The Rainmaker (Saga of the Chosen Book 2)

by Petra Landon

  “I have a job for you, Roman” the Elder announced, gesturing the young man to be seated.

  “Of course.” Roman moved to take a chair.

  “The First Wizard has requested ElThor’s assistance.”

  Roman’s piercing blue eyes snapped to his, an expression in them that caused TorElnor to shoot the boy a look of approval. Roman was keeping a close ear to the ground when it came to Chosen matters, TorElnor mused approvingly. Gossip and rumors were like air in their world — you could never have too much of it. It was the only way to keep abreast of the political machinations and changing alliances in their complicated world, where Magicks constantly jostled for power and influence over each other.

  “That must have come as a surprise to ElThor.” Roman restricted himself to a simple comment. It was an understatement. The relationship between the Wizards and the First Ones had been icy for generations. Though the First Ones had made no overtures to overcome it, the First Wizard had attempted, in her way, to foster a better equation with ElThor, who spoke for the First Ones on the CoC.

  “He turned her down, until Faoladh intervened with a personal appeal” TorElnor explained.

  The First Ones held Faoladh in great esteem. That Faoladh would intervene on behalf of the First Wizard was very interesting, Roman mused silently. Rumors of an unusual degree of co-operation between the pre-eminent Shifter in their world and the Wizard representative to the CoC had been swirling for months. Confident that the partnership would be short-lived, Roman had paid little attention to the whispers. Now, he realized for the first time that there might just be more to this than he’d assumed at first hearing.

  “ElThor has asked me to take care of this” TorElnor continued. “The Wizards require someone with the ability to asunder an artifact melded with old magic.”

  ElThor was Setik. While he represented all First Ones on the CoC, it was natural for him to reach out to TorElnor, the powerful leader of the Setik in the Americas.

  “Old magic, hmm” Roman murmured. “How old?”

  “That’s all they’re willing to tell us, Roman. If we agree to the request, we can ask more questions.”

  “You want me handle this?” Roman inquired. He could do this stuff in his sleep, old magic or not.

  TorElnor nodded. “I want you to find out what’s going on.”

  Roman arched his eyebrow, his blue eyes meeting the Elder’s perceptive gaze.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I like the idea of ElThor owing us one.” TorElnor’s shrewd eyes held the younger man’s gaze. “You know what I’d like even more, Roman? Finding out what the hell the First Wizard is cooking up with Faoladh’s Wyrs. I’ve been hearing rumors of some very strange goings on between those two unlikely allies. Then, this request from ElThor fell into my lap, and I thought of you.”

  “You want me to find out what the Wizards and Shifters are doing in bed together, as a precondition to using my abilities to help the Wizards” Roman spelt it out precisely.

  “In a nutshell” TorElnor assented. “The Wizards would never have come to us if they could handle the situation themselves. So, let’s make the most of it, Roman.”

  “Got it, Chief. I’ll have them singing to me in no time” Roman stated with a cheeky grin.

  “I know you will. That’s why I asked for you.” TorElnor had an answering twinkle in his eyes. The boy had confidence in spades, confidence that occasionally bordered on arrogance. Not that it worried TorElnor much. He was sure it would get ironed out in time, as the boy matured. Experience had a way of doing that to you.

  “I can be ready to travel in a few hours. Where am I going? Wizard Headquarters, I presume.”

  “No.” TorElnor shook his head, attempting to suppress his mirth. He knew very well what he told him next was going to flummox the boy. “The Wizard who requires assistance is in San Francisco.”

  “San Francisco. I’ll start packing.” Roman stood up, assuming the meeting to be over.

  “She’s a guest at the Lair” TorElnor remarked casually.

  Shock flashed on his face as Roman sat back down abruptly. “The Pack Lair?” he confirmed, his consternation clear.

  “Yes.”

  “What the fuck!”

  “A little crudely stated, but I do share your sentiments, Roman. From what I hear, this Wizard who lives at their Lair is protected by the local Wyr Pack.”

  Roman stared at him incredulously. Whispers about Shifters running an investigation for the Wizards, at Faoladh’s request, had periodically reached his ears, but this was something else.

  “San Francisco” he muttered. “That’s the Northern California Pack. Who’s the Alpha?”

  “Raoul Merceau” TorElnor said calmly. He was having way too much fun shaking up the boy.

  “Merceau” Roman shook his head in bewilderment. “What the hell! The man hates Wizards.”

  “Now you know why this old man is curious about the brewing partnership between the Wyrs and the Wizards” TorElnor said calmly.

  “I’m beginning to understand, yeah” Roman murmured, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “Good. But that can keep for a day or two. Let the Wizards stew a little. Should make them more amenable to answering questions when you show up to help them. I’ve another job for you before San Francisco.”

  Roman settled in comfortably. There was more, it seemed.

  “Something strange is going on with the Nagas.”

  “The snake people — the First Ones in India?” the younger Ancient inquired knowledgeably.

  “Yes. Their leader died a week ago.”

  “Old age?” Whatever old age meant to the First Ones with old magic in their veins.

  “No” TorElnor shook his head decisively. “He died very young for a First One. The death is suspicious.”

  “Murder?” Roman queried, a tad incredulously. Murder of a First One was tough to pull off and hence very rare. The Nagas came from very old magic — their king had to have been very powerful.

  “Looks like it” TorElnor assented. “Their new leader is dispatching an envoy to Portland. SivoTar will have the envoy met at the airport. That’s all the information I have. I want to know what the envoy is here for.”

  Roman nodded. SivoTar was a prominent leader of the Eru. Setik and Eru, while not enemies precisely, had always been competitive and liked to keep tabs on one another.

  “It might be nothing more than a simple courtesy call, Roman” TorElnor warned him. “The previous king was a friend of SivoTar’s. But if there’s more, I want to know.”

  Chapter 2

  The Lair hosts a celebration

  Magic skittered over her body, nearly overwhelming her, as she fought for control. The beast roared, demanding to be let out, the sound reverberating in her mind. Ill, her body weakened, she suspected the end was near. Soon, despite her best efforts, she would succumb, ceding to her beast. That would also spell the end for her. Her Shifter peers would snuff her out once she lost control of her beast. It was the way of her world. She had fought so very hard to not succumb, determined to deny the blue-eyed witch the satisfaction of a victory.

  The shed door rattled. Perhaps, it was time for the witch to check up on her. She opened her eyes to crane her neck with some difficulty towards the door. It slid open in a flurry of snow and howling wind. It must be winter now, she mused dreamily. The silver manacles on her ankle pulled as she attempted to swivel her head, drawing a moan from her. She had lost all sense of time, she realized dazedly. Months of starvation, agony, the witch’s brew of magic and silver had sapped her strength, but not her determination to survive.

  A shuffling sound heralded a new presence. A huge black bear, speckles of snow on its thick fur, shuffled forward to peer down at her. She could sense its bemusement at finding her shackled on the dirt floor. At first, she blinked up at the bear, unafraid of the large animal. Then, both her beast and she seemed to come to the same conclusion simultaneously — this was no bear. Her beast roared, aggression
ratcheting up in the presence of a competitor. Her beotan had finally broken through. Dimly, as if in a dream, she wondered what was to become of her now while the roars echoed through the barn. The bear moved, drawing her attention back to the animal. Without warning, a huge fist swung towards her and the world went dark.

  Tasia awoke with a silent scream, gasping for air, petrified and confused in the semi-darkness. It took her a moment to calm herself. This was her room at the Lair, she reminded herself, and the confusion was merely the aftermath of another nightmare, the same ones that continued to plague her with disastrous frequency since her association with the Shifters.

  What was happening to her, she wondered anew, alarm and confusion roiling in her. Wearied by the emotional and physical toll of the nightmares, Tasia was terrified of what they signified. Sometimes, she wondered whether it was possible to slowly lose one’s mind, the line between dreams and reality blurring over time. With the dire thoughts also came a resurgence of her steely resolve. Tasia shook off her fears to slip out of bed, making her weary way to the window to take in the view.

  In a different part of the city, a man stirred in his massive bed to turn his face towards the light drifting in from the bay windows. He closed his eyes, willing the past back into its closet while the moonlight anointed him. His pagan ancestors had once drawn their strength from the moon, believing their vigor and power a bounty from the Moon Goddess. Those days were long gone. They had now evolved to a point where their abilities were not dependent on its cycles anymore. Yet, many of his brethren reveled in its luminescence, believing the moon to greatly enhance their powers. For him, the matter was more evocative. The year of hell had taken much from him. He would never again take anything for granted — his life, his sanity, or his liberty; not even the freedom to see the moon or feel its life-giving caress on his skin when he wanted.

  It took but a few minutes for his ragged breathing to return to normal and the pounding of his heart to subside. Neither his body nor his mind could forget the past that easily. The lilt of a voice, the hint of a threat, the feeling of being closed in, the howl of the wind, the smell of hay and dirt … innocuous everyday happenings transported him back to the shed and his desperate struggle for survival. He had lived with the nightmares for a long time now, and had a time-tested routine to recover his equanimity after experiencing one.

  The unhuman eyes opened abruptly. Sweeping aside the bed sheets, he strode over to the window to lean against it. Muscles bunched with tension on his powerful forearms as he stared at the view. Usually, the memories bubbled up to the surface only when he was less vigilant, like in his dreams. But recently, there had been a few flashbacks even while awake. He knew why, of course. With his head and body arrayed in an epic struggle for dominance, his subconscious was actively trying to remind him of the scars he carried on him. Not that he needed any reminder, he mused savagely.

  The twinkling lights of the Bay Bridge soothed him, bringing him a measure of calm. He had always been a man to face his troubles head on, and it was time to deal with this mire, too. He had struggled and fought to keep his distance, all to no avail. That was done. Now, he could admit the truth to himself. He wanted her. It defied logic and reason, went against every instinct and every vow he had made to himself. Yet, he wanted her. Fate, that feckless witch, was playing its tricks on him again. Of all the women in the world, it dangled this one in front of him. A perfect package of naiveté, steel, power, and temptation, all wrapped up neatly with a bow. The hands on the sill clenched until he reminded himself to let go. He had told himself that he could not stand by while another naïve Chosen was put through hell to emerge as a shell of her former self. The perfect confluence of power and powerlessness in her was something he recognized only too well. She would not survive without allies or powerful champions, and he could not bear to see her lie trampled in the dust, broken inside in ways that would never heal again. Not that indomitable spirit, the generous heart, the steely determination or the expressive eyes, a mirror to her soul, that gazed up at him with a lethal combination of vulnerability, trust, desire and hope. He had tried to convince himself that she was not special, just a Chosen who had merely awakened his protective instincts by her circumstances and plight. But now, he was done lying to himself. Even Duncan had seen through him.

  As he stood watching the city sleep, he reminded himself that just because fate had played a cruel trick on him, it did not mean that he should accept her diktat. So what if he wanted her? He could still refuse to follow his heart. Fate would find out how strong-willed he could be when he put his mind to it. Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, warned the timely voice in his head. You want to keep your distance from her, then do it for the right reasons. Don’t walk away merely because you want fate to admit defeat. Because, reminded his logical self, that would give fate an easy victory she doesn’t deserve. Not after what she has already put you through.

  Reminded thus, he breathed deep, his eyes flickering to the moon again as it loomed large over his city. What did he want? It was time to be brutally honest with himself. A picture of her rose in his mind. Smiling at Hawk, the gray eyes lit with laughter while she teased him gently, suffused with the special affection she seemed to reserve for the young Shifter. In contrast, with him, she could not hide her wariness, trepidation or strain. Why should she? Had he not pushed her away, his subconscious self hard at work to remind both himself and her that they would always stand on the opposing sides of an invisible divide? That first night, despite her agitation and terror, he had managed to get through to her. Those big, expressive eyes had struck a chord deep in him, stirring something he had thought buried for good. Of course, he had then gone on a rampage, smashing to smithereens and stomping into the ground every tiny bit of that emotion by showing her what he was in large technicolor. Confident that this glimpse of his true colors would make her run as far from him as possible, he had set out to do just that. He was no hero. He was a cold, unfeeling and ruthless brute his Shifters followed because they knew how easily, willingly, and pitilessly, he would pound them into the ground if they disobeyed him. His lack of emotion is what made him such a dangerous man and such a fantastic Alpha.

  After his lesson, the depths of her gray eyes now reflected precisely the image of him he’d been intent on showing her all along. But now, he asked himself, what did he want? More importantly, what could he live with? He was not a vengeful bastard who’d throw her to the dogs simply because he found it difficult to deal with his burgeoning and complicated emotions after years of emptiness. She was here to stay with the Pack, at least for the foreseeable future. He could keep his distance if he had to, he knew. But could he ignore it if she turned to another man, like Hawk, someone willing to hazard his heart in this deadly game of risk and sentiment? Or would he burn like he had when the images of her in Hawk’s arms had stabbed at his gut, to pierce through his armor of will and control, blinding him with a toxic mix of rage and animus that stripped him bare, taking him back to a dark place that reminded him of the shed?

  He had never been a coward, he reminded himself. Even the blue-eyed witch had never been able to strip his spirit from him. He might have lost the fight momentarily to her but never his spirit. In fact, he had felt victorious at knowing that it was his spirit she had wanted to crush, not the hollow victory of inciting a betrayal by his beast. But if he allowed the witch to color his decision now, she would finally win. Did he not deserve a measure of peace, a chance at happiness, a semblance of normal, he asked himself, staring at the darkened city that had always called to him; his heart, mind and instincts engaged in the fiercest struggle for survival since his time in the shed.

  Tasia hesitated at the entrance, her eyes taking in the changes while she searched the gathered crowd for a familiar face. She was a regular at the Lair Café. Now mostly confined to the Lair, every meal was eaten there. But tonight, the hall had been transformed from the utilitarian dining space. The usual array of microwaves, refri
gerators and glass display cases that lined the room were gone. In their place, brightly-colored decorations and strategically placed arrangements of flowers made the vast space more inviting. The Café occupied a quarter of the second floor in the building that housed the Lair. The enormous hall seemed even more spacious tonight. Tasia’s eyes wandered over the candles placed in discreet corners to give the room a softened glow. Sienna had been busy, she mused in amusement. Hawk possessed many excellent qualities but a transformation like this, using soft and subtle touches, was beyond him.

  “Tasia.” Sara, in company with Sienna, waved at her from across the room.

  Tasia wended her way through the crowds to her friends.

  “You look wonderful, Tasia” Sara greeted her with a hug. Sara had never seen her friend in a dress before. The simple rust-colored dress made Tasia’s olive skin glow, showing off her petite figure to perfection. Her dark hair had been carefully swept up, with tiny wisps framing her small face. From her ears dangled the silver earrings her Papa had given her — Tasia’s only remaining memento from him.