by Alix Adale
Table of Contents
Foreword
Free Novella
Chapter 1: Burn the Dead
Chapter 2: Circus of Blood
Chapter 3: Confession
Chapter 4: The Vote
Chapter 5: Antelope Refuge
Chapter 6: He’s a What?
Chapter 7: El Arroyo
Chapter 8: Road Warriors
Chapter 9: Highway Star
Chapter 10: Firewater Dam
Chapter 11: Royal Summons
Chapter 12: Fight Night
Chapter 13: Blood of Nations
Chapter 14: On the Road
Chapter 15: Braden House
Chapter 16: Pursuit
Chapter 17: Saint Marius
Chapter 18: Waterloo
Chapter 19: The Flood
Chapter 20: Faithful Departed
Epilogue
Afterword
Bonus Story: Sex is Magic
About the Author
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2017 by Alix Adale.
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental. Individuals pictured on the cover are models and used for illustrative purposes only.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. The recipient of this book is subject to the condition that he or she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.
Published by Roselandia Press
Cover design by Melody Simmons Graphics
First electronic edition, version 1.1
www.alixadale.com
twitter.com/alixadale
Foreword
Thank you picking up Fire is Magic, a standalone story within the Hearts of Dagon series. This is a series of romances that follows the loves and lives of a quirky group of vampires known as the Bradens. Like all books in this series, it can be read on its own without cliffhangers or knowledge of previous books.
This adventure follows George “Dreck” Braden, one of three vampire brothers. Fate casts Dreck with Jordan Rivers, a vampire hunter and a woman of faith with a powerful sorrow of her own. I hope you enjoy their journey.
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-alix
Fire is Magic
A Vampire Romance
by Alix Adale
Chapter 1: Burn the Dead
Jordan
SLAYERS burned their dead. That was the first thing she learned. Cremation prevented vampires from desecrating the bodies of dead hunters. Her mentor’s teachings came back during the funeral, but of his body only ashes remained. His wizened face, his fine gray hair, his vast store of occult knowledge—all gone. No more gap-toothed smiles or shout-outs to old TV shows. No more mentor, no more friend.
Rain lashed the cemetery, the headstones, and the dark knots of mourners with equal indifference. As the ceremony drew to a close, the priest placed a silver-wrought urn into a silk-lined casket. “May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.”
The oh-so familiar prayer ached. He never should have died like that, never. But as the casket lowered into the ground, a strange, high-pitched keening buzzed in her ear. What could it be? Her earlobe tingled, suggesting magic. It wasn’t the prayer. She hadn’t picked up anything this loud or urgent since—since the massacre. The source of the magic must be both strong and near.
Did anyone else feel it? She stared at the dozen mourners around the open grave. None showed alarm. Most were older priests and guardians, colleagues of her mentor. The Order used small cells and secrecy to protect itself. It didn’t always work.
The skin at the nape of her neck ran cold, the fine hairs tingling. That never happened unless vampires were near. That was another teaching: listen to your skin. Seek the touch of an invisible spider tiptoeing down your spine. That’s a warning. She searched the crowd. The source must be close. But it couldn’t be vampires. Not in broad daylight. Not here. Not now.
One of the mourners—a massive specimen of humanity, as large as a sumo wrestler—returned her gaze with impassive might. An immaculate black suit swathed his immense body, a menacing combination. A cape rippled on his back as he went into motion, making his way around the open grave. In his hand, he held an open umbrella with perfect solemnity.
Worrisome, the size of this one. Too old for a hunter. Must be a guardian, even a lodge master. She shifted in her boots, but the tingling had stopped. Still, this stranger was spooky. There was something almost undead about his complexion, but vampires can’t stand the sun, no matter how much it rained. Daylight turned them to ashes. How many times had she seen that? Hundreds of them, dead in the wars.
The powerful man halted a foot away, extending the umbrella and its protection. He spoke in a thick, gravelly voice. “Jordan Rivers?”
Okay, he knew her name. Interesting. Then again, she was the only black woman with a katana strapped across her back here. She wasn’t hiding from anyone. Still, this guy should know the rules: no names, no families, no careers, no lovers. No life at all, nothing but the great, secretive, thankless task of killing the dead. Her reply was guarded. “Nobody needs to know my name.”
“No so. You are renowned within the Order.” The man gestured toward the casket. “He called you his best pupil.”
“Not best enough, because he’s dead.” The words stuck in her throat. “With the others.”
“Except for you.”
“Except for me.”
“A battle lost, but the war goes on.” He paused. “We all accept this risk. Did your mentor prepare you for this eventuality? Did he discuss where to go if—and forgive the analogy—he ever crossed the Jordan River?”
Was that a sick joke? She shot a fiery look at him. “You think I never heard that line before? Yeah, we made a bug-out plan. Survivors, run like hell to another lodge.”
“I am that other lodge.” The man removed a glove, extended a pallid hand. It resembled a blob of chalk-white clay. “Charlepaine Lacquiere, master of the Baton Rouge chapter.”
No thanks to the handshake—and the offer. That was a long way from Santa Barbara. She left him hanging. “Not ready.”
“No need for justice?” He lowered the hand, making a great show of pulling a glove back on, flexing powerful fingers within the silk. “No desire for revenge?”
“I’ve been screaming for vengeance since I was fifteen, but my family’s still dead.”
“Surely this”—he waved at the open grave—“is cause for a renewed purpose?”
“This … I couldn’t prevent it, couldn’t stop it, and don’t even know where to begin hunting down whoever did this. The flames of vengeance are burning kinda low.” Every word was true. Even a year ago, this disaster might have sharpened her resolve. Now it was time to call Ingrid and get out of town. Her hands slipped into her jacket pockets, forming tight fists.
Dirt skittered across the casket as pallbearers worked their shovels. The large man’s brow furrowed. “The death of your family. It still bothers you.”
A strange—and unwelcome—change of subject. Tensing, she shot a sharp look at him. The familiar weight of her katana was reassuring
, but her senses stayed dormant. No spider walked down the back of her neck. “It’s not something I discuss.”
“You watched them die, one by one. No child should behold such horror.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Word gets around.” His features twisted into such an odd half-smile, it was if a strange force controlled the body, one unfamiliar with facial muscles.
Dude was seriously creeping, but he couldn’t be a vampire, not out in the sun. Or was he? Elder vampires could acquire strange powers. Inside the jacket, she unfolded the pocketknife. With care, she used it to slice the tip of her pinkie, drawing blood. It stung as a few drops oozed across the fingertip. Would the scent be enough in this rain?
The man’s nose twitched, an involuntary reflex, but it gave him away. As if realizing the jig was up, the stranger lowered his umbrella and stepped back. “Did you feel helpless as the Rivers family dropped, one by one?”
“Who are you?” Few knew those details—the man in the urn, her cell, and the fiends who’d slaughtered her family—all dead. Had one of Malmardane’s spawns survived and come for revenge? Impossible. They’d pored over the records. This must be someone or something else. “What do you want?”
His neck turned so his eyes, small and distant, drilled into her. A hateful voice came from beyond the grave. “Your family tasted so sweet.”
How could she have been so blind? The katana leaped into her hands in a single smooth motion, already poised to strike. “Malmardane, you devil! I slew you! How are you back?”
At her shout, other mourners leaped into action. A dozen hunters and guardians drew weapons. The crowd aimed guns, daggers, stakes, and crosses at the pair.
Malmardane dropped his pose, flinging up his cape amid peals of laughter. Pistol shots rang out as her katana sliced empty air. A cloud of black smoke billowed where a fraction of a second before a cloak had fluttered. By the time the smoke cleared, she was coughing and wheezing. Her enemy had vanished.
Her scream rang out across the graveyard. “Bastard! I’ll kill you again!”
Chapter 2: Circus of Blood
Dreck
It was a midnight cage fight beneath a star-filled east Oregon sky. Headlights from parked SUVs ringed the double-walled steel fence, shining on the fighters. A snorting, snarling audience cried out for blood.
Dreck sat on his stool in one corner of the cage, head bent, ignoring the din, the shouts, and the curses flowing his way. The cigar tasted good, filling his lungs with smoke. He breathed it in deeper, letting it stoke the fires within.
An emcee bellowed from speakers strapped onto the cage. The raspy voice sounded half-stoned. “Welcome all you freaks and ferals, bears and bitches, lycans and liches! Calling all werewolves and witches, shapers and shifters! Welcome one and all to the midsummer brawl!”
Moog laid it on thick, but give the lycan credit—he knew his audience. The crowd roared its approval, rising in a storm of fur, rippling muscle, and stomping feet. Cowboy hats, blue jeans, and flannel shirts predominated. The clothes covered lycan bodies in various stages between man and beast. Bare torsos, sweaty abdomens, and furry limbs filled the seats. Moving as one, the crowd rushed the cage, grabbing the outer layer of mesh with fists and paws. The structure rattled, adding a metallic clatter to the grunts and howls and blasting music. Money traded hands as bookies took last-minute bets. Liquor and raw meat passed down the aisles.
Lycans. Always with the meat. He’d come to this circus for answers, but the brawls paid the bills. Time to fight. He puffed on the cigar.
The emcee egged the crowd on as spotlights danced across the sawdust. “For tonight’s finale, our two undefeated fighters square off for the prize. These are the last men standing. Los hombres ultimos.” The crowd clapped their hands and stomped their feet. The emcee bellowed on: “Give a big Moog’s welcome for the hero of the Lycan Nations! He’s the bear that does not care, the ursa that’s the worsa, Brickhouse the Bruin—better known as the Siskiyou Strangler!”
Rockabilly blasted across the speakers as the other fighter rose to his feet. The obvious crowd favorite, Brick was a werebear already in shifter form. His ursine incarnation stood seven feet tall and weighed four hundred pounds. Red human hair and beard blended off with irregularity into a fine, orange down that covered the rest of his muscled, freckled body. Bruises and burn marks from previous bouts covered the torso, layered over scars from past matches. Only a pair of denim cutoff shorts provided a token of modesty, little disguising the lycan’s bulging crotch. Underneath, the fighter wore a steel-clad codpiece—so yeah, no kicking Brick in the nuts. Past fights had taught that hard lesson.
Dreck tucked his cigar into the ashtray beneath the stool. He also went shirtless, showing off his cut, muscular but human body. A filigree of fine, dark hair covered his upper chest, but compared to the lycans in their altered forms, he was a hairless ape. The spotlight danced across the stage and dropped an unwelcome circle of blinding light on him. He rose to his feet with a casual saunter as the emcee barked on.
“And in this corner, from the Kingdom of Dagon…” The boos and screams drowned out all else, forcing the announcer to pause. The crowd chanted: “Kill the bat! Kill!”
The show needed a heel and Dreck delivered, playing the role to the hilt. He stretched with nonchalance as he stared the audience down, ignoring the insults pouring from hate-filled faces. This crowd was different though. Tougher. Many in the front wore the same red moon patch on a jacket or vest. Must be a lycan biker gang.
Moog emceed on: “We have a blood-drinking, guano-reeking, vampire son-of-a-bitch … Dreck!” A fresh frenzy erupted, drowned out in part by some raucous bad guy music, Moog’s choice. Lycans considered the vampire realms the enemy. The boss knew how to incite a crowd.
The bell sounded and the fight erupted. No referee, no niceties, no shaking hands. Straight to the no-holds barred, all-out attack: the lycan way.
He met Brick’s charge by sidestepping and swinging a fist at the larger man in passing. Oomph. It was like punching a brick wall—hence the name. The Circus of Blood had only one rule—no killing—and sometimes they got close to breaking it.
Brickhouse snarled, spun, and then with arms spread, rushed forward again. Their bodies met in a clash of fists and kicks, growls and snarls. Brick’s face pushed forward. Hot, feral bear-breath stank in his face—a trash can full of raw meat.
Dreck pivoted, crushing that mug with another fist. It connected with the fearsome underworld strength of a vampire, cracking teeth and pounding bone.
The werebear staggered back. Blood streamed from his mouth, hard to see among the matte of red-orange fur. But the coppery, tangy scent hung in the air like a tantalizing treat. Dreck shut down his sense of smell best he could before the blood drove him into a frenzy. It took all his self-control not to give in to the bloodlust. Good thing he’d had centuries to practice.
Something shone in Brickhouse’s eyes tonight. The usual malice, yes, but low cunning too. As Moog’s only in-house brawlers, they had fought each other many times. Each time, Brick grew smarter. He was a persistent if ugly cuss, give him that. The hairy humanoid grabbed Dreck’s stool and flung it.
Dreck ducked the missile but never expected what came next. Brick stomped on the ashtray, crushing the ceramic bowl and the cigar to jagged fragments and bits of smoldering tobacco.
So. The lycan was learning. If that’s how it was going to be, then it was show time. Dreck darted to the far side of the ring and leaped atop Brick’s stool. With arms extended, he let the fires inside spring to life. Flames darted along his wrists, sparked from his lips. His lungs burned and his heart pounded. Heat emanated from his body in delirium-bending waves.
The crowd fell dead silent. That ancient enemy, fire—danger to all lycans, death to all vampires. Except him. He alone of all his kindred possessed the gift of hellfire. Smoke poured from his orifices as his hands ignited. Flames sheathed his fists.
From his box seat, Moog
shouted over the din, “Too soon! Too soon!”
Too late for that warning. Dismay showed in Brick’s eyes as the big lycan backpedaled. Dreck grinned, circling and shoving one burning fist after the other at his foe. As usual, the big guy’s eyes went to the flames, unable to look away as every instinct made him back off.
Someone threw the first beer amid cries of cheating and witchcraft along with the usual death threats. He expected it. Every crowd figured it out, sooner or later. He closed on Brick, determined to end this fast. If the final cage match of the night under-delivered, blame Brick for messing with the cigar.
He closed in and delivered hammer blow after hammer blow, breaking the big man’s defenses down and connecting with his burning fists. It was over in less than a minute, Brick dropping to his knees and passing out.
The crowd booed, but Moog cleaned up on the betting. Few lycans bet against their own kind and none but the canniest or most contrarian would bet on a hated vampire.
Chapter 3: Confession
Jordan
A vampire master infiltrating the consecrated grounds of a Jesuit retreat upset everyone. After Malmardane’s manifestation, the funeral party scoured the cemetery. Adolescent slayers came in under guard, intuiting trails but finding nothing. One guardian brought in a pair of well-attuned bloodhounds, but they only ran in circles, tails wagging, unable to pick out a scent.
Malmardane had vanished with as much mystery as he had arrived. The details the stranger had provided also proved fake. The Order lacked a Baton Rouge chapter. The name Charlepaine Lacquiere didn’t exist, wasn’t even genuine. It was bizarre.
After they called off the search, she walked with Father Sierra along the gravel path toward the rectory. “You may stay as long as you need, Jordan,” he said. “Our wards are strong and the Order remains vigilant—in spite of this morning’s inexplicable lapse.”