The Kala Trilogy: An Urban Fantasy Box Set

by Teagan Kearney

  The officers saluted their commander-in-chief who clicked his heels together and returned the salute. The officers filed out, each quiet with their thoughts, wondering if they would survive tomorrow’s battle, and offering prayers they would.

  As Vanse walked back through the camp, fewer men sat by the dying fires as the army settled for the night. The sky was clear, the stars glittering and distant; his breath puffed in the chill air. Most of his company lay rolled in their blankets, sleeping the fitful sleep of those who knew this might be their last night, dreading the next day and wanting it to be over and done with. They yearned and prayed for the safety of wives, parents and children or grieved for the same, remembering why they fought, and asking for the courage to not bring shame on themselves.

  A dozen of his company waited up for him, their faces half in shadow, the flickering flames reflected in their eyes. These soldiers had been with him longest and helped train the new ones. They sensed his difference was more than not being Armenian, but his proficiency on the battlefield, thoroughness in training, and saving each of their lives at least once had won their loyalty. They trusted him. He spoke to them briefly of the General’s orders, before rolling himself in his blanket and closing his eyes as if to sleep, otherwise, they might copy him and would pay the price tomorrow. Tonight he would rest his body but not sleep, as he’d learned to manage with little or none, a small benefit of his demon blood for which he was thankful.

  Others of his kind he’d come into contact with noted his differences, and it was easy to read the question uppermost in their minds—could his ability to walk in the day be passed on by drinking his blood? His species didn’t drink each other’s blood unless it was a matter of life and death, but Vanse understood early on that if other vampires thought drinking his would allow them to tolerate sunlight, some master would enslave him and keep him alive as a living blood bank. He made it plain his talent was a gift from a priestess who’d offered it in exchange for her life, and therefore couldn’t be given to any except those he turned. He never mentioned who turned him either. Many vampires knew of Angelus, and his reputation for gratuitous cruelty was renowned, even among their species. Most masters avoided him as his demon heritage made him too powerful to confront, and they’d no wish to become subjugated or worse. Vanse always took care to leave soon after someone discovered the advantage he enjoyed. Envy was an emotion shared by supernaturals and humans alike.

  Well before dawn, when the blanket of night still lay over the land, Vanse woke his men. Bladders were emptied, a few strips of dried meat eaten, weapons gathered, water bottles filled, and, as there’d been a frost overnight, they stamped their feet and tucked their arms snug under armpits to keep warm as they waited for the order to depart.

  The troop came to attention as the General himself arrived, escort in tow. He might be getting on in years, but he had the strength of a bull and more energy than most half his age. “At ease.”

  The soldiers stood down and listened. Whatever loyalty they had for Vanse was nothing to the devotion and esteem in which they held this man. They obeyed Vanse, but they’d follow the man to whom they’d sworn allegiance to hell and back if he asked.

  “We are facing tough odds today, but to you falls the task of breaking the back of our enemies. Remember what they did to our people—hold that in your hearts—we are fighting for both the dead and the future of the living.”

  The men thought over his words as they marched. This was a chance to turn back an enemy who considered them less than dogs or pigs, and who had already slaughtered hundreds of thousands of their people. If they halted the Turkish army’s advance they had the chance to establish an independent country. Fighting for this goal drove these ordinary farmers and merchants; if the price demanded was their lives, they would make the sacrifice to achieve their ends.

  Vanse had no such high ideals to fight for, but he welcomed the physical challenge with any weapon, rifle, pistol, sword, rapier, knife or his hands. Gaining an understanding of strategy was another challenge. But his reluctance to sleep last night hadn’t been due to pre-battle concerns. No, it was because the dreams had started again. He’d see her coming toward him across the beach, her heels flicking up little sprays of sand behind her as she ran; and he’d hold her in his arms, smelling her hair, laughing at the brightness of her green eyes as she looked up at him. He would kiss her and taste the salt on her lips. The dream felt so real he’d wake, his face wet with tears. After the first memory came others, but they never showed him the part where he killed her because he wasn’t strong enough to confront Angelus. After the dreams, he could scarcely breathe when struck by the fierce yearning to be with her, and his body experienced such an agony of separation that sometimes he couldn’t move. At that point, he knew he had to leave wherever he was, because traveling in the direction where she’d taken birth, was the only way of lessening the ever-increasing pain.

  Vanse pushed the memories out of his mind as his company brought up the rearguard, walking along a goat track around the mountain in the dark. He ignored the instinct to flee right this minute. He’d trained these men and would see them through the coming fight. There was always a delay between the dreams and the demon’s appearance. War focused the mind, and gave moments of crystal clarity, but he had to bear in mind that he wasn’t immortal, and he could be blasted to fragments by the latest weaponry the ever-ingenious humans had invented. If his life ended, Tatya would also die. Yes, he’d leave after this battle.

  He checked the sky, the Pole star shone brightly in the pearl-gray predawn lining the eastern horizon.

  “We’re almost there, Captain. This track brings us out behind their army. Maybe another half hour.” The man melted back into the early morning mist. Soon they heard the enemy, distant shouts, trumpet blasts, horses snorting echoed in the hazy fog sounding sometimes near, sometimes distant. They pressed forward hidden by both mist and hills as the slow-rising tide of adrenaline and fear swelled.

  Golden pink spread and filled the eastern sky as the sun leaped above the horizon. The mist was dissipating, and their adversaries looked toward those in front, unsuspecting of the trap about to close behind them. Their cavalry would be useless, positioned as it was in the vanguard and unable to halt the forward charge.

  Within the hour, Vanse and his unit reached the area they were to occupy. The scout re-appeared, giving them the order to move into position. Crawling forward on their bellies through the wet grass until they reached the top of the hill, they surveyed the army below as it readied itself for combat. The next minutes were the most testing as they crouched, poised and prepared to attack, waiting till the troops below charged away from them.

  The earth turned, and they lay concealed behind outcroppings of rocks as the morning heat warmed their backs, sweat building, dripping down their foreheads and necks. A trumpet signal rang out, and an explosion shattered the air. The soldiers below realized their enemy had attacked, and they rushed into action. Officers yelled orders, and men ran here and there, ants whose nest had been disturbed. Field guns were dragged forward, cavalry units appeared with the horses’ neighing adding to the chaos, foot soldiers grabbed rifles and dashed to their units.

  The ground quivered as artillery guns fired and hit targets, the refrain of mortar detonations fueled the ensuing chaos. The cries of those wounded by bullets shrieking through the air added a higher note to the register. Both sides had committed to the ensuing carnage—the outcome was death or surrender.

  Vanse knew his men were itching to dash down the hill, impatient to join the battle. Driven by centuries of repression, this was their chance, and their blood roiled, but he’d drummed discipline and obedience into them, and they held. There was too much at risk. Soon they’d have all the opportunity they could want for individual acts of bravery.

  A runner appeared with the major’s order. They crept, silently forward; the bayonets on the end of their rifles glinted in the sun, and they fixed their eyes on the backs of t
he enemy, till it was a miracle nobody turned around and saw them..

  “Fire!” The major barked as his arm sliced down.

  Vanse moved on instinct, scanning, aiming, firing, and reloading with such speed and accuracy that his movements blurred. He could move faster but restrained himself, walking the thin line between possibility and improbability. If anyone stood still long enough to observe him, a bullet or a bayonet made short work of them.

  The General’s plan worked, and they scythed through the back lines, men dropped, wounded and screaming or dead as they pushed forward. The barrage from the front increased, and the detonations of the incessant shell and bullets—more than a few whistling past too close—saturated the air.

  Vanse sighted his rifle at an officer seated on a large black stallion. The man turned and stared at him. Vanse couldn’t breathe. It was Angelus. This was the other half of the equation his survival depended on: seeking Tatya and simultaneously avoiding his maker.

  Angelus had long ago realized who was flouting his plans every time and adapted his strategy by attempting to seek out Vanse and destroy him before Tatya reappeared.

  Vanse was a match and more for most vampire masters he’d met. The few who challenged him lost, and most knew better than to confront him head on, but he wasn’t as strong as his maker. His saving grace within vampire society was his absolute lack of interest in gaining any kind of power, and he’d always occupied territory none of them wanted.

  Time slowed as Vanse found himself unable to move, immobilized by Angelus’s gaze. Before Vanse could free himself of the spell, the demon raised his arm and threw a bolt of dark energy. Vanse raised his psychic barrier, but moved too late. The bolt pierced his protection, striking his heart. He collapsed to the ground, screaming as red hot burning agony crawled along his veins and arteries.

  “You have defied me long enough. Now I will kill you.”

  “To me!” As Vanse heard Angelus in his head, the sound raking like nails across his soul, he sent the command along the link to his followers, and the pain eased as each added his power to Vanse’s protective wards.

  “Are you hurt, Captain?” A couple of soldiers helped him to his feet, looks of fear on their faces as they scrutinized his body for wounds. If he’d had time to reflect, he would have been touched; these puny humans with their short lives over in a blink or two worried about his welfare. But he brushed them off, his eyes seeking his adversary as fighting continued around them.

  Angelus had turned his horse away from the front and was now working his way back through his own army’s lines toward Vanse. He lifted his arm again, a lazy cruel smile on his face, and a second bolt sizzled through the air. “Do you think your puny followers can protect you against me? I am your maker. You will obey me.”

  “Now,” Vanse screamed, and as the summoned forces swelled and strengthened his barriers, the lance struck his outside layers before shattering.

  Angelus’s effort to gain control of Tatya’s powers was the reason he’d turned Vanse in the first place—although to be fair, his intention had been, and still was, murder. “I made you and I will destroy you.” Angelus hurled another bolt, and another, his face contorting with frustration and fury.

  As each attack landed, one by one Vanse’s outer layers of protection disintegrated, weakening his shield. He was pitting his and his followers’ power against the demon, but how long did he have before he’d be vulnerable? At the thought of the price that Tatya would pay, he fought harder, seeking for one weak spot in his enemy’s defenses. He found none.

  The human war raged on oblivious to the ages-old feud taking place in the midst of their conflict. Yet in both cases, the aim was the death of an ancient enemy. The energies released by the supernatural conflict fueled human emotions and heightened the intensity of combat.

  Angelus’s progress slowed nearly to a halt. The only obstacle preventing him from leaping the distance between them and getting rid of this irritant was the centuries old imperative that kept the truth about all supernatural species hidden from men, thus allowing one to survive and the other to take comfort in regarding such knowledge as myths and legends. Given time, Angelus would have summoned his powers and closed on his enemy, but he needed to protect himself, and in the middle of a raging battle, managing both was beyond him. Sooner or later he’d realize his chances were better without the horse.

  Keeping Tatya safe was Vanse’s raison d’être, and he didn’t wait. Seeing Angelus distracted by an artillery shell exploding nearby, he fled. All anyone saw if they even noticed among the uproar of battle, was a dark blur as he summoned the speed available to his species. He called his family to him, and they fled. This time he wasn’t going to leave them for Angelus to seek out and destroy in retaliation as he’d done on many occasions after Vanse frustrated his ambitions.

  He knew where he’d go. Long ago Tatya had taken birth in a land across the ocean. Since then, Europeans had discovered the continent. It was extensive in size, with plenty of opportunities to hide. He’d take his family and see what opportunities Fate offered him. As he escaped, a familiar cry followed him—Angelus screaming that he would have his revenge.

  Chapter Twenty-One: Complications

  Tatya pressed redial, listened to the dialing tone, and heard Vanse’s voice requesting the caller to leave a message. Again. She almost threw the phone at the wall in frustration. How many times had she called him already? A dozen? Two dozen? Oh, and she’d left messages. Starting with a few somewhat flirtatious invitations, moving on to civil, even gracious requests that he call her as soon as possible, before degenerating into the ones filled with choice, but unrepeatable words. The last several times, she’d hung up, too angry to say anything. He’d know it was her. If he ever answered the damn phone that is.

  The door chimes tinkled.

  “Hallooo.”

  A customer. Yes, she did need them. She swallowed her frustration and walked out of the kitchen into the shop. Five minutes and one happy customer later, she flung the phone at the wall. Luckily it hit Aunt Lil’s tapestry of autumn leaves and bounced onto the couch before landing on the floor. Which was fortunate because at that moment the chorus from Bob Marley’s Get up, Stand up, which she’d downloaded yesterday when she was in a very different mood, jingled. She was across the room with the phone to her ear before the chorus started.

  “Tat?”

  She sighed. “Morning, Bill.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, it’s just I’ve been trying to get hold of someone, and I thought…” She could hear Bill putting two and two together.

  “If it’s Vanse, I believe he’s out of town. I tried to reach him late yesterday, and whoever answered the phone said he was on safari, whatever that means. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. But how can I help? There’s not been any more...?”

  “No, but there was a close call. I have a sticky situation with Forked Lightning. I’m meeting with him in about half an hour, and it’ll be a lot easier for him if you’re there. I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

  Yes, Forked Lightning’s hands would be full as he stepped into the role of tribal shaman, as well as dealing with his jittery werewolf pack whose young females were being stalked and murdered. And, she was positive Forked Lightning could, as his name suggested, explode spectacularly in the right circumstances. Preferably that place wouldn’t be in the sheriff’s office or anywhere she happened to be. “No problem. I’ll shut up shop and be over in five.”

  “I’ll make certain you’re paid for your time, Tatya, and I’ll try to keep the meeting brief. I understand you don’t want to lose business.”

  That was a given. But her friends came first, and Bill was more than a friend, he was all the father she had left since Changing Sky died. The ache of his loss was still raw and seeing Forked Lightning would remind her of him. She breathed in deep; only time eased that pain.

  But her mind kept chewing away at
one fact as she headed toward the police station. Why hadn’t Vanse said he was going away? They’d spoken yesterday afternoon, and he’d not mentioned it. Did it have anything to do with Angelus? He’d wanted her to leave, and said she’d be safer away—but away from what? Him or Orleton? Or both? Maybe something urgent had come up, and he’d left in a rush. He wasn’t in the habit of informing her of his movements, and she had little information about what he did to make money, though she was aware he had plenty of the stuff. If you took the dead female werewolves, and their likeness to her, out of the equation, life was beginning to feel normal: opening the shop, getting the various aspects of her life like healing people and selling herbs back on track. For once, she was pursuing a relationship, although with questionable progress as that seemed to be going nowhere fast.

  She pushed her personal affairs out of her thoughts at the sight of Bill waiting for her on the steps of the station.

  He came toward her, holding a large take-out cup of coffee in his hand as she climbed out of the truck. “That is a helluva truck, Tatya. Listen, Forked Lightning’s turned up early, so before we go in, I’ll give you the back story out here, because those wolves have excellent hearing, and I’m trying the diplomatic route before I throw his ass in jail.”

  “Is that for me Bill?” She eyed the cup with longing.

  “Sorry, Tat. Here you go.”

  Tatya took a long sip from the steaming latte, appreciating that it wasn’t the regular police brew, and listened as Bill talked.

  “It seems our wonder boy and his little gang put together a plan to bait and trap whoever is killing their women. Before you ask, no, they didn’t bother to inform us. They think we’re irrelevant, and they planned to ambush the vamp, intending to capture and no doubt kill him.”

  “Does bait mean what I think it does?”

  “Yes. Imagine if they’d lost another girl? Damn supernaturals think they can ignore our rules and play by their own.”