The Chronicles of Kerrigan Prequel Series Books #1-3: Paranormal Fantasy Romance

by W. J. May

  “I thought you were told to leave him alone,” he said sharply to Tristan.

  Simon looked over in surprise; Tristan was already backing away, looking guilty.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  The man stared at him for a second but let it go, waving towards the doors. “Get out of here, Wardell; I’ll work with you tomorrow.”

  With an obedience that surprised Simon still more, Tristan vanished without another word, sailing back through the double doors and leaving the two of them alone.

  A sudden wave of nerves raced through Simon as he nervously met the man’s gaze.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized automatically. Something about this guy made him not want to get anywhere on his bad side. “I got a letter in my dorm this morning. It told me to come here—”

  “At seven. I know. I left you the letter.” Faster than the eye could see, the man was suddenly standing right in front of him, holding out his hand. “I’m Jason. You must be Simon Kerrigan.”

  Simon caught his breath, still stunned by the sudden proximity, but recovered himself enough to shake the man’s hand. “Uh…yeah. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  For a moment, they stood there sizing each other up.

  Then Jason flashed him a crooked smile, and tilted his head suddenly to the side. “Hey—you want to grab something to eat? I’m starving!”

  Chapter 5

  Forty minutes later, Simon and Jason were sitting at a booth in the kind of noisy, working-class establishment that Simon’s mother would have publically condemned. Never before had Simon made the trip from Guilder to London in less than an hour, but Jason seemed to take the legal speed limit as more of a suggestion than a rule. Not that Simon could blame him. He’d speed, too, if he was driving that car.

  The bright red power-house sat innocently in the lot right outside the window. Even in stillness, it completely dwarfed every other car around it.

  Jason noticed him staring, and flashed a conspiratorial grin.

  “Perks of the job. Sorry I didn’t get the chance to really let loose and show you what it can do—maybe next time.”

  Simon could think of nothing to say to this. He merely sat there in silence and tried to hide his surprise. The only thing more outrageous than the car he’d arrived in was the man who drove it.

  This was the representative of the Privy Council? This was the man who was supposed to help him with his training?

  To start—he had a ponytail. And not one of those Parliamentarian knock-offs you saw wandering sometimes around London, but a real-life, bad-ass ponytail. Something you’d see in a movie about car thieves or spies. As if the ponytail wasn’t enough, he’d paired it off with some artfully ripped jeans, a black muscle shirt, and a fang earring. That’s right—a fang earring. Simon simply couldn’t believe that the Privy Council would sanction such a thing.

  All in all—the guy looked tough. Attractive. Cool. The kind of guy that Simon would instinctively avoid because they usually turned out to be total douchebags.

  Except Jason didn’t seem that way at all. In fact, the first thing he did was flash Simon a warm smile and order a giant raspberry milkshake.

  “Drink of the gods,” he muttered to Simon under his breath as the waitress scribbled it down. “Perfect way to power-up before a session.”

  Simon started grinning himself as Jason turned back to the girl to complete their order.

  “Along with that we’ll have two fish and chips with extra sauce, and—Simon, what do you want to drink?”

  Two pairs of eyes shot to his face, and Simon sat up a bit straighter. “Uh…how about another raspberry shake?”

  The waitress smiled to herself as Jason flashed his biggest grin yet. “You won’t be sorry. I’m telling you…there’s nothing like it.”

  The woman disappeared and the two men were left alone at the table.

  “So,” Simon began uncomfortably, “you’re going to be…like…”

  Jason tilted his head mockingly to the side. “Your trainer?”

  A flush of color blossomed in Simon’s cheeks. “Yeah. That.”

  “I sure am.” With a restless energy he couldn’t seem to ignore, Jason started shredding open the sugar packets, one by one. “Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m just some guy who happened to walk on in you in the Oratory and wanted some company for lunch. Maybe your real trainer is in there right now, wondering what the hell is taking you so long.”

  Wait…what?!

  The two of them slowly locked eyes, and every muscle in Simon’s body froze. The perpetual grin had vanished abruptly from Jason’s face, and his sparkling hazel eyes had gone cold.

  “I…I’m sorry,” Simon stammered, trying to figure out what was going on, “are you—”

  The sound of ringing laughter stopped him short.

  “I’m just messing with you, man! Geez—you’ve got to learn to lighten up!” Jason reached across the table and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve been trapped in that school too long!”

  After a second, Simon laughed nervously as well. His racing pulse slowed down to normal as Jason leaned back in his seat.

  “Sorry.” He ran a hand back through his messy curls. “It’s just been a hell of a week.”

  “I can imagine.” The smile remained, but Jason got a touch more serious. “Okay, first things first. I’m gonna train you but you can’t call me your trainer. Privy Council gets all annoyed when you use layman terms. You want to sound proper and shit. I’m your Botcher. You’re the Dagonet.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Botcher is basically a mentor.” Jason waved his hand. “You know the PC and their Tudor references. It’s so Middle Ages!” He rolled his eyes. “Botchers back in Henry the Eighth’s time mended clothes. So the PC back then used it as a secret term. The Botcher’s real job was to fix and mend tatù abilities. Train people. It’s now, like, some stupid term that they use with pride. Like a badge of honor.”

  “Okay…” Simon said, though he didn’t really get it. “Then a Dagonet is like a sword? You’re going to wield me into a weapon of power?”

  Jason burst out laughing. “You wish!” He tried to take the smirk off his face. “I mean, you might become a weapon of power, but a Dagonet isn’t a sword. It means idiot. Like a stupid knight.”

  Simon grinned. “Like a stupid knight that you’re going to wield into a powerful fighting machine.”

  Jason shrugged. “Yeah, guess you can think of it like that.” His face turned serious. “You had your birthday just a few days ago, isn’t that right?”

  “I did.” He automatically put his hand over his forearm. If asked a few days ago, Simon would have been bursting to share every little detail. But over the last forty-eight hours, he’d learned to approach the subject with a good deal of caution. Or better yet, he’d learned to avoid it entirely.

  Again, Jason didn’t seem to mind. He just flashed another grin as the waitress dropped off their drinks. Before Simon could even reach for it, he popped in both straws and slid one swiftly across the little table. Simon was only just able to catch it in time.

  “Drink,” Jason instructed sternly, “and tell me what you think. My first official command as your new Botcher task-master.”

  Simon fake-saluted and took a giant gulp. A rush of sugar hit him like a slap to the face, followed by a deliciously sweet flavor he was sure he’d come to crave. “It’s incredible.” He took another gulp. “I love it.”

  Jason nodded rather smugly and much more gracefully tucked into his own. For a moment, neither man said anything, but sat in pleasant silence, enjoying each other’s company.

  It wasn’t often that the words ‘I got my tatù,’ weren’t immediately followed up with ‘Let me see it’ in the inked community. They paired together as naturally as salt and pepper. But even after having been told the information, Jason showed not the slightest inclination to see what it was. In fact, he seemed far more interested in an attractive co-ed sitting across th
e diner than anything.

  Strangely enough, it made Simon like him even more. In fact, it made him want to roll up his sleeve and show him right there on the spot. Even after having only known him for less than an hour, he was somehow sure that Jason would have an interesting take.

  “So,” he tried to act as careless and unconcerned as his mentor, “have you been here before?” He backtracked a little at the blank look on Jason’s face. “To the diner, I mean.”

  Instead of answering, Jason’s eyes widened in shock. “You’ve never been here?”

  For the second time that day, Simon flushed. He wished he would stop doing that. At least not until he had a fang earring of his own to off-set the balance of ‘cool.’ “Nope, never.”

  “Well, in that case, let me be the first to welcome you.” Jason spread his arms over the side of the booth as if he’d had a personal hand in building it. “Best fish and chips in all of London. It’s also the closest one to the school, so it’s become a kind of unofficial gang hangout. At least, it was back in my day.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Simon’s eyes lit up as he leaned forward to listen.

  Growing up in his house, talk about previous generations of Guilder alumnae had always been scarce. Most days, it seemed like his father wanted to act as oblivious as his mother and pretend the entire concept didn’t exist. Needless to say, Simon was thrilled to get whatever details he could.

  “That’s right.” Jason took another swig of his shake. “Sneaking out, breaking curfew, meeting up with girls.” He flashed the waitress a little wink and she almost dropped the tray she was carrying. “You know the twitch that Professor Vane has in his left eye?”

  Simon nodded eagerly.

  “That was me.”

  This time, both men erupted in laughter at the same time—completely unconcerned with the other patrons of the diner. It went on loud and long, bolstered occasionally by impersonations of the professor’s nervous eye. By the time the waitress dropped off their plates of food, Simon was officially having the best time he’d had with anyone besides Argyle since heading off to school.

  “So how the hell is it that you’re my trainer—Botcher?” he finally asked, munching on the edge of a chip. “I mean, how were you even offered a job if you were such a…” He stopped suddenly, worried he’d gone too far.

  But Jason just grinned. “Such a…delight?”

  “Yeah,” Simon laughed, “such a delight.”

  “Well,” Jason stretched his arm across the table and began rolling up his sleeve, “it probably had something to do with my tatù.”

  At first, Simon was shocked that he was exposing it out in the open. Even though any passerby would surely just see it as a regular tattoo, his eyes still darted nervously around as if the secret police could come busting in at any second.

  Then curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned forward to get a better look.

  It was some sort of bird. But this was no songbird or turtledove. It was a bird of prey. Even etched in silhouette, the thing looked dangerous. Its clawed talons were stretched out in front of it as it dove with obvious speed down the crook of Jason’s arm.

  “It’s a falcon,” Jason answered his silent question. “A hunter.”

  Simon nodded appreciatively. “Looks fast,” he murmured.

  “It’s not a sustained speed. Falcons hover in the air,” Jason’s hand floated up to mimic his narration, “waiting for the opportunity—to strike.”

  Faster than the eye could see, Jason’s hand streaked between them and grabbed Simon’s straw. Before Simon could even register what had happened, he was already back in his seat, twirling it almost smugly between his fingers. Like a gloating circus performer waving his baton.

  Simon’s eyes widened as they made the slow journey from his cup to his mentor’s hand. He had never seen anything like that. Even the boys with speed tatùs couldn’t move that fast.

  And not a drop had been spilled.

  “When they do, there isn’t anything faster.”

  Simon believed that. He believed it with all his heart.

  “That’s amazing,” he murmured, truly awed by both the capacity of the tatù, and the effortless manner in which it had been used. “Seriously, I couldn’t even—”

  “It’s a party trick,” Jason interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The real show is back on the training room floor at Guilder. That’s where the magic happens.” He flashed Simon another signature wink and leaned back in his chair, almost like he was waiting for something to happen. When all he got was a returning smile, he returned to his fish and chips without a care in the world. “So, Kerrigan, huh?” He thought it over with a little frown. “I don’t know the name.”

  “Oh, you will,” Simon joked half-heartedly. He picked up a chip and twirled it sullenly in the air before dropping it back to his plate. “Just check the Guilder want-ads. You know, ‘looking for roommate, lab-partner,’ that sort of thing. Or you could always check the obituaries.” A flashback of the unspeakable rage in Tristan’s eyes flickered through his head and he stifled a shudder. “I’m sure you’ll see my name in there before long.”

  Drawn and quartered, it’ll say. Or maybe ‘hung up by his fingernails.’ He wasn’t up to date on the latest preferences used by an angry mob. He’d have to do a little research.

  Jason chuckled. “What did you do? Sleep with the dean’s wife?”

  Simon looked up in surprise. He had to be talking to the one person in the tatù community who hadn’t already heard the news. But upon second thought, that didn’t really surprise him. Jason looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t give a damn about the Guilder rumor mill. “Actually, I got into a fight with Tristan Wardell. I kind of…” he bowed his head; every time he said it out loud, in sounded a little worse, “…broke his arm.”

  Jason raised his eyebrows.

  “Accidentally,” Simon added in a rush. “I’d—I’d never do something like that on purpose.”

  Nice work, Simon. Way to volunteer the cheerful anecdote to your new trainer. A guy who it sounds like is also Wardell’s trainer. I’ll probably be the only person in Guilder history to have his invitation to train revoked the same day it was presented.

  Fighting back a wave of nerves so strong it almost made him sick, Simon forced himself to lift his eyes to Jason. Was he going to laugh it off the same way he did everything else? Or was he going to get up from the table and simply walk away, refuse to train him? He had to have a serious bone in there somewhere, otherwise the Privy Council would never have made him a mentor.

  After what felt like an eternity, Jason finally returned his gaze. He didn’t laugh, but neither did he look upset. Instead, he settled on thoughtful.

  “Tristan’s a tough kid. And he’s got some great ink.” He cocked his head and looked at Simon with a rather appraising gaze. “You threw him?”

  “Only after he attacked me—”

  “Simon, I don’t care why. You threw him?” Jason’s eyes dilated with abnormal intensity, searching for the truth. It was a truth that could potentially stop his career before it even began, but, for whatever reason, Simon didn’t freak out. He got calm. A quiet, steady calm.

  “Fifty feet.” Still keeping his eyes on Jason, he slowly rolled up his sleeve. The warlock shimmered in the air between them, as indecipherable and mystifying as ever.

  It was like a curtain had been rolled back. For the first time all afternoon, Jason’s careless façade melted clean away. His lips parted in shock and wonder, and as he stared down at the ink a very peculiar expression flitted across his face.

  But he said nothing. Not a single word.

  A second later, the old Jason was back. “Simon…what the hell is that?”

  Without stopping to think, Simon yanked down his sleeve, bristling defensively, only to have Jason pull it back up again.

  “Did you draw that on yourself?”

  Simon’s face turned bright red. “Excuse me?”

  “Use a l
ittle magic marker?”

  “Listen—” He pushed to his feet in a rage, but Jason caught his arm and pushed him gently back.

  “Simon, I’m kidding.” He chuckled quietly at his fuming apprentice before tentatively reaching for his sleeve again. “May I?”

  For a second, Simon set his jaw and remained perfectly still. But that teasing smile wore him down, and the next thing he knew he was letting Jason examine the ink once again.

  This time, he did it without the jokes. “I haven’t seen one like this before—not an entire person. There have been a few skeletal frames now and again, but they’re rare. And they’re usually for doctors.” His eyes flicked up with the hint of a smile. “I’m guessing this thing isn’t going to make you a doctor.”

  Simon grinned, trying to keep his cool despite his rising excitement. “It’s a warlock.”

  “A warlock, huh?” Jason raised his eyebrows with a teasing grin. “You seem pretty confident in that assessment, considering the ink’s brand new.”

  It was a good point. But, since as far as he knew, Simon was the only person alive to have been gifted with such ink, he felt he had the right to claim it. “When you know, you know,” he said simply. Then he instantly regretted it. It was the kind of one-liner that sounded a lot better in his head.

  Jason apparently thought so, too, because he chuckled to himself before downing the rest of his shake. “Let’s put it to a vote, shall we?”

  Before Simon could wonder what exactly that meant, Jason lifted his hand and beckoned over their pretty waitress.

  “What are you doing?” Simon hissed, fingers scrambling to roll down his sleeve as the woman made her way over.

  “Relax, Kerrigan.” Jason’s hand shot out and stopped him with lightning speed. “Just having a little fun.”

  “Can I get you something else?”

  Both men stopped their arguing at once, and looked up with twin innocent smiles. She was even prettier up close than Simon had thought. Shiny chestnut curls, wide brown eyes, creamy skin peppered with the faintest sprinkling of freckles. Ask him a few months ago, and he might have been interested. But not anymore. He’d met his soulmate over the winter holidays and there was no going back. Not even this lovely lady was enough to tempt him.