Aeromancist, The Beginning (Second Edition)
7 Forbidden Arts, Book 2
Charmaine Pauls
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Preview of Aeromancist (SECOND EDITION)
Afterword
Also by Charmaine Pauls
Book Blurbs
About the Author
Published by Charmaine Pauls
Montpellier, 34090, France
www.charmainepauls.com
Published in France
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Copyright © 2020 by Charmaine Pauls
All rights reserved.
Cover design by The Artful Cover
ISBN: 978-2-491833-06-0 (eBook)
ISBN: 979-8-558843-9-10 (Print)
Created with Vellum
Chapter 1
Whoa!
The glider in front of Lann Dreán dropped thirty feet, its left wing plunging toward the rugged peaks of the Santiago Andes Mountains. The Russian aeromancist tightened his fingers around his control stick in an involuntary reaction. Just in time, the erring pilot, Frank, righted the wings and caught a slipstream that carried the glider up.
Feminine laughter sounded in Lann’s headphones.
Mudak. Frank’s passenger should be frightened out of her wits, not sounding like she’s having the time of her life, which may very well be her last minutes if Frank didn’t quit the jackass stunts.
“Can you go higher?” she asked Frank. “Faster?”
Damn her. She was ruining the usual peace Lann enjoyed when up in the air. He knew the slipstreams, winds, and thermals like a mother knew her baby, and when they were on the ground, he was going to give Frank a piece of his mind for endangering his passenger’s life. Of course it didn’t help that the little hell’s angel encouraged Frank.
Frank chuckled. “I’d like to show off, but I’ve got to work with the wind. Faster isn’t an option. Higher could get us killed.”
Frank was right. He was gliding on the wave lift that pushed off the mountain peaks, and he was at maximum altitude for what conditions allowed.
The click of her tongue was mocking. “They said you were the best.”
Lann snorted at that.
Frank’s glider dipped sideways. Too steep. The maneuver evoked an ecstatic female shriek. Lann didn’t have to check his instruments to know the risk was uncalculated.
When Frank leveled the yawning glider, it bumped as it hit a downward airstream. The woman’s exclamation wasn’t any less excited. Fuck. She didn’t realize the aircraft was heading for a nosedive. With a flick of his hand, Lann created a mini cyclone that reversed the flow. The glider stabilized. He wasn’t supposed to use his ability to manipulate air unless it was during an approved and formal mission, but, even if it would serve Frank right to go into a tailspin, he wasn’t going to let the halfwit sacrifice his passenger.
Frank centered the yaw string three degrees too far west. His wing tipped again.
Lann couldn’t help but cut in. “Watch your tail, Frank. Crosswind at twenty degrees west, fifteen knots.”
“Got it, Lann,” Frank said. “I’m trying to scare this kitten, but she’s doing serious damage to my ego.”
Frank straightened his glider with an abrupt movement, making the woman giggle. She was enjoying the rough ride. Lann wouldn’t mind taking her on his own kind of ride. Her obvious love for flying captivated him. No doubt he could take her faster and higher.
“I’m going in,” Frank said, making use of a colder air current to make his descent.
She sighed. “Already?”
“We’ve been up for almost an hour,” Frank said. “Hate to disappoint you, but my time’s up.”
Lann wasn’t planning on going down so soon, but he requested landing clearance anyway. He steered the aircraft into the next down-current and pointed the nose in the direction of the club airfield.
His landing was a bit hard, but not because his hand was unsteady. His usually controlled temper threatened to explode. He needed to have a word with Frank.
The surge of adrenalin from the flight still rushed through his body as he lifted the dome and climbed down from the cockpit. Frank had taken the landing slot before him. His glider was already parked in the hangar, both seats empty.
Lann looked around for the pilot and his passenger. He spotted Frank where he leaned against the frame in the entrance of the hangar, gripping the wooden beam above him with one hand as he focused his attention on the female in front of him. That cocky male stance only portrayed one thing—sexual interest.
Whether the woman noticed or not, Lann couldn’t tell, because she had her back turned to him and he was too far away to hear what she was saying. Whatever it was, judging by Frank’s wolfish grin, he found it amusing. His reply made her laugh. She freed red, thick curls from a ponytail and tilted her face up at Frank as the idiot continued to spill whatever bullshit he was feeding her.
Lann pulled off his flying gloves and lifted the wing of the Glaser-Dirks DG-808 as he waited for a ground assistant to arrive. The back view he had of the little hell rider scored ten on all counts. Her shoulders were proud and her tight ass filled her faded jeans perfectly.
She cocked her hip and lifted her hand in greeting. “Thanks.”
The word drifted to Lann on the air, clear as a bell.
“Anytime, honey,” Frank called after her.
She skipped three steps backward, then turned and strode down the runway.
Lann watched her approach from under hooded eyes. Striking blue eyes. Luscious lips. Honey-bronze skin. The bounce in her step made that ruby-red hair move in time to the swing of her hips. As she neared, he noticed the flush on her cheeks and the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.
Then it happened.
She moved the air for him.
Sure as hell, the molecules around him started vibrating, touching him in ways he thought impossible. It was a legend, a myth of his kind. Nobody really believed a woman could do that to a man, and for a man possessed with air, it was more than an aphrodisiac. It was powerful, an all-consuming fantasy.
Oblivious to him, she bounced right on by him and headed for the car park. She got into a red Honda and turned the ignition. Music blasted from the open window. She flipped a pair of aviation sunglasses over her eyes, flung the car into gear, and squealed the tires as she popped the clutch.
“Careful,” Frank said next to him, “you’re going to drop the wing.”
Lann ignored the jab. “Who’s that?”
“Dunno. Control said they had a passenger for me when I got here. First time I gave her a lift.” His lips turned up in one corner. “Sure hope it wasn’t the last.”
The private club allowed people to hitch flights with their qualified pilots in exchange for donations. The funds were used to main
tain the club and for general improvements of the grounds. Lann never took passengers up because he loved flying solo. That might just change. He could picture strapping her in, pulling the safety harness over her breasts and securing the clasp between her legs.
“Close your mouth,” Frank teased. “You’re drooling.”
“What the hell were you thinking? That was a dangerous move up there.”
“I knew what I was doing.”
“You took a risk.”
“Isn’t that the whole idea of flying?”
“No,” Lann bit out.
“Why do you fly, Lann, if I may ask?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re a hell of a pilot, but you act like you’ve got a joystick up your ass.”
Up in the air was the only place where Lann had complete control. On the ground, his life was out of control often enough. “You know I have to report you.”
“Go ahead.” Frank grinned. “You won’t be the first.”
“Risk your life if you must, but not a passenger’s.”
“Look, the girl gave me flack, all right? She wanted it wilder.” Frank pulled his shoulders up to his chin. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Not what you fucking did up there.”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Maybe they should ban her from the club. I heard she gave Jimmy a go for his miles last weekend.”
Lann’s anger simmered another degree hotter. Jimmy owned a microlight. Everyone knew how unreliable those motorized kites were.
“Need a hand?” Frank asked, already walking around the glider to grab hold of the other wing. “I’ll help you push her inside.”
Eager to get to the office, Lann accepted. After pulling a protective cover over the plane, he went back to the admin building to log his hours. He waited until Frank left, then walked to the reception desk where Steven, a young Cessna pilot accumulating hours for his commercial license, did weekend duty.
“That woman,” Lann nodded in the general direction of the gates, “who is she?”
Steven looked up. “The redhead?” He shrugged. “Never told me her name. Comes in a lot. She’s done all of them—acrobatics, Cessna, hang glider…”
Lann scanned the desk. “She must sign an indemnity form.”
Steven frowned. “Yeah.”
“Let me see it.”
“That’s against protocol—” Steven started, but when Lann leaned over the counter, he cowered. He removed a file from the shelf behind him and held it tentatively to Lann. “Can I get into trouble for this?”
Lann snatched the hardcover from Steven’s hand and flipped it open. He quickly paged through the indemnity forms. Only one woman had signed in that morning. He took note of the name and identity number and dropped the file on the desk.
He made it back to his Pagani in the parking lot and drove home fast, where he tapped into the paranormal crime task force’s database. Cain Jones, his boss, was going to fry his ass for using their resources on a private matter, but he’d first have to fly all the way from New York to Santiago first.
After searching the database for a while, Lann put his fingertips together and leaned back in his chair. Son of a bitch. According to Home Affairs records, the woman he was looking for didn’t exist.
Chapter 2
Lann threw the newspaper down on his desk. He leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses with a groan. Alfonso, his butler, paused in the open door. With what seemed like an evaluation of Lann’s mood, he entered with a tray and cleared a space on the desk.
“Bad publicity, Sir?” Alfonso asked as he set a silver pot and porcelain cup in front of Lann.
“Accusations,” Lann mumbled. His Russian accent was heavier than usual, as it always was when he was upset.
Alfonso tidied some papers. “What is it this time, Sir, if I may ask?” He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back before saying with a glint in his eyes, “Sorcery?”
Of course Alfonso would’ve seen the article when he’d brought the morning paper up to the office. Speculations about the reason for Lann’s celibacy were splashed over the front page.
Alfonso’s lips lifted in synchrony with his left eyebrow. “Maybe if Sir accepted the lady journalist’s invitation, she wouldn’t have written that.”
Lann gave an irritated chuckle. “She’s a player. You know how I feel about that.”
“Yes, Sir,” Alfonso said dutifully. “You prefer females to be the prey.”
Lann fixed him with a stare. “I’m happy to be hunted, but I won’t be manipulated.”
He got to his feet and walked to the double French doors overlooking the square below. This month and a half was supposed to be a holiday, one he needed badly from the investigations he conducted as a member of Cain Jones’s paranormal crime task force, especially after the stress their commander, Josselin de Arradon, had recently put them all through when he’d gone ballistic over the very woman they’d been hunting, in the middle of one of their most intense cases. There was a moment when Lann had feared for all of their lives, worried that Joss was thinking with a body part other than his head. Not that he blamed him. Clelia d’Ambrois’s affection for their commander was evident from the start. He’d never seen a stronger bond between two people. Sometimes he even envied them, but then he reminded himself of what he was, and that a man like him had no future with a woman—at least nothing long term.
The escape to the dilapidated Franciscan monastery and church he’d bought with the intention of turning the buildings into a museum/home had seemed like a welcome break, but the renovations had been challenging and repeatedly delayed. The work on the monastery had only just been done. The church was far from finished. Add to that the damn media that wouldn’t leave him in peace, and his dream sabbatical had turned into a nightmare.
One more month remained before he was due back in New York to take up his post as aeromancist for the team. His only intention was to enjoy his new property and to immerse himself in the library that came with his purchase—a collection of twenty thousand antique books, many of them handwritten with the oldest dating back to 1494.
The athenaeum had been neglected. It pained him to see books of such value uncared for. When he bought the place, the books were scattered throughout the monastery in piles. They found them everywhere—in the former reading rooms on dust-layered desks, in the original library, in the great hall, and in the seventeenth century vault. There was even a stash in the abandoned church on the adjoining property. The Franciscan priory and its library had been privately owned, and when the proprietor had run out of funds, the government hadn’t had the resources to maintain the historical building or its treasures. It had been pure luck that the opportunity had come to his broker’s attention.
The first thing he’d instructed the builders to do was to extend the library to a seventy-foot hall fitted with three stories of built-in shelves. The ceiling had already been high enough to accommodate the additional levels. It only had to be reinforced. He’d taken special care with fire precautions and safety measures. Then he’d hired Martina, a librarian, and five helpers to catalogue the books and arrange them alphabetically. There was a lot still to be done. Now this journalist, Amelia, was on his tail like a missile, and he had to watch his back twenty-four seven for the fear of being exposed for what he was—a practitioner of a forbidden art.
Exposure would mean only one thing. He’d be hunted, and it wouldn’t be the kind of hunt Amelia was interested in. They’d involve a hell of a lot of bullets. He’d be executed by the organizations that saw his kind as a threat or chased by those who wanted to get their hands on his power. Even though his team was backed by government, it was a secret operation. No one was going to claim him if he got himself captured. Cain might try sending in a rescue team, but the ground rule was clear. If you got yourself caught, you were on your own. Gift hunters would risk their lives to acquire his art, his ability to
manipulate weather, because its acquisition meant a hefty prize in gold currency. The only way his art could be taken from him was if they killed him, and the only way to prevent it from being taken was by killing himself.
Throwing open the doors, he walked out onto the balcony and stared down at the garden. The shrubs and palm trees were a hidden oasis in the middle of an ugly part of town. Cut off from the outside noise and pollution, the square always had a calming effect on him. Especially the marble statue of Saint Teresa. It was an extraordinary piece of art. With a serene face tilted to the side and hands stretched out over the garden, she offered absolution and peace. How he yearned for peace, if only for a month.
The inner door on the ground floor hallway opened and a small group of women poured into the square. On Thursdays Lann opened his private library to the public. Since its opening a few weeks ago, a steady flow of regulars made use of the unusual privilege. He didn’t give the books out on loan, but the visitors could make use of the downstairs reading rooms until 5pm. He’d been criticized for it by experts, claiming that the books should remain under lock and key, but he’d paid for them and would be damned if he locked such treasures away when all the world should be able to enjoy them.
Resting his hands on the rail, he watched the women without much interest. His mind was elsewhere, on how to handle the unwelcome media exposure. It wasn’t the fact that the journalist had lots to say about his character. It was his old Russian nickname she’d somehow managed to dig up. Weatherman. If anyone knew how he’d acquired the name, he was screwed. He’d have to give up all of this and hide out in New York. Indefinitely. He had no intention of running like a—
His thoughts froze in mid-sentence. Everything came to a standstill as he focused on the person who’d just walked through the door—a redhead with curls hanging down her back, her lush body clad in a purple dress.
Aeromancist, The Beginning (SECOND EDITION): Prequel (7 Forbidden Arts Book 2) Page 1