by Lexi Ostrow
“Cockiness. Unbecoming if it was your brother.” He waved a hand and closed the viewing doorway on Dale and Breena. “Good thing I’m not my brother.”
The window closed leaving him alone in the house with nothing more than the gaping hole he’d created across from his couch. He’d been fiddling with it for days with no luck. The thing had just shut down, leaving the swirling colors over a blank white space, exactly like what he would see if he opened up his front door and stared out onto the plane that existed between all worlds.
He couldn’t get Hayley’s eyes from his mind, or the way she’d purposefully stared at him three different times. She was human, he couldn’t see her glowing, which meant something had to happen with her, and soon. He didn’t interact with humans. If the viewing came open again, and she kept chewing on her lower lip as she stared at him, he was going to lose it.
“You need to get laid. You really need to get laid,” he said as he tied the fabric belt on the trench coat.
Things had felt like hell the past few months, and they were hopefully on the track to settling down. All of the activity unnerved him. He was ready for the war, ready to show Demus how foolish he was to think he could win anything against him. But he needed a little break. Just some time to fully heal from Huracan’s punishments and visit each of his warriors. It had been forever since he’d checked in on anyone, well not forever really. Just since the drama with Ciara had begun almost a year before.
“A year.” The words were a breathy whisper. A year before, he had the most powerful Word Speaker in all of time on his side. A few months before, he had lost her and gained another. A few days before, he had lost the power once again. Thankfully, with all said and done, the year had passed, and he still held all the pieces in the war.
His brother had been foolish to change his name so quickly. He’d been even more foolish to boast about it to him. There were lines in the sand that Huracan’s little protection prevented him from passing. But he had a feeling there was a Guardian who just might be able to take care of that.
Huracan had known, he hadn’t said as much while he’d tortured him, but he had known. The rules had been twisted for more than just Ciara and Dale. That hadn’t been unnoticed by Huracan. Just because Demus had been too self-absorbed to notice it, the God hadn’t, and he was certain of it.
“Dear, dear Alcott. I never thought abiding to your pleas would hold any bearing for me. Now I can see how wrong that assumption was.” He flicked his hand over the light switch and flashed himself to the only other living quarters on the plane besides his and Demus’.
The place was as opposite of his as it could be. Trash and junk littered the floor, and the man slumped down on the couch looked as if he hadn’t shaved in the month he’d been there—and possibly not showered, judging by the putrid smell that rose up as he approached the back of the couch.
“It’s time to get up, Alcott. You wanted to stay. You wanted the rules to be bent for you. Well, it’s time to prove that wasn’t a mistake.”
The blond head on the couch pressed into the cushions and titled backward to look at him. His eyes were a mess, a mixture of bloodshot lines and too much booze had made them glassy and red. They had no trouble narrowing on his own eyes as Alcott lifted his left arm and flipped him off.
Taking a deep breath, in he reminded himself not to kill or maim another Guardian. He really did need to work on his tact. Today just wasn’t going to be that day.
“Get in the shower and come back out here. You wanted to train, well, I’ve got the perfect person for you to practice on.”
**Read on for a sneak peek at Magic of Worlds (Guardians book 3), coming April 12, 2016.
Prologue
2 Years Ago
“That’s the thing about endings, they’re always there, Alcott. But no one said they had to be happy.”
The man in the trench coat put a hand on Alcott’s shoulder as if to comfort him. All it did was drag out a low growl.
“I didn’t need to see that. I didn’t want to see that.” Alcott pulled away from the man’s touch and stalked to the other side of the eerie white area he was in. It wasn’t a room, more a section of space that was stark white, save for the colorful swirls that danced over the walls by magic.
“You didn’t want to know she was happy? That she’d found her purpose in life?”
The ball of fire magic crackled in Alcott’s hand before he knew what he was doing, but he didn’t release it. He just let it simmer and dance over his palm as he watched. Power, so much power, and he’d never once done anything with it. The need to send it sailing toward the asshole that played his life like a deck of cards rode Alcott hard.
“That’s not what I meant. I’d forgotten all about her.” The admission was like a knife to his chest. “I wasn’t anyone for almost eight months. I was oblivious to everything because I’d been slammed back into a book without a Word Speaker. So I was nothing more than a description on a page.”
Alcott turned then, and let the ball of fire fizzle out. He’d never seen a reason to go head to head with the god, or demi-god, now was not the time to start. Closing the space between them, he locked his eyes onto the man’s silvery ones.
“But I was happy. I was who I was written to be. No crazy attacks, just the ones I was written to overcome. No remembering or thinking about how badly I’d failed Ciara. Just the life the author of my novel wanted me to have.”
The smile that slid over the man’s lips was friendly but sent a chill of unease through Alcott. “You have nothing to worry about then because, as soon as you go on through your doorway, you become that once more.” The man waved his hand from left to right in the space in front of him, and the doorway distortion began.
The small town in Minnesota that Alcott lived in, was written to live in, began to come into focus the wider the doorway grew until he could clearly see the small log cabin he lived in.
“A little reminder, Alcott, there is always the notion that the ending with Ciara wasn’t for you, but for her.”
The words sliced through him like a knife, leaving a stinging trail in his gut. He’d never even dreamed that Ciara would have wanted another meeting with him too. Her face though, her face had said she did. She’d run up to the doorway he stood behind, even as he’d tried to run through it and found himself stuck.
Alcott grimaced at his own selfishness. Once again, he hadn’t been the Guardian Ciara had needed him to be. He didn’t know anything about her new one, Stryder, and he never would because she had given up all her powers to be with Stryder.
Alcott stared, his eyes focusing hard on the log cabin. He wondered if, sooner or later, he would be able to look through the doorway at the mystical white wall. His hands clenched and unclenched at his side. He may never have another chance at being a Guardian, and the idea of returning to his book was as unappealing as always.
“What if I don’t want to go?” For the first time, Alcott saw confusion in the powerful man’s eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“What if I don’t want to be the noble Alcott this time, what if I don’t want to just get back into the book? Do I have a choice?”
The man’s face settled back into a mask of indifference. Any sign of humanity was gone. “I don’t think I need to tell you that you don’t have a choice.”
His eyes flashed colors from silver to the blood red. Alcott had seen a few times before. Determination rocked through Alcott’s body. He would go back, only it would be when he was good and ready. He’d failed at being the right Guardian, and sure, there were probably plenty of Guardians that weren’t “the one”, but he didn’t want to do this a second time unless the results were going to stick.
“If I have a good reason?” He locked his gaze on the man’s eyes, refusing to give in. Magic versus magic, he wouldn’t lose without a fight, but he was pretty sure the man was immortal and he wasn’t.
“I’d love to hear this.”
Suddenly, they weren’t in the
white room, but a normal looking living room, minus the wall to the left that had millions of tiny screens on it, all with people moving. Alcott walked up to them, curious as to why someone would have so many TV’s. It was incredibly boring actually. It seemed nothing of any consequence, until his eyes landed on the redheaded male he’d seen with Ciara moments prior—only the man was alone with a blonde female. Alcott’s hand reached out to touch the small picture.
“I wouldn’t do that. And by that, I mean don’t, or I’ll have to hurt you.”
Alcott turned to see the trench coat hanging on a wall hook, and the man casually sitting on a brown suede couch. “Those are Word Speakers aren’t they?” he asked incredulously.
“Fantastic deduction, Sherlock.”
Alcott had no idea who Sherlock was, and the man must have realized that a moment after he’d spoken.
“Oh, son of a bitch, you lived in a parallel world almost identical to the real one, how did you not have Sherlock Holmes?” He growled and shook his head. “Fuck it, whatever. I want to hear why on Earth you think I should keep you out of the book.”
“I want to be ready next time. I want to train, to prepare. I want to learn everything I can from you. I want to hand pick my next Word Speaker.”
The man’s only reaction was a bark of a laugh. He may have found humor in the situation, but his tone of voice of deadly cold, “What makes you think you’d be able to pick your own Word Speaker, Alcott?”
“You can see them. When they enter this lifestyle, and when they are choosing their Guardian. So I want to pick who I get.” Alcott crossed his arms over his chest and continued to stare at the man.
Names had power, and if he could figure out why this man never told anyone his name, they’d be in business.
“My, my. Bitterness has warped you a little hasn’t it? Good thing that heart of yours is still so pure, or I’d be worried I’d have to kill you to avoid my brother gaining such a strong Guardian.”
“I wasn’t strong enough for Ciara.”
“Well no, no one but Stryder or his brother’s would have been. The real point is the bond is formed by an emotional connection by the reader. You’re a young adult character, what makes you think another young Word Speaker will come around and that I can control their emotions?”
“You control so much, I’ve seen it. So, you put my book in someone’s immediate path when I pick the one. I’m convinced I can do the rest just the way I was written.”
The man’s fangs slipped past his lips, and Alcott took a step back. He’d been positive it would end in a fight, but he had hoped otherwise. Closing his own eyes, he took action, not to attack, but to find out the man’s name.
Alcott pushed his consciousness at the other man. Alcott was psychic, all blood witches were, but he had a feeling the man didn’t know it. Ciara hadn’t ever even known it, and it seemed the power had skipped her.
The man’s mind was ancient, a seemingly endless loop of caverns and turns, all protecting who he truly was. Alcott pushed onward, still not feeling an attack from the man, and he stopped as soon as he hit the center of the maze. Alcott wasn’t physically in the maze, so he’d only needed to locate the center metaphorically, to bypass all the history and events that were woven off the basic core of everyone’s memory—who they were.
Alcott saw so many names, he faltered in his confidence. The man had the power to change his identity, to realign the name that gave him power. Alcott heard the man say something but ignored him as he continued to navigate until the last, most recent name on the chain of memories formed in his mind.
A smile settled on Alcott’s face as the bargaining chip fell into place, and he opened his eyes, prepared to do business with quite possibly the most powerful man alive. “How about we try this again, Ryce?”
The mask slipped off, fear darted over every plane on the man’s face. Alcott felt a little sick inside, but not enough to back down.