Spellspeaker's Prophecy

by Anna Abner

  “My lords,” Maks said, his eyes averted. “Allow me to offer you my rooms while we await Oleksander’s return.”

  Sergei didn’t deign to answer as blood donor after blood donor gathered into a cluster of dirty and foul-smelling creatures, some covered in fresh bite marks. His condescending, amber-eyed captive was among them, her anxious gaze searching him out as if he could do anything to shield her. He couldn’t even protect himself.

  He never should have stayed with the horde after Connor and Olek kicked his ass. He should have cut and run the moment he was upright.

  “My brothers,” Sergei said, sweeping his hand in the direction of the humans. “Feed.” His two siblings descended on the already pathetic assemblage of humans, biting and drinking, Ivan with unconcealed gusto and Ilya with slightly more restraint. Maks lost sight of his amber-eyed donor in the chaos as the assembled vampires circled, driven to a frenzy by the brutal feeding.

  Unlike the other gathered infecteds, Maks’ mind spun tactics. What to say? What to do? Was there an escape route available to him, or was it too late? He wiped blood and dust from his brow, only his eyes moving as he sought his donor.

  “Return these animals to their hole,” Sergei said to Damian.

  Glancing momentarily in Maks’ direction, Damian threw back his shoulders and answered, “There is no hole.”

  “Nonsense,” he replied. “There is always a hole.”

  Damian seemed to reconsider before nodding deferentially. “Follow me.”

  He led the entire assemblage, including Maks, into the bowels of the abandoned mine, stopping in front of an unfinished pit holding a foot of murky water at the bottom.

  “They’ll never climb outta here.”

  “Yes.” Sergei shoved the blood donors into the twelve-foot deep hole, uncaring if they were injured on the way down. The group leaned on each other, whimpering. They were the saddest lot of humans Volk had seen since the old days before Prague. He took some responsibility for their pitiful state. He’d brought them here. He’d put them in chains.

  Volk caught the eye of his donor, and she communicated her need for help so strongly, his insides clenched. But there was nothing he could do. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps, once Sergei and his brothers settled themselves in a newer, more regal venue, Volk could return unseen and pull his captive from the pit and help her escape the cave once and for all.

  In the humans fell, one after wretched one, including his own.

  Sergei turned to him, his eyes hooded. “Maksim Volk,” he uttered, gesturing him nearer.

  He approached cautiously. Though he didn’t know exactly what had happened to Oleksander, he had a very good guess. When Maks had been shot and dumped on the side of the road by Connor Beckett, the hunter had been dead set on destroying the Destroyer. Olek hadn’t been seen or heard from since.

  But Volk was the only person who knew that. He hadn’t said a word because he’d needed time to build his stance as the new leader of the horde, to recuperate, to decide how to proceed. Now, he wished he’d come up with a cover story earlier because Sergei didn’t look very welcoming or sympathetic.

  “I kn—” Maks began, but never finished the sentence before Sergei’s hand wrapped around his neck. He yanked him so quickly to his open mouth, he crushed his windpipe. Nothing escaped Maks’ throat, not a word, not a whisper, not a breath.

  Sergei sank his fangs into his throat and drank in deep pulls. So deep, Maks feared he’d suck his esophagus right out. Maks struggled, but it was like fighting a tank. With no air and his lifeblood feeding a monster of a brother, Volk lost control of his body. His feet curled inward, and his scrabbling fingers went numb. Sergei wrapped an arm around him, holding him off the ground, clenching his ribs, making it impossible to inhale even if his throat weren’t crushed.

  Sergei drew his wet mouth from his neck, and Volk’s head fell back. The earthen ceiling spun in a gray swirl as his consciousness faded.

  “As if I would believe a single word out of your mouth,” Sergei whispered. “The only reason I don’t kill you now is that Olek always enjoyed playing with his pet.” He threw him backwards into the pit. “Perhaps I will as well.”

  Maks must have hit the ground hard because he heard a splash and then a thud inside the pitch black cave. One benefit of being exsanguinated was the pain vanished.

  And then as he drifted off, an annoyed voice spoke in his ear. “Not again. You really have to stop pissing off vampires.” His blood donor pressed her bleeding wrist to his lips. He wanted to beg, It’s not blood I need, moppet. It’s breath. But he slipped away too soon.

  #

  Long past midnight, Roz lingered in the doorway of what had, until a couple hours ago, been her bedroom in their suite at the Le Sort Hotel, her hair a wreck and her clothes splattered with dried blood. The shifter twitched in his drug-induced sleep, dreaming through enough sedative to keep him unconscious for at least the next six hours, all the way until morning. It would allow him time to heal from the gunshot wound to his chest and the broken and mangled remains of his left leg. Also, it would give Roz and Connor a chance to decide what the hell to do with him.

  The shapeshifter exhaled audibly and curled a little deeper into her hotel-issued cotton sheets.

  Their suite was a two-bedroom exercise in luxury their New Zealand friends Anton and Natasha paid for. The rooms looked like a gilded French prostitute had exploded all over the walls and floors—gold, cream, and powder blue accents, delicate chairs, spindly tables, and French doors leading onto a wide balcony. Mirrors adorned nearly every wall when they weren’t covered in beautiful reproduction pastorals.

  Her first few weeks in the suite, Roz had adored the attention to detail and gaudy nature of the decor. She’d grown up in a small, dark bungalow in Miami crowded with sweaty siblings, aunts, and cousins on top of her mother and herself. No air conditioning. One bathroom. To be in an elegant, clean-smelling suite covered in plush carpets and a beautifully tiled bathroom of her own had been a fantasy come to life.

  But suddenly, the gaudiness was wearing on her. What she wouldn’t give for a modern, minimalist room. Maybe she’d bring it up to Connor. Maybe he was open to moving them all to a different hotel.

  The shifter, who may or may not be a cold-blooded killer, drew her attention back to him like a parched horse to water. Their guest snored softly and flopped his head to the side, exposing his raw, chafed throat.

  Roz pulled her phone and ran a search for shapeshifters. Facts about vampires, she could rattle off with ease. Shifters were better at concealing themselves from public scrutiny.

  Vampires had risen with Oleksander the Destroyer and his three younger brothers—the power quartet nicknamed the Four Sons by the media—in the Ukraine about twenty-five years ago during the paranormal burst. The horde, led by Olek, had attempted to overtake Prague with plans on the entire world. The US Army and a European coalition flew in, bombed the crap out of them, and then carted off the survivors, including the Four Sons and Maksim Volk, to be studied in the Nevada desert for the next two decades.

  Roz didn’t care to delve into the how or why of Olek and Volk’s recent release. The story was a mite embarrassing, considering she and Connor had snuck into the military base with the intention of killing Olek and Volk, not setting them free.

  Online, she found conflicting reports on shapeshifters. They healed when they shifted, or they didn’t. It was out of their control, happening during periods of intense emotion, or it wasn’t. And how many species could a person become? Some said only one—wolf—while others argued the possibilities were endless. Roz knew from tonight, there was at least one other animal option.

  More importantly, would he kill them all when he woke up? Was he in control of himself during a shift? What were they supposed to do with him if he turned out to be a homicidal maniac?

  Her curiosity piqued, she kept digging. The trailer park crowd had accused him of murdering half a dozen people. What if they were right?

&nbs
p; Roz clicked onto a particularly provocative site run by conspiracy theorists purporting the US government tested shifters as human weapons. Nothing conclusive. There were links between shifting and mental illness. But whether the stress of shifting and its consequences were the cause of the breakdowns or whether personality disorders were a symptom of shifting, no one seemed quite sure.

  So, basically, Roz had a potentially psychotic shape-shifter with violent tendencies and a penchant for disappearing in her bed. Great. Just great.

  On top of all that, he was handsome with shaggy blond hair, as if he’d gone without a haircut for a few months, and mesmerizing blue eyes. Beneath the bruises, a man this tall, wide, and good-looking would stand out in a crowd.

  Tiptoeing, Roz snagged a silk pillow off an overstuffed chair and approached the bed. She drew close enough to make out golden brown whiskers scattered across his rugged jaw the same hue as his brows and lashes. Holding her breath, she slid her fingers under his casted ankle, lifting slightly. At her touch, his hand convulsed and then dragged up his naked torso toward his injured shoulder as if searching out the source of his pain, but halfway there he exhaled and gave up, his hand landing loosely upon his flat belly. Roz shoved the pillow under his foot, refusing to show fear of the hulking monster in her bed.

  Taking a deep, audible breath and exhaling through colorless lips, he tilted his head away from her.

  Though it wasn’t technically a spell, she whispered to him, “Please be kind. Please don’t hurt us.” Eyes closed, he slept off the effects of his ordeal in the desert and the doctor’s potent narcotics. “Please,” she added, leaving to do more research before he woke.

  #

  Lukas Larsson dreamed of a dark-eyed spellspeaker controlling him. He saw her, not through his human eyes, but in bear sight, turning her shades of gray and white. The merciless witch forced him up, pushed him back, and put him to sleep with terrifying ease. He couldn’t run, couldn’t fight, couldn’t even keep his eyes open.

  Lukas thrashed, forcing the witch’s power out of his body, throwing off her magical shackles.

  He woke with a start to a very confusing reality. His foot was heavy and clumsy. For a second, he thought the dreaded bear trap was still on him. But the weight was a cast, and the flesh and bone inside it ached. His shoulder hurt. So did his head. And his throat. And his balls. And pretty much every scrap of him.

  Ouch.

  “Morning,” came a voice from across the room. “I’m Connor. What’s your name?”

  Instantly awake, Lukas lifted his head off the pillow. A twenty-something man leaned against the doorway of a luxurious, French-themed bedroom, pointed a rifle at Lukas’ chest, and cocked it. The violence was at odds with the delicate beauty of the room. Behind the man wavered the witch from his nightmares.

  His memory was in tatters, his body a hive of pain and bruises. All he could remember was a trap on his leg and the acrid stench of smoke in his snout. Fuck this guy. Fuck this girl. Fuck everyone.

  Confused and in pain, Lukas’ temper shattered. Who the fuck was this guy pointing a gun at him? He roared, popping to his feet and stooping to overturn the mattress out of pure spite.

  Magic tickled his senses, which only incensed him further. He saw red.

  He reached for a chair to sling at the dark-haired witch when something akin to a wrecking ball slammed him against the nearest wall.

  “Settle down,” the wrecking ball snapped, his hand around Lukas’ throat. Connor had tossed the rifle onto the floor, but was just as lethal with his fists, it turned out. “No one’s trying to hurt you.”

  Lukas flashed back to the chain around his neck.

  He gripped the hand choking him and, with effort, twisted it free. He registered the gasp of surprise from the witch, but dismissed it as he shoved Connor back.

  “No,” Lukas roared.

  Lukas was weak as shit and it evened out his and the other man’s talents at hand-to-hand. Connor pounded Lukas in the guts with his fist and then when Lukas doubled over, the breath leaving him in a giant whoosh, the other man clipped him in the side of the head with his elbow.

  Lukas dropped to one knee, the room spinning wildly. He palmed the wall to steady himself and climb back to his feet, but something that felt a lot like a cement block crashed into the top of his head.

  Chapter Four

  “Holy shit,” Roz exclaimed from the relative safety of the short hallway outside her bedroom door.

  Chest heaving, Connor stared at the crumpled, half-naked shifter at his feet. “Did you see how strong he is?” He toed the shifter’s forearm, and his hand wiggled lifelessly. “He’s a fucking monster.”

  “He overpowered you like you were a snot-nosed toddler,” Roz agreed, also breathing hard though she hadn’t thrown a single punch. Just trying to put the man to sleep—unsuccessfully—and worrying what would happen if the ‘roided up shapeshifter got around Connor had been emotionally exhausting. Roz’s magic couldn’t protect her, not against a creature as strong as this.

  “I had no idea,” Connor said, shaking his head at the man in question. “I thought he was going to burst through the wall and climb the tower like fucking King Kong.”

  “We have to chain him,” Roz said, “before he wakes up.”

  “Right. We can’t let him go free like this. He’ll hurt people.” Connor hurried out, presumably to gather locks and chains.

  “You have certainly defied all expectations,” Roz whispered at the scruffy side of the shifter’s pale face. “But you need to settle your ass down.”

  “I found the strongest set we have,” Connor announced, returning to the bathroom with shackles in hand and Ali in tow.

  “Are you sure they’ll hold?” Roz asked as Connor chained the shifter to the plumbing under the bathroom sink. No more soft mattress for him. Not after he nearly tore Connor’s arm off.

  “We should have dumped him on the edge of town,” Connor murmured. “I don’t know what I was thinking bringing him here.”

  Roz knew what he’d been thinking. Since being infected, Connor was on a mission to find other good-hearted vampires. He couldn’t be the only one. Maybe the same applied to shapeshifters too.

  “There’s still time,” Connor grumbled.

  “Give him a chance,” she said. “He was scared and in pain. He might not be aware of what he’s doing.”

  Connor mumbled something angry and unintelligible before giving the chains a last yank.

  Still in her leggings and crop top from the night before, Roz settled onto her bottom on the cool tile floor beside the wounded man. Asleep, his breaths deep and even, he was so far from the aggressive creature he’d been ten minutes earlier, it was difficult to meld the two halves.

  “We should talk.” Connor passed Roz her .357 handgun, and she laid it under her right thigh.

  “Yeah,” Roz agreed. “I wanted to talk to you about last night too.”

  “Okay,” Connor said with a bit of uncertainty.

  “You were asking a lot of me at the trailer park. Sleep. Calm. Cash. I’m not an ATM machine, Connor. You can’t punch in a bunch of spells and everything slides out exactly the way you want it to. There are limits to what I can do. You want me to drive the truck, shoot a .357, and speak complex spells?” Roz blew out a frustrated huff of breath. “Can I do it while riding a tiny bicycle too?”

  Smirking, Connor said, “I ask a lot of you because I know you’re capable of it. Yeah, last night was intense. We don’t usually roll up on shapeshifters about to be barbecued by mobs, but I never had any doubt you could handle it.”

  Roz wished she saw the potential in herself the way Connor seemed to so easily. Maybe he didn’t notice all the times her power failed to impress.

  “Okay,” Roz conceded, “what did you want to talk about?”

  “Since Olek’s death,” he said. “Volk and his vampires are loose in the wind. It’s been a month, and I can’t sleep until I pin down where they are and what they’re doing.”
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  “Because,” Roz added, “they’re hurting people.”

  Connor nodded solemnly. “They’re, without a doubt, hurting people.”

  “But where do we look?” Ali fretted. “They could be anywhere.”

  “There are still enough attacks and missing tourists in Vegas,” Roz said, thinking of the most recent news stories she’d catalogued, “to make me think they’re staying near the city.”

  Connor swore under his breath. “It’d be nice if Anton would answer my fucking calls. Or at least explain why he cut me off.”

  “Agreed.”

  They’d believed Anton and Natasha were their friends. Their sudden silence had wounded them both.

  Connor added, “With his satellite access, he’d be able to find them in no time.”

  It wasn’t the first time Roz had thought of magicking her way into imaging technology. Her magic sometimes affected passwords and security protocols, but she’d never tried to hack into anything as complicated as surveillance servers. Besides, who or what controlled satellites? The government? Entertainment conglomerates? She made a mental note to find out.

  “We’re on our own,” Connor said. “We need to hunt vampires our way, not worry about how the New Zealanders did it.”

  “Right,” Roz agreed. That made sense. Their assets were certainly unique.

  “Let’s do what we do best,” he said. “Tough love time. Anton and Natasha are incommunicado, but I’m not ready to give up the mission.”

  “Me either,” Roz assured. There was not only nothing to go home to in Miami, but she wanted to protect the world from vampires just as much as he did.

  “So,” Connor continued. “We should assume our New Zealand friends have moved on without us—for whatever reason.”

  Ali piped up. “We need a new mission statement.”

  “Okay,” Roz said, rolling her eyes at Ali. Her and her weird British ideas. “My mission is to protect Connor with magic, come hell or high water.”

  “And my mission,” Connor said, “is to take out the vampires hurting innocent people, but,” he glanced guiltily at Roz, “if there are infecteds out there like me, I want to help them.”