Chaste Widow (Vanderbrook Champions Book 4)

by Edmund Hughes

  “I… can’t handle this,” she said.

  Second Wind laughed.

  “Why don’t I answer a few of the questions I’m sure you have?” he offered. “He was the original. Created me right before the incident that destroyed Rain Dancer, expecting to die.”

  “Stop it,” said Malcolm. “This is cruel.”

  “Oh no, I think keeping this from her was cruel,” said Second Wind. “See, Tapestry, for the past few weeks it’s mostly been me. The one that courted you properly, that was me. The one that didn’t work so hard to push you away, also me. The one that you had sex with most recently, however…”

  Tapestry clamped her hands over her mouth and slowly shook her head. Her eyes filled with horror and disgust… and tears.

  “I thought you might react like that!” said Second Wind. “I know, it’s messed up, isn’t it? Good thing you can tell us apart now.”

  Second Wind’s grin was an evil thing. Malcolm took a step in Tapestry’s direction. She immediately held up her hand, warning him to stay back as though warding off a rabid animal.

  “No…” whispered Tapestry. “How… could you do something like this? I thought… I thought I was in love. Now I don’t even know with who, or… what.”

  “I know,” said Second Wind. “Oh, how well I know your pain. Identity… existence. It’s a complicated thing. But since we have so much more to discuss, I’m going to leave this conversation for the two of you to finish later.”

  Malcolm felt emotion surging in his chest, anger and frustration. It was for Second Wind as much as it was for himself. There was no real distinction between the two of them, as far as his feelings were concerned. Second Wind was just the long fermenting crust of one of his most profound mistakes.

  “I think what we need to discuss now,” Malcolm said, carefully, “goes beyond words.”

  He lunged forward, pulling the taser from the cargo pocket of his pants and stabbing it toward Second Wind. It was a surprise attack, but one he’d used before. Despite that, Malcolm expected it to work, and at least in execution, it almost did.

  The taser never made contact with Second Wind’s shoulder. An ethereal green appendage grabbed it before it came within a few inches of his skin, glowing and vibrating with power. Second Wind grinned at Malcolm, and after a couple of seconds, gave a small shrug.

  “Multi took some blood sample from dozens of other champions, sprytes, and demons,” said Second Wind. “Apparently, that’s all I need now. It’s like my power mimicry is on steroids. Just ask Tapestry.”

  Tapestry’s eyes widened suddenly, as though she’d remembered something important, something that cut through the fugue of her confusion and pain over the identity of the man she’d fallen in love with.

  “Malcolm!” she shouted. “Get back! Don’t let him touch you!”

  “Too late.” Second Wind grinned as he took hold of Malcolm’s hand. Malcolm felt an odd tingling sensation, similar to his power mimicry, but in reverse. It was immediately followed by a sudden cessation of awareness, as though he’d just closed one eye, except it was his superpower that was gone.

  “I absorb abilities for keeps now,” said Second Wind. “And not just one at a time. Tapestry’s will prove to be the most useful. Yours… I’m just taking it to spite you.”

  His smile was a cruel thing. Malcolm let out a roar of pure anger and took a swing at him. Second Wind slammed him against Tapestry’s wall with the wind, and Malcolm crashed hard enough to leave an impression.

  “I’ve already become more powerful than I can explain in the time we have,” said Second Wind. “More powerful than Savior was. More powerful than anyone will ever be able to match. And I’m going to do what you never could. Set the world onto a new path.”

  “A new path…” said Malcolm. He shook his head, though part of him held a desperate hope that there was enough of himself left in Second Wind to give him a moral compass.

  “A new path,” repeated Second Wind. “Of course, first I’ll have to knock it off its old one.”

  He nodded one last time to Malcolm and Tapestry, and then flew from the house in a sudden burst of movement. The stillness left behind by his departure made Malcolm aware of the pounding pain in the back of his skull.

  “…Tapestry,” he said. “I am so sorry.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. She slowly shook her head. Melanie had been awoken from the commotion, and was making her way downstairs slowly, only half awake and confused.

  “What’s going on?” mumbled Melanie.

  As though in response, the ground began to shake underneath their feet, and light flashed through the windows. Malcolm walked outside onto the lawn and stared up at the sky. Mushroom clouds were rising from three separate explosions on the horizon. Another blast created a fourth. The lights of the neighborhood flicked off, though the ambient glow of Armageddon was easy enough for them to see by.

  He turned around to see if Tapestry and Melanie had followed him. The door was shut. He tried the handle, and found it soundly locked.

  “Tapestry!” he called, knocking on it. “Hey! Don’t shut me out! We need to figure out what we’re going to do!”

  A couple of seconds went by. When Malcolm stopped banging on the wood, he heard her reply.

  “…I don’t even know who you are,” she said.

  CHAPTER 32

  The next few hours passed by in a blur. The looting had begun by the time Malcolm reached his apartment. He found the pistol that Tapestry had given him, the only thing that seemed to matter much as bands of angry men and angrier monsters ran through the streets, causing havoc as the world went completely off rails.

  Electricity was out all across Vanderbrook, but Malcolm got a small update midway through the morning when a police vehicle slowly made its way down the street, booming an announcement over its loudspeaker. The officer inside claimed that martial law was in effect, which would have seemed more credible if a demon hadn’t approached with a small gang in tow to flip the cruiser over and light it on fire. Malcolm actually recognized the demon, one by the name of Bicep who was a regular at Terri’s Tavern.

  He made the trek back to Tapestry’s house that afternoon. Her car was gone, along with most of the food in her fridge, lots of clothing, and toothbrushes. She and Melanie wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon, and Malcolm couldn’t blame them.

  She doesn’t owe me anything for my lies. And with Vanderbrook the way it is, she’s doing what’s smart for her family.

  His apartment had been looted by the time he got back to it, though what anyone would want with his PS4 and flat screen with dubious prospects of electricity ever returning was an open question.

  He took what little clothing had been left to him, along with a few things he’d bought for Rose, and made the move to his hideout. Without electricity, it felt dank and dreary, but it was well hidden and felt appropriate, given the chaos descending on the town.

  Over the next several days Malcolm learned that it wasn’t just Vanderbrook that was in turmoil. While out scavenging for what he could in the midst of the destruction, he joined a small, ragged looking crowd gathered around a man with a battery powered radio. A deathly silence fell over the group as they listened.

  London, New York, Paris, Chicago… The list of major cities that had been virtually wiped off the map by Second Wind went on and on, extending into Asia, South America, even Australia and Africa. Multi had contributed in his own way, blowing up major highways within the United States, crippling power plants and points of infrastructure. It was as though his suicide bombings in Vanderbrook had just been a warmup for what came next.

  The radio message ended by warning people to stay inside, and to avoid any marauding groups of men or monsters they might see. It made no mention of a governmental response, military, police, or even armed militia fighting to maintain order.

  The crowd of people seemed to understand it on the same level that he did. As soon as the message looped back to its beginning, a husk
y man made a grab for the radio, trying to steal it for himself. Punches were thrown. A gun went off. Malcolm slipped away as soon as he could, holding his gun in one hand and his taser in the other.

  He felt naked without his powers, and spent half an hour waiting for a group of men pillaging buildings near his hideout to move on before sneaking into the warehouse and down through the hatch. The sense of hopelessness that overtook Malcolm that night was almost enough to make him give up.

  But he didn’t. He was still alive, and that meant that he had to keep going, even without the superpowers that he’d come to take for granted.

  He would find Rose, and make things right with Tapestry. Those were both foregone conclusions. The last promise he made to himself, the one that he knew was long overdue, made him tremble both anger and fear.

  He would track down Second Wind, and kill him.

  THE END

  Expect book five around September 10th, 2017. Once this series is complete, I will be taking a one to two month break before publishing by next book. Don’t panic! It’s just for the sake of the sanity of my editor. I will still be writing and have plenty of new content to share come November or December.

  For updates on future releases, special promotions, and beta reading opportunities, check out my website. It’s a great place to leave a comment, complaint, or have a rambling discussion about why there’s so much sex in my books.

  Thanks for reading.

  Edmund Hughes

  Moons of Carnathia

  CHAPTER 1

  I would give my clothes willingly to the poor and suffering, walk exposed and naked through the street. For all to see me as I am and make their own choice, including the lonely, the wandering, and the desperate, is but another test of true faith. – Iathia the Pious, Book of Stars

  ZAK

  The air was clean, and the third season sun hung halfway down to the horizon. Zakarias felt the ship swaying underneath him as he stared out across the water, observing the reflection of the knotted white clouds overhead.

  Krexellious, the rose moon, had just begun its afternoon ascent. The sky was otherwise clear, and the sea was calm and easy, devoid of the massive storms that usually ravaged the Arkaian island coasts late in the year.

  Other than the Sand Angel, there were no other vessels resting on the nearby ocean. A larger than average wave crashed into the bow, shifting the ship’s hull just enough to force Zak into gripping onto the railing he’d been using as a seat.

  He’d been on bigger ships before, but not often and not for long. The Sand Angel was somewhere in the middle of the upper size tier, fifty feet long and roomy enough to be comfortable for Zak and his three crewmates, who’d served as his deck family for the past five years.

  The water was clear, and even the gleaming stripe of the sun’s reflection wasn’t enough to obscure his view of the sea life below. A donphar pup, tiny and excitable, surfaced into a quick, somersaulting jump above the water’s surface, blasting a geyser of mist out of its blowhole.

  “It’s a little early for you to be taking a break, Zak,” said Hachia. She slipped up behind him silently, somehow managing avoid all of the creakiest planks in the deck on her way.

  You’d think she’d get bored of sneaking up on me eventually…

  “I’m on watch,” said Zak. “Sharks, or qyss. They could attack at any time.” He grinned at her.

  “Real cute,” said Hachia. She didn’t smile back.

  Zak let out an exaggerated sigh. He turned around on the railing and dropped down to the deck, snagging up the net he’d left within arm’s reach and sorting out tangles.

  “You’re no fun,” he said. “Come on, the sky is clear, the seas are calm. And you’re looking especially beautiful, even though it’s been days since we’ve been to port.”

  Hachia folded her arms. The slightest hint of a smile pulled at the edges of her mouth.

  “Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” she said.

  “And so smart,” he said, winking. “Too smart for my diversionary tricks.”

  She brushed a few strands of hair out of her face and nodded to the net in his hands.

  “You’re already halfway there,” she said. “Good finger work on those knots. I notice things like that.”

  Zak rolled his eyes, but continued moving. He walked a few feet down along the railing, giving the donphar a safe berth before tossing over the net. He always did that, treating the smaller ones with kindness befitting their intelligence, and giving the massive, ship killing ones the distance and respect they deserved.

  “For your information, I wasn’t taking a break,” said Zak. “I was just thinking.”

  “Of course you were,” said Hachia. “Let me guess. You were imagining yourself skipping to one of the moons? Floating all the way up to Krex, and claiming it as your kingdom?”

  She moved in closer behind him, leaning over the railing in a manner that was unmistakably provocative. Hachia didn’t look at him directly, instead waiting for him to look at her, open to the attention of his potentially leering eyes.

  Zak pretended to ignore her, mostly out of necessity. Hachia was a walking mess of contradictions. She was attractive, three years younger than him at nineteen, with a lean body and alluring curves. Her sandy blonde hair managed to look good even when worn ragged, loose and comely around her shoulders. Unfortunately, she knew all of this, and had mostly gone through life taking advantage of the benefits of her appearance in a brusque and direct manner.

  In comparison, Zak was tall and lanky, and though the musculature of a life lived as an oceanfoot was nothing to scoff at, his tanned skin and minimalist, somewhat ragged clothing didn’t add much to his overall appearance. Not enough for him to feel as though he was playing against Hachia with a full plate of Parxus chips.

  “No,” said Zak. “I was thinking about something a little more grounded then that.”

  “So… what, then?” asked Hachia.

  Zak scowled.

  I should be used to this by now.

  “I give up, Hachia,” said Zak. “I’m working, see? Go back to Demetro and tell him that your mission has been accomplished.”

  Hachia’s lips puckered into a pout and she let out an exaggerated sigh.

  “Why do you always have to be this way?” she asked. “Other people like to have fun too, you know. My fun just happens to consist with occasionally torturing you.”

  “Well, I give you credit for admitting it,” said Zak. He reached over and dipped his fingers into one of the ship’s rain barrels as they passed by, pulling up his hand and flicking a palm’s worth of water in her direction. Hachia let out an annoyed shriek and glared at him.

  “You are… such a pain!” snapped Hachia.

  “No,” said Zak. “I just give unto others as I would dream for them to give unto me. A regular Iathia the Pious.”

  Hachia’s slate blue eyes gave away what she was about to do before she’d moved to do it, and Zak had time to dodge back and out of the way as she reached a hand into the rain barrel and countered his splash.

  The two of them laughed and forgot their pretenses for a moment, splashing water at each other and giggling like children. Zak found it hard to disengage, both with his actions and his eyes. Hachia had done it once again, and he was annoyed at himself for going along with it. She was being a pain and stealing his attention, and he knew her well enough to know what that meant.

  “That’s clean water, you vandals!” Bartrand stomped over, puffing out his chest and curling his huge arms in exaggerated anger. “Are you expecting us to drink the salt tonight?”

  “Never again,” said Zak, furrowing his brow. “It’s not exactly my idea of fun.”

  “Then knock it off,” said Bartrand. “Salt and stone, it never ends with the two of you.”

  Bartrand glared at them for a couple of seconds. He was a soft-hearted man, and Zak wasn’t surprised when the glare melted into a subdued grin.

  “See, Bartrand knows the run of thing
s,” said Hachia. “He’s about business. Always with his eyes on the ship, and his mind on the ocean.”

  Zak shook his head.

  “My mind was on the ocean,” he said. “Just... in a different way.”

  He didn’t mention that it was on what the ocean reminded him of, of the expanse of lost potential. The ocean was the Worldmaker’s bed, according to both the native Arkaian religion and the newer interpretations of the teachings of the Legacy Temple.

  The ocean was special, deeply entwined with the cycle of life, creation and being. His mother and father, both unknown to him, were sleeping in its depths. His mentor, Jonalan, the person who’d done more for him than anyone else, was now a part of it, buried under the deceptively plain blue surface.

  “It should be on the sky as much as the sea today,” said Bartrand. His voice was low, slow, and deliberate. “Today’s a lucky day.”

  “You always say that,” said Zak.

  Bartrand gave him a look and a smile, and Zak found himself oddly convinced by the man’s confidence. He let out a small chuckle, and was halfway into letting loose with another quip when he saw something that stopped him.

  Over the side of the ship, a school of prism fish swam by, each one the size of a man’s face, with curved, rainbow-colored fins on either side that were considered to be an expensive delicacy in Malnia. He snapped and gestured with his fingers, drawing the attention of the others.

  “By the stones!” shouted Bartrand. “Get a net and get down there! I’ll holler at the Under Prince to loop the ship around.”

  Zak nodded, already moving into position near the aft of the ship. Hachia didn’t waste time, either, pulling one of the larger nets from the outer storage cabinets and double checking the fold for tangles.