out I was involved with his safe return. The newspapers reported me as Caleb Smith—a fighter whose conscience got the best of him.

  “Doctor?”

  Dr. Sokoloff chuckled. “Yes, I get that a lot. I am quite young compared to others in my profession.”

  “That is?”

  “Psychology.”

  I gave a non-committal grunt in response. All the research from Thomas’ case surged forward and the missing pieces clicked into place. Adam Sokoloff’s Talent was legendary. He could heal minds, unlike the average healer. He was Thomas’ uncle.

  “Has anyone told you that you look angry when you’re deep in thought?” I narrowed my eyes, but nodded. It was something Granny Nell said I had inherited from my grandfather. He was a deep thinker and always quiet—preferring to watch others before reacting. “Well then, I can see you have figured out who I am and you are wondering how I know about you.”

  I nodded again.

  Dr. Sokoloff shook his head in response and chuckled, amused by my quiet demeanor. “Kian, I have many friends in high places. The FBI was willing to keep your name out of the papers, but they are not keeping quiet to those who ask the right questions.”

  “And what questions are those?” Anger was welling up. There were reasons why I didn’t want my real name to get out.

  “For me, it was ‘Can I have the name of the man who saved my nephew from a disastrous fate so I can give him a proper thanks?’ However, I know of others who asked because they want their own cases solved.”

  “Their own cases?”

  “Yes. Caelian cases tend to be put on the back burner. You know this. Now that this particular cold case has been solved, the desperate loved ones of those who want their cases solved are clamoring for anyone who would be willing to put in the effort. You’ve made quite the name for yourself.”

  “I don’t want that.”

  Dr. Sokoloff tilted his head and looked at me. It was unnerving and felt as if he were probing my soul. “That remains to be seen.”

  “I don’t,” I replied, my voice soft.

  “You have a lot of mental scars, Kian. I can see them as plainly as I see the fading bruises from your time with the fights. Some are old—those have blended so well with your consciousness that they are now an integral part of your personality. I’m going to step out and guess those scars are why you want to stay anonymous. You like being in the background—fixing things. Then there are these newer scars. One is embedded deep and has the ability to guide you towards destruction
or restoration. The rest can be healed. Would you like me to do that for you?”

  I was taken aback by his systematic examination of my mind. Everything he said was accurate and I did feel the heavy weight of everything I had to do to free those children.

  “If I let you, will it change who I am?”

  “No. You will still have your memories and the emotions attached to those events. It’s just that you will be able to move past the more traumatizing aspects. I cannot say those scars haven’t already affected you on a base level. But your choices and your actions will always dictate who you are. Nothing I can do will change that fundamental fact.”

  “Okay. Do it.”

  He nodded and the tension in my shoulders loosened. He stood across from me, arms crossed and his eyes fixed on mine. If I didn’t know what his Talent was, I would have felt uncomfortable just standing there letting another man stare at me, but I knew he was working even if I couldn’t physically tell. Sweat started to accumulate in small beads on his upper lip.

  “There,” he whispered, as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his face and neck.

  “That’s it?” I didn’t feel any different.

  “Yes. Sadly, there wasn’t much I could do for you, but I was able to lessen the trauma of the fights and hopefully take an edge off the anger you’ve been holding onto since you started fighting.”

  Now that he mentioned it, the lurking rage that had kept me alive in the fight pits wasn’t there anymore. “Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you! You saved my only nephew from a horrible future. What I did today wasn’t enough. If you ever need my services again, just ask.” He handed me a card with a handwritten phone number under his usual business contacts. “That is the number to my personal communicator. I mean it, Kian. Anything. I’ll be there.”