Reaper (Dragon Prophecies Book 1)

by Hickory Mack

  Pascal

  He clapped Trillian on the shoulder and looked her in the eye. His second in command was a right vile bitch and not much to look at, but he knew she’d take care of things while he was gone. Unlike some of the others hanging about, she wouldn’t try usurping his lands during his absence. He made her life far too comfortable for her to stab him in the back.

  “I’m off. Whenever I find whatever it is that’s calling me south, I’ll bring it back here so we can all have a look at it,” he said to a round of raucous laughter. Mouro Pascal was the Lord of these lands, and his household consisted of demons like him. Wolverines.

  Vicious and territorial, it wasn’t easy to keep a pair of them together for long, but his power was enough to subdue nearly three dozen of them. Of course, it wasn’t as large of a house as his neighbor, that bastard Lord Makkai, but that wasn’t what mattered. Makkai’s house was fancy, dignified, and damned right snobbish. House Pascal was gritty, boisterous, and loud, but they were family.

  “Don’t get lost on your way back!” someone called from the back of the crowd, and Pascal raised a tattooed hand, accepting the jibe.

  “How could I? The way you lot smell, I could find this place with a blindfold on.”

  “He’s talking to you, Trill!” a woman shouted to more laughter. Pascal leaned in so Trillian could hear him over the noise.

  “Braer is out with the forest spirit. If he’s not back by the end of the week, go get him,” he ordered. Trill gave him a comically shocked look, but nodded. She was surprised that he’d let anyone borrow his prized imp, and he didn’t blame her. He loved playing games with that nasty little fucker. Braer was a type of imp that could track almost anything. Maybe he wasn’t as good as a hellhound, but he was damn close.

  He tended to keep the imp around where he could mess with him at a moment’s notice, but when the forest spirit who ruled the lands he called his own territory asked for a favor, he was damn well going to grant it. Ichio had never asked him for anything before. They tended to have a pretty hands-off relationship. So long as Pascal and his wolverines didn’t hurt the forest, Ichio let them stay. The situation suited both of them perfectly.

  With a final wave, he walked out the door of his underground home. His departure had already been delayed twice that day, and he was eager to leave. Whatever was calling him south had gotten under his skin, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had to be there.

  When he’d mentioned it to the forest spirit earlier, he’d gotten an odd look on his face, like he knew something, but Pascal had written it off. Ichio had looked like hell after everything that had happened a few weeks back. Hell, several people thought the hunters had killed the giant stag with all their bombs and the resulting forest fire. He’d been lucky enough to avoid the floods that had come after.

  He jumped over the little stone wall around the garden and took the path up and away from the stream that concealed his den. Once he was up, he turned south and jumped a hundred miles, the world sliding by in a blur below him. For a creature without wings, using spatial magic was the closest he’d ever come to actual flying.

  When he landed, he was still among the trees, and he’d managed to startle a flock of turkeys. The fucking birds made such a ruckus as they took off that he couldn’t hear himself think. Rolling up the sleeves on his white button-up shirt, more tattoos were revealed.

  He was inked from the first knuckle of each of his fingers and all the way up both arms. His chest and back were covered, but he was unmarked from the stomach down. Each and every piece of art had meant something to him when he’d had it added, but he couldn’t remember half of those meanings now.

  Pascal stroked his beard, more salt than pepper, and took in his surroundings. Nothing told him he’d gone far enough, so he jumped again, another hundred miles. He could push himself and jump five hundred miles at once, but Pascal hadn’t become a Lord by being stupid. Going that far all at once used up a lot of magic, and it might not be far enough. He’d tire himself, which would leave him vulnerable. Besides that, if he jumped past what he was looking for, it would take him even longer to find it.

  He adjusted slightly west to avoid the huge lake he knew to be directly south of him. There was a monster in that water that was neither demon nor fae, and he’d rather avoid it. This time, when he landed, the woods had changed. Instead of birch, pine, and ash, he was surrounded by maple, cottonwood, and oak.

  “Hmm. How far south are you?” he muttered. “Better question, what are you?”

  Pascal had never been hit by wanderlust before. The territory he called his own had been his since before the devil’s black fox had arrived in the area and changed the boundaries of every Lord’s territory. Pascal could be a mean fucker when provoked, and the fox had never once challenged him. They simply made a silent agreement to respect one another and not cause any trouble.

  It worked out in the end, as the wolverine hadn’t been willing to give up his land. His people were territorial, and what belonged to them was theirs, and nobody else’s. Just as what he was looking for would be.

  He jumped again, navigating the landing around a river. Pascal looked around with a scowl on his face. This was a big fucking continent, and though he’d already jumped three hundred miles, he didn’t feel like he was any closer to what he sought. In his mind, he’d thought he’d find whatever it was quickly, then spend some time playing around in whatever place he wound up before returning home. Now he wasn’t so sure it would be that easy.

  “What have I gotten myself into?” he grumbled. He jumped twice more, each time taking a moment to inspect his surroundings each time. The ground was flat now, and the trees had given way to prairie lands.

  “Five hundred fucking miles, and nothing,” he complained, spitting in the dirt. He hadn’t brought provisions, and he’d spent enough magic and energy that he was hungry. Pascal wasn’t used to being hungry. For anything. He was a simple man, who ate when he wanted to eat, fucked when he wanted to fuck, and slept when he wanted to sleep. That wasn’t about to change now.

  Narrowing his eyes, he looked out over the plains and raised his nose to the wind, breathing in the scents around him. He didn’t see any demons or magical creatures out here, but he could smell them. A smile revealing sharp canine teeth parted his lips. There wasn’t anything particularly strong, but there were enough of them to sate his hunger.

  Prairie dog demons. They were smart little bastards, and fast, but he was bigger, smarter, and faster.

  Shifting into his wolverine form was second nature since he spent as much time in his demon skin as his human form. His fingers formed long black claws, and the salt and pepper hair on his head turned to long silver and white fur. His tail was fringed, and his dark eyes were as sharp as his teeth.

  Everything was more clear in this form. Enhanced. He could feel the vibrations of creatures as small as a field mouse running along the ground. Pascal crept forward, keeping in mind that they had sentries, but his lighter fur was to his advantage. Most of his kind were dark brown and black, so his coloring usually made hunting harder, but out here in the grasses, it helped.

  Crouching as he creeped, he froze, his ear twitching in the direction of the sound of one of the little demons popping out of their hole. They were easily three times the size of a mortal prairie dog while in their demon form, but he was easily five times the size of a mortal wolverine. Most prairie dogs weren’t powerful enough to even have a human form, though some of them had a partial form.

  Careful, step by careful step, he moved closer until the wind shifted the grass and he locked eyes with a fat male. It rose up on its hind legs, but Pascal was on it before it could raise the alarm. He’d have to move fast now if he was going to get more than one; they’d smell the blood and go into hiding. Not that it would stop him. He could dig his way through their colony home in seconds.

  His wild cousins were small, but strong enough to take on wolves and bears, and Pascal was no different. He wasn’
t the biggest among the Demon Lords that surrounded him, but he was one of the strongest.

  Leaving the carcass, he darted forward, his claws giving him traction. One of the sentries barked, and prairie dogs scurried into their holes. Mentally cursing them out, Pascal targeted the closest furry body, diving head first into the hole she’d tried escaping into. She fought hard, but with a savage shake of his head, he snapped her neck. It was over.

  Trotting back with his prize, he lay with the carcass between his paws and had himself a good meal to bring back his energy. Once he was full, he rolled over, belly up, deciding to sleep in his wolverine form under the stars. He could continue looking for his mystery item in the morning.

  His dreams were strange again. The spirits around him were restless, calling to be put to peace, but he hadn’t brought his tools with him. Ever since the hunters had taken the devil’s fox, the spirits had bothered him. There were so many dead. His people had wanted to feast on their flesh, but the floods had prevented it, and the bodies had spoiled, decomposing in a soup of stinking decay.

  Pascal was a necromancer. He had a retinue of spirits at his bidding, most of them women who would take solid form when he fed them his magic. He wasn’t like that bastard Lord Roth, who reanimated corpses with his dead art. Those were no better than the zombies of human horror films. Pascal respected the spirits he worked with, and they adored him in return.

  But they wouldn’t let him fucking sleep. They were five hundred miles from home, yet they still pestered him. One of the spirits nestled up to him. She’d been a gorgeous example of a vixen in life. Not a kitsune, like that damned devil fox, but a shifter. Her whimpers were a higher pitch than usual, and she licked at his mouth, trying to get his attention.

  ‘Just tell me what you want,’ he growled. A man could only lose so much sleep before starting to lose his temper, even with his spiritual familiars. After a moment, the vixen was joined by a bobcat demon. His two favorite spirits, both trying to get him to understand the same thing.

  They started tugging at his fur until he snapped at them, then they ran a short distance before returning to him, repeating the same motion over and again, always running in the direction of home.

  ‘Why should we go back there? You didn’t make sense at home, either,’ he reminded them. It wasn’t like they were bound to any one place. They were bound to him by their own choice. He never added a spirit to his harem without her direct consent. There were a couple of males among the group, but only because of their exceptional abilities. His girls were chosen for their strength as well as their beauty.

  They showed him the same slideshow of images they had been for the past weeks. The fire. The flood. The bodies. His den. Himself crouched atop a stone in deep contemplation. The barrier of the nest he wanted so badly to crack into. Barriers weren’t Pascal's strong point, so it had successfully kept him out. The images grew darker. His crops withered and dying. His people falling ill. None of it made any sense. They were hale and healthy, and demons didn’t get run-of-the-mill diseases.

  ‘Stop,’ he snapped. ‘You aren’t showing me anything new, and you aren’t psychics. It’s not like you can see into the future. You’re showing me these ghastly things without reason!’

  The two shrank away, ghostly tears shining in their eyes. They couldn’t speak unless he used his magic to bring them forward into the physical realm, and he’d already tried that. When they’d arrived in their human forms, trembling with fear, they couldn’t tell him what was wrong. It drove him mad to be presented with a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

  Pascal grunted, turning away from his spirit’s tears. He should have asked the forest spirit for advice in trade for borrowing Braer, but he hadn’t thought about it at the time. He’d been too preoccupied with his decision to leave the den and his territories. It wasn’t like Ichio was going anywhere. He was a tough old stag, and he’d probably outlive them all.

  ‘I’ll ask the forest spirit if he knows what you’re trying to say when we get back,’ he said, trying to placate his girls. ‘For tonight, please, just let me fucking sleep. I have something important to do in the morning.’

  The bobcat spirit faded away, but the vixen stayed, staring at him with shrewd eyes as though she was still trying to convey a message. His lips pulled back into a snarl, baring his teeth. ‘I’m serious, Lithia. Fuck off, alright?’

  She lowered her eyes and hunched her shoulders. Giving him a last look, she turned and slunk away. They must have warned the other spirits because he was left alone for the rest of the night.

  Waking the next morning refreshed and renewed, he continued south on the feet of his wolverine for a while, taking in the sights and sounds of somewhere so unlike where he was from. No other demons dared to challenge him; even other Lords looked the other way as he made his way through their territories.

  After a while, he jumped another hundred miles and shifted back into his human form, squinting around at his surroundings with a sigh. This was taking forever, and he had never been a patient man. The pull was getting worse the further he traveled, like something was whispering in his ear to hurry.

  “Why the fuck do I want this thing so badly?” he cursed at the sky. A bird flew by singing a chipper song, and he lashed out at it, missing completely. “Get your happy ass out of here!”

  A pair of demons landed from a jump. “We were just about to say the same to you.”

  Pascal’s lips parted in a savage grin. A badger demon and dog shifter? Please. He had to give them some credit for showing absolutely no fear of him. “I’m going to give you boys the chance to try again. This time showing some proper respect.”

  “Respect? That’s funny. Lord Crane is tired of transients coming through here without asking for his pardon first. If you’re not going to offer respect to the territory's Lord, you can’t expect any in return,” the badger said. Pascal sneered. Badgers were so fucking full of themselves, the fearless bastards. His presence was probably the fuel behind the dog shifter’s bravery.

  “You’ve had other strangers come through here?” he asked conversationally, absently wondering if the Lady of House Makkai had come this way.

  “A blonde goddess and the bear god,” the badger growled, taking Pascal by surprise. Someone that powerful was traipsing around somewhere nearby, and he hadn’t even noticed.

  “Wait, blonde?”

  “Hair so long it touched the ground. She was every bit as arrogant as you are, with no regard for the owner of the land,” the dog confirmed, but Pascal only snickered. Lords didn’t own the land. They protected territories they’d claimed, but they didn’t pretend the land was theirs. The land belonged to the spirits.

  “You should consider yourselves fortunate to have seen her. Do you even know who that goddess was?” Pascal asked. The badger and dog stared blankly at him. “That was Epona. She’s not just some backwater goddess nobody has ever heard of. She’s extremely recognizable. There has to be something seriously wrong with your Lord to be offended by her visit.”

  The badger bristled at his words. “Lord Crane is far better known than some horse goddess. It doesn’t matter who she was, or who you are, for that matter. Show some respect! Get down on your knees and beg permission to pass through here.”

  “Beg permission from who, you? Do you think so much of yourself? The only Lord present that requires groveling is myself. You see, son, you’ve got me all wrong. I only get on my knees for beautiful women. It’s other men who get on their knees for me. Now piss off, I’ve got somewhere to be.”

  “Arrogance,” the badger hissed, pulling a dagger and crouching into an offensive position.

  Pascal shoved his hands in his pockets, sizing the badger up. They could be tough little bastards, but he’d only need one of his girls for this. He jabbed the sharp claw of his thumb into his palm and held it above the ground, allowing drops of blood to spill in the dirt.

  “Lithia,” he called. “It is time to serve your master.”

 
A swirl of air began, kicking up a tiny whirlwind of dirt. As it grew, a woman’s form took shape until Lithia stood between him and the other demons, facing him. An eerily beautiful doll made of earth and magic, her fingernails were long and black, sharpened into points, and her eyes were solid black pools. She was tall and willowy, with long dark hair and skin an unnaturally pale shade of white.

  She stepped forward and draped herself over Pascal, fitting her body against his to soak in the traces of magic that clung to his skin. He stroked her back absently and kissed the top of her head before she reached up and licked his neck. She’d take his blood if he let her.

  “Is that thing meant to frighten us?” the badger snarled, but the dog had the sense to look nervous. “Are you trying to show off? Who cares if you’re a necromancer? I’ve seen others like you before.”

  Pascal scoffed. “There are no others like me,” he said, petting Lithia once more. “Darling, these creatures are irritating. Take out the trash for me, would you?”

  The spirit encased in flesh gazed up at him with those blank eyes and gave him a look of pure longing, then turned to the dog and badger. Her lips drew back, showing razor sharp teeth. The badger adjusted the grip on his dagger, readying himself. If he had any sense, he’d jump back to wherever he came from. Lithia wasn’t a mindless corpse. She could think for herself.

  She lurched forward in a pretty good imitation of the zombie-like monstrosity a typical necromancer would create, and the badger grinned. It was exactly what he expected. He launched himself at her, stumbling when she smoothly sidestepped out of the way. She turned and grabbed the back of his head, her claws sinking into his flesh.

  Pascal watched dispassionately as the badger’s look of panic was quickly replaced by rage. He wrenched himself free, blood flowing down the back of his neck, while Lithia waited for his retaliatory attack, calmly licking chunks of his flesh from her claws. Pascal huffed out an amused laugh. She was stronger with fresh blood in her system.