The Awakened World Boxed Set

by William Stacey

  And then Rayan read an entry that changed her world.

  The journal tumbled from her fingers. "We were wrong," she whispered. "Even the Blessed Twins were wrong. How could we not have seen this?"

  It was never the wolf-bitch.

  Rayan hadn't failed, not yet.

  "Are the engines supposed to scream like that?" Angela Harriet Ritter—Angie to her friends—former mage of the Commonwealth and now a fugitive, asked, a tremor of fear in her voice. Just ahead loomed the oak and chaparral-covered slopes of the Cuyamaca Mountain range, standing as the unofficial and often-disputed border between the Commonwealth of Cascadia and the Democratic Republica of Mexicana del Norte. As the helicopter climbed to get over the mountains, the engines shrieked in protest.

  Angie gripped an overhead bulkhead for balance as she stood behind the two naked men who piloted the SH-507A Shrike Stealth Assault duo-rotor helicopter. A third naked man stood beside her, balanced easily on the heels of his feet as if he were standing on firm ground and not a bucking helicopter.

  Okay, that’s not exactly true, she mentally corrected herself. They’re not naked but wearing pants—at least they're not still covered in fur.

  The man flying the aircraft, the six-foot, four-inch wild-haired and red-bearded ex-Special Forces pilot Casey Seagrave, turned and grinned at her, his eyes shining above his oft-broken nose as if he were having the time of his life. "This ain't screaming, sweet cheeks, not yet, but wait for it." Then he began to laugh, clearly too pleased with himself.

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. Werewolves.

  "Focus on not slamming us into the side of a mountain," said his older brother Rowan in the copilot's seat, using the same tone a parent would with an unruly teenager.

  "Teach your mother how to suck eggs," Casey snapped back but returned his attention to flying the sophisticated aircraft.

  "Same mother, moron. And don't call the woman who just saved our lives sweet cheeks."

  Casey gave Angie a quick "aw shucks" smile over his thick shoulder. "Sorry, Angie-baby. But we're okay. This beauty doesn't even get warmed up until twenty-five hundred meters. Plenty of room to spare. You don't need to worry … unless you see me bailing out."

  She inhaled deeply as she watched the mountain’s slope loom closer. She easily made out each individual pine tree now as well as the thick scrubland so common in southern California—or at least what had once been California. "You're a real hoot, Casey," she said dryly.

  The two brothers shared the same bright-red hair, but Rowan's was shorter, curlier, and at least half gray and beginning to recede. In his late fifties, Rowan was the oldest of the Seagrave family. Although shorter and slighter of build than Casey, he was still the hardest man Angie had ever known—and she had served with some pretty tough soldiers when she had been a captain in the Home Guard. Rowan sported a thick mustache that other soldiers had always referred to as a "pornstache." There were no more porn stars than there was a state of California, but some pre-Awakening colloquialisms remained. Like Casey, Rowan had also been Special Forces, but while Casey had been an army aviator and member of the famous Night Stalkers, Rowan had been a Navy SEAL.

  The Seagraves had been drawn to military careers, all but the two youngest, Erin and Jay. Erin and Jay had only joined the Home Guard after the world had collapsed and after they had discovered they and their older brothers carried the werewolf gene that had been suppressed by the Fey Sleep. Not only had the world collapsed around the Seagrave family overnight, but they had discovered they were werewolves, slaves to the moon’s cycle. The Awakened World had been hard on their family, but then, it had been hard on everybody. At least the Seagraves were still alive, more than Angie could say for her own family, long dead now in the Food Wars that had followed the collapse of civilization eighteen years ago.

  Rowan glanced at the half-naked man standing beside Angie. "I'm not worried about getting there, but I am worried about getting shot out of the sky when they see us coming. How sure are you we'll have a warm welcome?"

  Casey snorted. "A surface-to-air missile is plenty warm, brother."

  Teccizcoatl—Tec—shook his head. "No MANPADs. If the Nortenos had missiles, they'd have laid an ambush for your family years ago."

  A flash of memory shot through Angie of the night a Norteno MANPAD—a man-portable anti-aircraft system—had done just that, shooting down her Shrike and killing everyone on board but her. That had been the first night she had ever used her source-mage magic. The powerful supernatural entity she shared her body with, a mysterious force she called the Other, had taken control of her body, stealing the life force of a young man and using it to kill others with fire spells she shouldn't have been capable of. She shuddered and suppressed the memory of that night, not wanting to relive it once again.

  "They have MANPADs," she corrected Tec. "I just don't know how many and where they are, but they could easily be in Canyon City."

  The strange man, of medium height but powerfully built, raised an eyebrow and considered her. She didn't know his background, but with his copper skin and long night-black hair, he looked Native American—except for his uncanny emerald eyes, which were at odds with his appearance. In the present light, they seemed almost to glow. "You're sure about that?"

  She pursed her lips, looking out the cockpit window and remembering the moment the missile had flashed up at them from the villa they had been assaulting. "Pretty sure."

  Tec was an enigma. Their enemies, the blood-cult called the Tzitzime, referred to Tec as the Jaguar Knight—no doubt because he was a were-jaguar—and treated him as their greatest foe. Were-jaguar or not, Tec had saved Angie's life twice and had proved himself a trustworthy if mysterious ally. Her adopted mother, the Fey druid Chararah Succubus, claimed he served a powerful master, one that even she would not oppose. And Angie couldn't think of anyone that had ever intimidated Char. Who are you? she wondered, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. And what secrets do you hold?

  All thoughts of Tec vanished when a computerized female voice came over the cockpit's instrument panel, warning repeatedly of "terrain collision imminence." With one hand on the joystick, Casey stabbed a button on the controls, shutting the voice off. "Terrain avoidance warning systems are for pussies!"

  "Oh shit," Angie said as the helicopter lurched suddenly, dipping forward and knocking her off balance.

  Tec's strong arm snaked around her waist, catching and holding her in place against his hard warrior's physique.

  "I got it, Angie-baby, I got it," Casey said as he adjusted the cyclic and angled the aircraft's nose up again, clearing the treetops near the mountain’s summit.

  "Thanks," Angie said as she pulled away from Tec, her face flushed. His arm had felt like a steel cable.

  Then they cleared the summit and shot out over its eastern slope. Ahead, the terrain fell away into a large valley system filled with forests of oak and shrub. Far to the east, the Laguna Mountain Range bordered the other end of the valley, a purple blur on the horizon.

  Rowan hooted, reaching out and slapping Casey's hairy chest with his palm. Casey frowned but kept his mouth shut. If any other man had done that, Angie knew, Casey would be stomping on his face, but Rowan wasn’t just any other man; he was the Seagrave family pack leader. Rowan turned in his seat to face Angie and Tec, a smile on his handsome, weathered features. "He's not good for much of anything useful, really, but my little brother can fly."

  "Nothing about me is little," said Casey, ignoring the half-assed compliment, "and I’d prove it, but I don’t want to embarrass Angie."

  "Just keep it in your pants and fly the helicopter," Rowan said.

  Casey sniffed. "We're past the disputed zone now and into the Democratic Republica Mexicana del Norte—home of the Norties. Not exactly our fans. They pretty much hate all us Seagraves."

  "Then don't call them Norties," Tec said. "They like that as much as you like being called Coasties. They prefer Nortenos, the Northerners."

 
He was right, Angie knew. The loose collection of walled cities along the western coast of the old United States was more correctly known as the Commonwealth of Cascadia, or Commonwealth for short, but most cities, such as their old home Sanwa City, were self-supporting and almost entirely independent. "We're not from the Commonwealth anymore," Angie said sadly. "I don't know what they should call us. Traitors maybe."

  "Fuck them," Casey said with venom. "That pretty boy Nathan Case was in dirty with the same Aztalan cult that murdered our brother. They betrayed us."

  "Truth," Rowan added.

  It was just one word, but it was said with such cold menace that it sent a shiver through Angie. By murdering Lewis Seagrave to summon the demon Gouger of Faces, Nathan Case and Mother Smoke Heart had made hard enemies of the Seagraves. Nathan had already died at the end of Angie's hexed sword, Nightfall, but the Seagraves hadn't even started on their path to payback. But it was coming, she knew. The entire Seagrave family were harder than nails and only slightly more reasonable. They had been the Home Guard's front-line Special Forces team, the ultimate soldiers with their heightened strength, speed, and other senses that were a by-product of their werewolf condition.

  They were not the kind of people anyone wanted as enemies, but neither was the powerful female mage Rayan Zar Davi, known to her Tzitzime blood-cultists as Mother Smoke Heart. That woman had tortured Angie with magic, and her psychotic servants had almost stuffed her into a shredding machine for the sheer perverted joy of it. Angie shivered. She never wanted to see that woman again.

  "Keep us near the hardtop," Rowan said. "I don't want anyone seeing us coming and lighting us up."

  Casey adjusted altitude, dropping quickly. Soon, they swept over the treetops.

  "It'll be fine," Tec said. "I've worked with the Nortenos before. I have a good relationship with Constance Morgan and her Brujas Fantasmas."

  Angie knew of Constance Morgan and her cadre of combat mages called the Brujas Fantasmas, the Ghost Witches. Morgan had earned a fearsome reputation with the Home Guard mages. Angie, too weak in magic to serve as a combat mage, had been the Home Guard’s intel officer, the S2. As the S2, Angie had studied Morgan’s dossier. "Know your enemy," Nathan had always insisted.

  Morgan and her combat mages had been taught by the leader of the Coronado Fey Enclave, the elven Queen Elenaril Cloudborn, a grandmaster mage rumored to be at least as powerful as Angie's own adopted mother, Char, had been.

  "And what are you, exactly?" Rowan asked. "Other than a Norteno were-panther?"

  "Were-jaguar," Tec corrected him. "And I'm not affiliated with the Nortenos. I'm a free agent, but I've worked with them many times."

  "A were-jaguar," Rowan repeated. "That’s odd. The mission that Nathan Case sent us on that set us up for capture by these Tzitzime fucks had been to bag a Norteno assassin called the Jaguar Knight."

  "Me, and I'm no assassin. Well, no more than you or any of your family are. But the Tzitzime have cause to hate me more than you. Our enemies are the same, which means my allies will be your allies, and the Nortenos are my allies."

  "That's not what it means at all," Rowan said.

  Angie bit her lip. "He's not lying about the Nortenos hating his family. And they don't exactly love me, either. For good reasons."

  Casey snorted in amusement, and she flashed a dirty look at the back of his head. The Nortenos had a nickname for Angie—the Angela de la Muerte, the Angel of Death. After her helicopter crash, the Other had used her to burn scores of Norteno soldiers to death. Her nickname was well earned.

  Tec smiled, his green eyes kind. "It'll be okay, I promise. Constance has clout."

  She sniffed, not at all sure she wouldn’t be shot outright the moment they realized who she was.

  "Well," said Rowan, "Erin says we should trust you, and you did help us fight the demon, so we'll give you a chance."

  "And how is it, exactly, you know our baby sister?" Casey asked in the slightly threatening tone that came so naturally to older brothers.

  "Just met her and Angie a day ago."

  "He's saved my life twice," Angie said. "As well as Erin’s—and yours."

  "What kind of name is Tec, anyway?" Casey asked. "If you're not a Nortie—a Norteno—then what exactly are you?"

  "I'm not Aztalan, if that's what you're asking, but I was born in Central America ... a lifetime ago." His voice trailed off, and Angie watched him, trying to take his measure. Tec gave himself a shake. "When we get closer, I'll make a radio call, make sure Morgan and her people know we're coming."

  "If you say so," Rowan said, crossing his arms and watching the landscape sweep past.

  "I'm gonna check on the others." Angie slipped past Tec and his wide shoulders to get to the cabin behind him.

  The cabin was surprisingly spacious. The duo-rotor stealth aircraft employed the most advanced pre-Awakening technology in North America. Its coaxial rotors—two separate sets of blades sitting atop one another, both turning in different directions—suppressed the slapping sound common with single-rotor helicopters and negated the need for torque control by a tail rotor, of which there was none. The Shrike was designed to stealthily insert two sections of infantry comprising twenty-six soldiers and all their weapons and gear. It not only performed this task superbly but did so with a reduced radar signature and engines that produced a third of the noise of other large helicopters. When necessary, it could even go into "whisper mode," using an entirely separate but infinitely quieter turbine engine.

  Armed with 30mm miniguns mounted on either side door, the aircraft also carried a complement of next-generation Hellstrike air-to-ground missiles. Its electronics and surveillance suite were state-of-the-art, boasting a nose-mounted infrared camera and a revolutionary night-vision windshield. A well-trained crew could follow a squirrel through the forest at night and then light it up with the weapons suite—if one wanted to murder squirrels with overwhelming firepower. The Shrike was faster, quieter, more powerful, and had greater range and payload than the old workhorse of the U.S. Armed Forces, the Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk. And this aircraft was now the only one of its kind left in the world. The Seagraves had set the other Shrikes on fire before stealing this one.

  As Angie slid into the cabin, Erin smiled and waved hello. Erin, at twenty-five, was only two years older than Angie, but she was almost a foot taller. She was a large, powerful woman, but not an ounce of her was fat, reminding Angie of pre-Awakening videos of female wrestlers. And Erin was a stunner; with sun-kissed skin and freckles, she boasted amazing curly red hair that when unbound, as it was now, fell about her shoulders in waves. Unlike her brothers, Erin wore a bloodstained T-shirt as well as combat pants but remained barefoot. When the Seagraves changed to werewolves, their bodies nearly doubled in size, shredding their clothing.

  "What's the word?" Erin yelled over the engine.

  Angie joined her, keeping one hand on the fuselage, and yelled into her ear. "We just crossed the mountains. Less than twenty minutes out from Canyon City."

  Erin nodded, a worried look on her face. Angie knew exactly how she felt. She and the Seagraves were probably the last people in North America who should be running to the Nortenos for sanctuary. Let's just hope we don't end up in front of a firing squad before the end of the day. She squeezed Erin's forearm and looked past her to the final passenger on the aircraft.

  One of the cargo doors was slid wide open, and Jayden "Jay" Seagrave sat behind the minigun, his bare back to Angie, his reddish-blond shoulder-length hair being whipped about by the wind. At twenty-nine, Jay was four years older than his sister Erin, the baby of the family, but Angie had always thought he looked the youngest. Rowan was a hard man, Casey was a bear, and Erin was beautiful, but Jay was sweet—drop-dead handsome but in a sweet way. Jay looked like he belonged on a surfboard not a military utility helicopter. He was tall and lean, with pretty blue eyes and an infectious smile.

  Most of the women in the Home Guard had harbored a secret crush on him. It wasn't
just his smile, his melt-your-heart good looks, or his narrow waist and defined abs; he was also one of the few genuinely nice men left in the world. He even loved animals. Between missions, he’d spend hours training horses in the Home Guards’ stables. Often, he'd take his shirt off as he worked, and many of the women would find excuses to hang around and watch, Angie included. And the horses loved him as much as the women did. It was easy to forget that every full moon, he turned into a monster. But oh god, those eyes, that smile, those pecs.

  Many a lonely night she had lain in bed, her hand between her thighs, fantasizing about him.

  Her face heated when Erin repeated herself more loudly. "I asked you how your back was doing."

  "Fine, I'm fine," she answered a tad too quickly, looking away in embarrassment, but Erin glanced at her brother and smiled, her eyes flashing with amusement.

  When Angie had dueled and killed Nathan Case, her former lover and the new commander of the Home Guard—the man who had betrayed the Seagraves and Angie to the Tzitzime—he had cut her back with his hexed katana. As far as dueling scars went, a three-inch shallow cut wasn't too high a price to pay, but it had bled profusely, and all Erin could do before they took off was apply a compress to slow the bleeding. She'd need stitches.

  "I'll be back," Angie said, making a hurried exit before she got busted for fantasizing about her friend’s brother again.

  In the cockpit, Tec leaned over Rowan, holding a radio mike in his hand. "You'd better be right, man," Rowan said. "Because if you're not certain, tell me now and we'll go somewhere else, maybe the Western Union or the Midlands. Somewhere no one knows us."

  "Don't have fuel for any of those places," Casey said.