Past Life Strife (Rise of the Discordant Book 1)

by McMullen, Christina

  The door opened as we climbed the stairs to the front porch. Madame Myrna, a tiny and heavily wrinkled woman who was wrapped in a crimson shawl, greeted us with a silent nod and a gesture to follow her into the house. That this woman, who looked more like E.T. than a human, was Donna’s mother was baffling. Seth had mentioned that Myrna had been quite old when Donna was born. If she had been in her sixties, she would now be around eighty-five, but if I was to be brutally honest, Madame Myrna looked to be about one hundred and five and not a day younger.

  Donna led us to the kitchen. A bright, cheerful room painted in shades of yellow and white. Glass prisms and other sparkly objects hung in the many open windows, refracting sunlight into tiny rainbows that danced on the walls as they swayed in the breeze. It was the kind of kitchen where you would expect to see a plump grandmother baking cookies, not a withered hag whipping up toads and eye of newt in her magic cauldron. Yes, there was a cauldron. Right next to the shelf full of retro Kitchenaid appliances stood an old-fashioned hearth with a cauldron that was just big enough to fit both Hansel and Gretel.

  As I took the seat Donna offered at the rustic table, I noticed a low hum. At first, I thought it was the ancient refrigerator, but it grew louder and became more tangible, filling the air with an electric charge. Despite the sunlight streaming in through the many windows, the room darkened considerably. The spinning of the prisms became less random, turning in a way that focused the refracted light into a spinning vortex that zeroed in on me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t on alert, but the funny thing was, it didn’t feel like a magical attack.

  As quickly as it began, the magic ebbed away. The shadows vacated the corners and the prisms went back to being innocent window dressings.

  “Satisfied?” Donna asked her mother in a wary voice.

  “The Warrior is what he claims,” she replied in a cracked and hoarse whisper. “I shall show the same respect.”

  She reached up to remove the shawl from her head. As she did, her appearance blurred and stretched. Her posture straightened and she seemed to grow almost a foot in height. Her bulging blue eyes receded as the wrinkles on her face smoothed considerably, leaving normal lines of age, most prominent in the corners of her eyes and mouth. Though clearly a senior citizen, Madame Myrna no longer resembled the physical embodiment of a Grimm’s fairytale hag. When she smiled, her eyes shone with a warmth that was more in line with the cookie baking grandmother I had originally expected to meet in this kitchen.

  “Desmond, meet my mother, Myrna Rose. Better known to most of Blackbird as Madame Myrna,” said Donna.

  “Welcome, Desmond. I apologize for the bells and whistles, but one must stay vigilant, especially in a place like Blackbird.”

  “No need to apologize,” I said, shaking the hand she offered, noting the strong grip. “Your precautions are prudent.” I kept the fact that she had been one probe away from being turned into pixie dust to myself. Just because her actions were prudent, didn’t mean that I had to like being subjected to them. “I trust that Donna has explained the situation to you?”

  “She has.” A frown crossed her face as she set a pitcher of tea on the table. “This opens many questions,” she added cryptically.

  “Such as?”

  “I’ve known Seth for many years,” she began, pouring a glass of tea for each of us. I accepted mine with a smile of thanks, but took a precautionary sniff. Tea, water, and a hint of lemon. The absence of sugar assured me that there was no magical concoction hidden in the beverage. Myrna noticed and gave me a look of mock indignation. Hey, precautionary measures were a two way street. “For as long as I’ve known him,” she continued, “Seth has been a kind and giving soul, but he bears the mark of the martyr. Of course, I never asked how he died, but falling victim to a woman bent on becoming one with Chaos does not make one a martyr.”

  “Unless he was protecting someone else,” Donna suggested.

  “I don’t believe he was,” I replied. “The only person he would have wanted to spare was the one who killed him. But I too noticed the mark, and last night, when he discovered what Amara had done, he asked me to retire his soul.”

  “As he would,” Myrna sighed. “But if I am correct in my assumption, extreme measures should not be necessary to break the protection that Seth’s soul gives the creature. He would have born the mark of the martyr in life, meaning that the succubus took from a soul that was already incomplete.”

  “So she is not invincible?” I asked, skeptical of this assessment. “My attempt to kill Amara was unsuccessful. I do not wish to sound prideful, but I don’t miss. Especially not with a tempered blade.”

  “No, I’m afraid that Seth’s protection remains for the moment, but it can be broken. Hm…” She looked at me, narrowing her eyes in concentration. “Donna, please fetch my divining glass.”

  Donna left the kitchen, returning a moment later with a small, flat disc that looked a bit like a cloudy mirror. Runic symbols lined the outer edge and it gave off a strong aura of neutral magic. This was Myrna’s artifact. A psychic can see beyond the current cycle. Their magic allows glimpses of events that have happened before and allows them to predict with varying degrees of accuracy the outcome of future events based on past patterns. An artifact is a tool that gives clarity to the visions, but in the wrong hands, it can be dangerous. To create an artifact, the psychic needs to imbue the vessel that will become the tool with a part of their soul. Again, a fractured soul is a vulnerable soul.

  Myrna placed the glass on the table, midway between the two of us, and gazed into its depths, allowing her eyes to relax and lose their focus. For several minutes, she appeared to be in a catatonic state, but then her brow furrowed. Another prolonged moment of nothing and her lips pursed. Then a “Hm” and an “Oh?” Finally, after what felt like several hours, but was likely just ten minutes, she blinked and looked up at me.

  “It is as I expected,” she said with a hopeful smile. “Seth’s soul is indeed fractured. In martyring himself, he pledged part of his soul to another. This allowed Amara to take what was not freely given. Only the one who holds the missing fragment can release the bond she created.”

  “Do you know who that is?” I asked, feeling my spirits lift at the idea that we had a lead.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said with an apologetic smile that dashed my hopes. “But,” she added. “You are the one who will shed light in the darkness.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, wondering if the cryptic message had meaning or was just part of an act. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “Seth’s soul and yours have met in many cycles. There is a bond that I am sure you are both aware of.”

  I nodded. “The Creator mentioned this and I do feel an unexplained kinship toward Seth.”

  “This bond is your tool. Use it. I cannot predict whether or not the fragment of Seth’s soul will be found. The future is ever changing, but the past suggests heavily that you will be the facilitator in finding what is lost.”

  “No pressure,” I quipped and let out the breath I was holding. Were there a Guardian posted in Blackbird, this task may not be so daunting. While Myrna’s psychic abilities allowed her to see that Seth and I had a connection, she could not see the details of said connection. A Guardian would be able to look into all of our past cycles and see exactly who we were and how we were connected. But for the moment, Blackbird did not have a Guardian,

  The Creator knew this, and knew that complications had arisen in the posting of a Guardian. This is why it allowed me the scant information it had divulged. I considered slipping out of the time stream to ask for more, but I knew such a request would be futile. In its role as Creator of the Infinite Cycle of Order, it was unable to give me anything more to go on. To maintain balance, it could not become involved in matters pertaining to the Cycle, despite the traits ascribed to it by varying religious beliefs. This was something I was going to have to do on my own.

  “I’ll do anything I can to help,” Myrna o
ffered.

  “Me too,” Donna added. “All of the girls will.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a smile of gratitude. “I’ll need time to think on this.” I stood to leave and caught sight of a large, leather bound book sitting on the mantel above the hearth. There were no words, but an intricate rose was embossed on the cover.

  “Excuse me. Is that…?”

  “The cursed history of the Rose women?” Myrna gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Yes, all thirteen of us.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, but Seth told me about the connection to our… I mean, the strange circumstances.” I cursed myself for nearly mentioning the Guardian.

  “No need to apologize and Seth had every right to tell you. I suspect you would not be here otherwise?” Myrna raised an eyebrow.

  “You caught me,” I chuckled lightly. “Donna called me out last night as well. Warriors are all typically wary of mystics.”

  “As well you should be,” she said, taking the book from the mantel and placing it on the kitchen table. “I suppose you were thinking you may find something?” She held out her hand, gesturing that I had her permission to examine the book. “Given our unusual history, that’s not a bad idea. Perhaps you’ll find a name you recognize.”

  “It’s a start,” I said as I opened to the back of the book, where the names and dates of birth were listed for each of the Rose women, beginning with… Madelyn Rose? This was not the name I expected to find. I counted the names that came next. Galatea, Josephina, Rowena, Katheryn, Maria, Angelia, Violet, Alexandra, Prudence, Enid, Myrna, and finally Donna. Thirteen in all, none that stood out, and not an Abbey to be found among them. I flipped back to the beginning of the book and read the history of Madelyn Rose, which had been painstakingly documented by Myrna in a small but neat script. The details of her life matched those that Seth had recounted of the Guardian. I wondered briefly if the name had changed due to her cycling, but then it hit me. Madelyn was a nun. She lived and died in an Abbey. It was a nickname. A twisted nickname at that.

  With that arbitrary mystery solved, I skimmed through the history of the rest of the Rose women. Though intriguing, nothing stood out as exceptionally important. I closed the book and thanked Myrna for her help and the tea.

  *

  “Is there a mall nearby?” I asked Donna as we pulled onto the highway.

  “If you could call it that. Why? Hoping to catch Amara off guard at Hot Topic?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, snickering at the mental image Donna’s comment conjured. “I am in need of some furnishings. Seth’s previous roommate’s tastes were… interesting.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes lit up and I resisted the urge to tell her to keep them on the road. “They just opened a HomeGoods and I’ve been wanting to check it out. Want me to take you there now?”

  “If it’s not an inconvenience.”

  “Desmond, seriously, shopping is never an inconvenience.”

  “I’ll have to take your word on that.”

  Donna took a sharp exit off the highway and I was forced to hold on for dear life as she navigated the maze of stores and parking lots.

  Inside the store, I quickly picked out a few sheet sets in nice, somber colors, and a few new pillows. I discovered last night that Abbey had been fond of a certain men’s cologne because the pillows had been steeped in the cloying scent. At least, I hoped that was why. I did not want to consider the alternative. Or whether or not I would need to find a mattress store. Within five minutes, I had everything I needed. Donna, however, had other ideas. By the time we made it to the checkout line (nearly an hour later), I was certain that there wasn’t an item in the store that Donna hadn’t picked up, cooed over, deemed adorable, and set back on the shelf.

  When the store’s automatic doors swished open, I was hit with a sense of foreboding. The early evening air was thick with the typical funk of greasy fast food joints and leaking automobile fluids, but under that was the distinct scent of the Discordant. Not just any Discordant and, to my chagrin, not just Discordant. Earth magic and Order magic crackled in the air as well.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling,” Donna said as she stepped out next to me.

  “You ain’t the only one,” I said, realizing the disturbance was coming from the cluster of chain restaurants across the parking lot. “Come on.”

  I spotted Seth, dragging an indignant Louise away from the entrance to the Red Lobster. A moment later, they were followed by Amara and some unfortunate who was clearly under her spell. It appeared, from the number of faces pressed against the windows and door, that we were too late to stop them from making a scene.

  “You know I can’t kill her, but if you can create a diversion, I can get rid of the bitch.”

  Donna closed her eyes and smiled wickedly. “Yup, someone is about to get their meal comped.” A crash issued from somewhere in the restaurant and the faces in the window withdrew. I took advantage of the momentary distraction and drew my blade. The glint of silver caught the fading sun at just the right angle to catch Amara’s attention. She paused only long enough to give me a withering glare before dissolving into mist, leaving her boy toy behind.

  “Where’d Amara go?” he asked, coming down off his magical high and rounding on Louise. “What are you doing here?”

  “Apparently saving your worthless ass,” she spat back.

  “This is not the time or the place,” I said, stepping between the two before they created yet another scene. From the sound of the diversion Donna created, I didn’t think the restaurant could handle losing any more dishes. “Take Louise back to the Five Penny and I’ll meet you there in a few minutes,” I told Seth, who was too shaken to do anything but nod in acknowledgment. Louise gave me a dirty look, but followed as Seth led her away. I turned back to the young man, but Donna beat me to the punch.

  “Jim, what the hell is wrong with you? Even an idiot like you should be able to see what she is! Are you suicidal?”

  Well, that was a plot twist I hadn’t expected. I sensed no magic coming from the man. I did, however, sense much confusion and heavy use of painkillers. Not a good combination under the best of circumstances.

  “You’re wrong, she ain’t like Suzanne,” he muttered with about as much conviction as someone who knew their lie had no legs.

  “You’re right. She’s worse. Suzanne was only out to ruin your life. Amara won’t stop there. She wants your soul, Jim.”

  “Maybe you should just butt out of other people’s lives, Donna,” he shot back, still semi-dazed. Whether this was from the number of drugs he was on or Amara’s doing, I couldn’t tell. Either way, it didn’t bode well for his continued survival. Though I was curious as to who and what Suzanne had been.

  “Come on,” I said quietly, putting my hand on Donna’s arm. “We can’t help him if he doesn’t want our help.” It was harsh, but sadly, it was the truth. He was already enthralled. Within three nights, his soul would belong to Chaos, sooner if this wasn’t their first interaction. The only way to save him would be to kill Amara before his soul was lost and I didn’t have high hopes for that happening.

  With one pitying look back, Donna followed me to her car.

  “Damn it!” she swore as the Buick’s speedometer crept towards ninety.

  “A friend?”

  Donna looked over at me in surprise and laughed. “What, Jim? Hell no. I hate that asshole. That’s what pisses me off. Stupid Discordant! Always forcing me to have compassion for jerks who have only themselves to blame for getting into these messes. Isn’t there supposed to be a Guardian or something to take care of this?”

  “There is,” I assured her. As frustrated as I was with the fact that we still had no new Guardian posted, I was glad to see that Donna had finally forgotten Abbey. “What’s this guy’s story? Who is Suzanne?”

  “Jim’s one of Betty’s exes,” she said in a way that suggested this should explain everything. When I gave her a look that said it didn’t, she continued. “Betty has the w
orst taste in men. Like, you know the stereotypical chick who thinks every toad she kisses is a prince in disguise? That’s Betty and that’s how she met Jim. He was dating a harpy.”

  “Suzanne?”

  “That would be Suzanne,” she confirmed. “Betty was the one who realized what was up and banished her. Next thing we know, Betty feels sorry for him and then the two of them are dating. Jim turns out to be an unemployed sponge. He’s lazy and manipulative, and now he’s completely addicted to painkillers because of how many times he’s faked injuries to get out of working for a living. Shit, Amara probably didn’t even have to have sex with him. She probably just told him she’d pay his bills.”

  It was difficult to feel sympathy for someone like that, but such characters were simply part of what balanced the Cycle. Jim’s punishment would come in the next phase of his soul’s journey, if it survived that long. My job was to try to ensure that this happened. If Myrna was correct, there was hope, however slight. My only hope was that Seth could provide some insight as to who he was, and who might have the missing fragment of his soul before it was too late.

  Chapter 9

  The Storm Before the Calm

  Donna and Desmond beat us to the Five Penny because Louise insisted that we stop and pick up something to eat, since our dinner plans had been ruined. Well, sort of. Mostly we were delayed because Louise couldn’t decide between Taco Bell and Subway. Then we had to stop at Starbucks, where she agonized over whether she wanted her drink iced or hot and added about twenty special instructions to confuse the poor kid behind the counter. Desmond’s frown said he wasn’t happy with the delay, but I just shrugged and handed over the large coffee I had picked up as a peace offering. Betty was already there, having come directly from her shop down the street, and had been chatting with Bogie when we walked in.