The Kala Trilogy: An Urban Fantasy Box Set

by Teagan Kearney

  He pulled away, studying her. “Yes, that is clear.” He smiled and ran his fingers through her hair. “But are you positive? Being the consort of a master vampire may not be what you expect.”

  “I agree we may have a few things to negotiate.”

  The twinkle was back. “Negotiate? I look forward to the experience.” He ran a finger along her jaw, pausing to feel the pulse in her jugular.

  She tingled with sharp delight.

  “Thank you, Tatya.”

  The moment of connection had shown her how much he wanted her. She’d been too absorbed in grief, in her own losses, that she’d given no thought to his yearning for her. Now something stirred within, and the warrior she’d become to defeat Angelus woke. Memories of the lessons Otakay and the other spirit guides gave her remained, even if submerged. She would do whatever it took to protect Vanse. She saw him to the door.

  “Nobody will see them, and I know you don’t want them, but I insist on leaving extra guards.”

  For once she didn’t argue.

  Chapter Eleven: Carinthia, 740 AD

  Vanse scrutinized the emptying battlefield from his hiding place in the woods. The sky flamed crimson as the sun dropped toward the horizon. A darker red glutted the land, and the shades of those who’d died lingered, sighing with regret. Turning off his humanity and allowing the predator within to dominate was a simple flick of a mental switch. For years now, after the hunt, after he’d drunk his fill, he delayed turning the switch back on for longer and longer periods. The slayer within had no conscience to afflict him with unsettling questions, and he never felt alone. That part of him concentrated on winning the fight for survival.

  A small contingent of soldiers, with prior injuries leaving them unable to fight, known among their fellows as the final thrust, combed the battlefield seeking the enemy’s injured, guaranteeing they never recovered and died in agony. Their mechanical bend and thrust, accompanied by the screams of the dying, provided a fitting finale to the battle. Red-robed priests moved through their wounded, offering prayers and aid or the mercy of a quick death to those beyond saving.

  Vanse waited with the cold implacability of one who has time on his side as the grim workers dispatched the remaining fallen men. He didn’t fear the soldiers, but if they discovered his marks on the dead, he’d have to flee. No matter how pressing the immediate fight, their priests would insist they’d win no more battles till the monster was driven off, captured, and burned if possible.

  And that was inconvenient. Not that he worried about being caught since he’d learned to pull the shadows around him and move unseen. He’d mastered quite a few tricks since he’d fled from the northern isle where he’d once lived with Shakti. In his desperation to escape he’d crossed the wide water to a land so vast, he wondered if he’d ever reach the end of it.

  As the final vestiges of daylight fled, and cloaked by the gloom of the approaching night, he moved among the dead and dying. He sought those nearest the gate and satiated himself, drinking from more than one departing soul. He’d followed these warriors for a good while, finding this army was an efficient servant of the Lord of Death, and he’d grown strong in its wake. This army marched north conquering every enemy in its path. He’d thought of joining them, but still, he hesitated, unsure if he’d be able to pull off the masquerade.

  As dawn drew near, he squatted by the body of a youth, barely out of puberty judging by the few blonde wisps on his chin, waiting for the last heartbeat. Priests and soldiers always missed a few, and this one had escaped their notice. His soul was poised to fly through the opening gate.

  The injured lad opened his eyes, bright blue and still vibrant with desire for life. He saw Vanse and reached out to him.

  Vanse lifted the cool limp hand, felt the slowing of the heart. Men’s injuries often left them unconscious or in great pain… war was pitiless, and most men died alone and suffering from mortal wounds. Many welcomed Death’s merciful arrival. Vanse had no comfort to give those he drank from, and he could do nothing to ease this lad’s pain.

  “I want your Gift.”

  “You know what I am?”

  “Yes. I know. I beg you, bless me.”

  Vanse had never turned another. What he’d become wasn’t a gift, it was a curse. Memories of plunging the knife into the heart of his love, of Shakti’s death, plagued him; those he cared for were cursed.

  “You’ll be my maker. I’ll serve you, do whatever you ask.” The boy’s face flushed with sudden feverish heat, heralding Death’s approach. “Drink from me and give me your blood. I swear I’ll be yours to command for as long as I draw breath.”

  Vanse hesitated. The need for companionship was strong. He’d tried posing as a human, a traveler, going from place to place, and having relationships. He’d fallen in love with many women whose beauty and physical attributes bewitched his mind. He learned none could ever replace his first love, and he’d be unlikely to meet anyone like Shakti again. He’d discovered waiting around for people to die offered very little in the way of satisfying his craving for human blood. But neither could he take life—not if he wanted to retain his humanity. He’d survived for long periods on small and large animals, living in the forest far from humans, denying the constant lust for human blood. At times the intense craving dominated every second, and if he’d been anywhere near human habitation, he wouldn’t have managed to resist. Eventually, loneliness always sent him back to human society. Sometimes a situation rose that did match his criteria, and he was able to satisfy his craving. Yet despite every attempt to hide his actions, sooner or later the marked drained body was discovered, he’d fall under suspicion and be forced to flee for his life. This pattern had continued until he stumbled upon the scene of a recent battle between two tribes. In his former life on a small island, his people were fisherfolk with little experience of armed conflict. Since he’d encountered the madness of war, he’d discovered an unlimited source of sustenance.

  The youth’s breathing increased, his chest rising and falling as the inevitable drew closer. “I’m begging you,” he entreated, his voice cracking, “I have much lore, my father is a seer.” Tears rolled down his face.

  Vanse had come across others of his species, avoiding both individual vampires and those who had many followers, not from fear, but because of his difference. Those who were different always paid a higher price to stay alive. If his life had progressed as normal, Vanse should have had many children, sons and daughters, and many more grandchildren. He might have become a patriarch, a man of standing in his village. He’d have enjoyed the love of a good wife and family. He’d wanted nothing more. Angelus had taken that from him; if not for the fiend’s blood he’d swallowed, he’d have died, and his love would have lived as a slave to the demon. He vowed he’d exact payment.

  The dying lad shuddered, his eyelids fluttered. Another second and his heart would take its last full beat.

  His movements a blur, Vanse bent and plunged his fangs into the slowing artery. He drank deep, draining every drop, then as the boy lay pale and unmoving, opened the veins in his wrist with a slash of his fangs, and placed his arm over the young man’s lips. He watched, fascinated as his blood trickled down the lad’s throat. After a second or two, the lad’s eyes opened wide, and he sought and latched onto the opened vein. As the youth sucked with more and more determination, Vanse’s vision darkened, and he yanked his arm away.

  “Thank you, Master,” the youth whispered as he fell unconscious.

  Vanse looked up at the sky. A thin band of gray pearled the eastern horizon. Daylight didn’t bother him, but human scavengers would arrive soon, rummaging through the bodies, taking anything and everything of value. He despised them as carrion picking over the dead, lazy, unwilling to work, and profiting from death—but was he any better? Maybe neither had a choice. They’d raise the alarm if they saw him.

  He picked up the boy—no weight at all—slung him over his shoulder, and headed for the abandoned woodcutter’s hu
t where he sheltered. The youth had sworn fealty to him, and he would reciprocate. Tending the boy was tougher than he imagined. He remembered little of his own transformation. Had he suffered in the same way? Burning fevers alternated with severe chills, with the boy’s teeth rattling so loudly, Vanse thought they’d break in his mouth. He was unconscious for long periods as his body endured the change. Vanse aside guilt—a useless emotion for a vampire—he’d fulfilled the dying lad’s request. More than that was beyond his ability.

  Yet the youth showed spirit, and after several days of clinging to life, he survived. His name was Malaric, and he came from the Sabalingi tribe, a thorn to the Latinum expansion from the south. His father was the tribe’s priest and soothsayer, who’d been training his son to succeed him. As the days passed, Vanse kept them both fed by hunting deer, boar, and whatever else he could find, the turning wrought changes, and Malaric lost his gauntness as muscles and bones stretched and filled out. He was proud of his new strength and power. Malaric more than proved his worth, teaching Vanse everything he’d learned from his father of the vampire species and how they organized themselves.

  Much of this was new to Vanse, but he’d surmised some of it already. What surprised Vanse was how he’d remained outside vampire society, as those not giving allegiance to a master were understood to be rogue and hunted by vampires and humans alike.

  Devout loyalty to the master who turned you was the only way a young supernatural survived. Once mature, assuming the neophyte stayed alive to complete the process, a vampire could choose to stay and serve his maker, leave for another master’s service (a practice which never sat well with his maker) or start his own line. If the latter, his family operated as an extended branch of his master’s. Starting a conflict with your original maker was forbidden and resulted in death for every member of the newer group unless they were stronger, but such cases were rare.

  As Malaric educated him, Vanse understood the benefits of having followers who protected, served and were willing to die for you. He searched for more to turn, choosing only those close to death, and with their permission. But Vanse’s blood was different, and the change had more drastic consequences on humans. After he’d watched several candidates writhe in agony, before taking the path to the ancestors, he became more cautious and chose those he turned with care.

  Over time, he increased his followers to seven, thinking of them as his children, despite all but Malaric being full-grown adults. Vanse had been truthful with his new family members about the mix coursing through their veins and the ability to walk in the day it gave. He sensed his powers were stronger than those to whom he gave the Gift. This he attributed to a possible dilution of their demon blood. He never spoke of his hatred for his own maker. If Angelus ever appeared, then he’d inform them.

  Thanks to Malaric, they avoided territories controlled by other supernaturals and took up residence in a largely isolated stone dwelling deep in the heart of a vast forest. Game was plentiful, but Vanse made it clear, humans were not prey. He didn’t know if he’d passed on Shakti’s blessing, only time would reveal if their humanity was protected, but he granted them no leeway. They followed her decree when drinking from humans. Anyone breaking this law paid the ultimate price.

  For the first time since leaving Shakti, accepting others into his life revealed how far he’d traveled from his own humanity. He welcomed the weight of this new responsibility. Emotions he’d forgotten: tenderness, loyalty, generosity, the urge to protect, re-awoke, flooding him with joy. Part of his mind always knew what they experienced, and the reciprocation invigorated him, increasing his powers and he learned how to mute their voices. Fears that had haunted him since the change now diminished and the barricade of isolation he’d built around himself crumbled as he nurtured these new offspring.

  Then the dreams started. He’d see her running toward him across the sands of a wide bay, red-brown curls breaking free of her braid and framing her bright green eyes, She’d stare up at him with love as they shared a sweet salty kiss. After came the incredulous look in her eyes as he killed her. He heard her voice as if from a far distance, piteous with fear, pleading with him to save her. Over and over the same scenes played till he woke with crimson tears coursing down his face. He found he could go without sleep for days at a time, but eventually he’d have to close his eyes, and the dreams returned. After a while he heard her voice even when awake, begging him to protect her, forgiving him for what he’d done. The demon was coming, and she was afraid.

  These dreams alternated with nightmares of Angelus. Replays of fangs sinking into his neck, and the slayer plunging his hands into Vanse’s chest and ripping out his heart. The pain wasn’t just emotional. Every bit of his body, inside and out, hurt, and his blood burnt like acid as it slurred through his veins while he drowned in anguish and terror. He refused to share this with his followers. They were the present, this other his past, and the burden was his to shoulder alone. He took trips, ostensibly to hunt game—even if the others had become more than competent at providing enough—staying away for longer and longer periods, forbidding them to follow.

  One night he wandered far to the east, pulled by a strange compulsion. The moon was full, and he stood at the edge of the forest, looking out over farmland and distant mountains. Her voice in his mind seemed louder, closer, her need for him more insistent. He understood what he must do, where he must go, but before leaving, he’d speak to the others, prepare them for his departure. He turned to go back to them, but even before he’d taken one step, he doubled over, crumpling to the ground as red hot needles shot through his body. His legs refused to move toward the forest. He tried crawling on his hands and knees and then on his belly, but he’d lost control of his limbs, and the more he tried, the more his body resisted till his muscles were flaccid ropes, his bones grated against each other, and blinded by agony, he collapsed.

  He returned to consciousness hearing the howl of wolves from afar, and a new hurt layered itself over the old. He knew his enemy better, having learned much since the last occasion they’d met. Maybe this time he could save her and himself? After all, she had the principal claim on his loyalty and love. These recent relationships came second, but it hurt to leave them without warning. Were they strong enough to survive external threats, other vampire clans, humans, or the internal power struggles that would arise in his absence? He had no way of knowing, but he vowed to return, regardless of how long it took or what the cost might be. But as he loped off across the countryside, he couldn’t rid himself of the image of Angelus laughing, mocking him, promising how easily he would kill those Vanse had nurtured.

  Chapter Twelve: Infection

  The afternoon sun shining through the window heightened the dream catcher’s colors as Tatya held it up to the light. “That’s a beautiful choice, Mrs. Larsen. Your daughter will love it. That’ll be four ninety-nine.” She wrapped the dream catcher in tissue, before tucking it into the gift box, while the woman fished the money from her purse.

  She’d woken that morning, full of anticipation. She sported a new look to go with her new life, and today she opened her new shop for business. Her eyes bugged out, and her chin hit the floor at the sight of the curly red-brown hair around her shoulders. She’d gone to bed with a blonde bob and woken up with her hair exactly as it was before she’d dyed and cut it. Those products don’t usually take on our hair, Vanse had said last night. “Grrr,” she snarled at her reflection in the mirror in frustration. She savagely brushed her hair and stuck it in a tight high ponytail, ignoring the fact she’d have a headache later, but she didn’t care. That was one lesson learned, and she’d just have to put this fiasco behind her.

  Not letting yesterday’s effort at a make-over go entirely to waste, she eschewed her regular jeans with either T-shirt or shirt and donned the smart black pantsuit Eva had insisted she accept as a present, along with the bright red shirt she’d bought to go with it. She left the strappy heels under the bed where she’d kicked them last n
ight, in favor of her new red and white sneakers. If she was going to be on her feet all day, she refused to wear anything else other than something practical and comfortable.

  At nine thirty am, for the first time, she turned the sign on the door to ‘Open’, and nervously went to stand behind the counter and wait. She needn’t have worried, business was steady with several of her old regulars dropping by and making appointments for consultations. More people than she’d expected arrived to check out the new shop, many curious as to what she sold, and ended up buying incense, herbs or one of the handcrafted beaded necklaces and bracelets Changing Sky had sent.

  Beethoven’s Fifth sounded from below the counter as Tatya accepted a ten-dollar bill. She smiled, handed the woman her change, and watched her leave as she rooted underneath for her phone. She liked the new ringtone, something new for a new venture, but it might be better if she lowered the volume, at least while serving customers.

  “Ms. Tatya?”

  Tatya didn’t recognize the caller. “Good morning. Healing Herbs. Tatya speaking. How can I help?”

  “I’m Fabio.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met, but if you tell me what you want, I’ll do my best to serve you.”

  A pause. She shivered as something flickered on the edge of her vision, but nothing was going to disturb her mood. Today was a day to celebrate.

  “I’m Seigneur Vanse’s second-in-command.” The voice was dull, flat. “My master has collapsed. Can you come?”

  Her heart thundered and she imagined the vamp at the other end of the phone would be drooling at every beat. “Of course.”

  “I’ve sent a car to bring you here. It should be outside your shop.”

  Tatya didn’t answer. Grabbing the truck keys and her purse from under the counter, she threw her phone in, flicked the sign to ‘Closed’ and locked the door.

  As she drove off down Main Street, she spotted a black sedan with tinted windows following. This Fabio was thoughtful to have organized the transport, but despite her feelings for Vanse, she’d never be happy in a car full of vamps. She drove fast, making good use of her improved reflexes, but she needed to keep below the speed limit. Not that she cared about getting a ticket, but she couldn’t afford to waste the time it might take if stopped by a dutiful traffic cop out to boost the town’s income. Five minutes later she left her escort behind as she wove through the traffic, overtaking and skating through several amber lights. In record time, she swung the truck into the long tree lined approach to the hospital, and sped along the straight stretch toward St. Raphael’s.