The Shadow: The Original's Trilogy

by Cara Crescent

  One of Azazel’s thick arms shot out, striking down the butterflies. The glass shrieked in protest, shattering against the wall. The colorful lights disappeared.

  He couldn’t look away from the carnage. His vision blurred. The first tear left an itchy trail in its wake. What now? What did he have left? There was no point returning here again.

  The door slammed behind Azazel, pushing a gust of wind toward Julius, delivering the lingering scent of cinnamon. He inhaled deeply.

  He had the scent of cinnamon.

  The memory of a redheaded angel.

  The memory of her touch. Her kiss.

  He had a reason to fight again.

  Chapter 6

  Carnation, WA

  Duncan sat in his rented Escalade, gripped the steering wheel as if to anchor himself there, and stared out the windshield.

  He knew that woman . . . or at least, he had known her. All the old feelings came back with a vehemence that bordered on cruelty. Back when he was human, they’d—

  No. He slammed his hands against the steering wheel so hard the whole vehicle swayed. Wasn’t her. Couldn’t be.

  The radio clicked on, playing Stevie Nick’s Talk to Me.

  He turned down the volume. “Bastards, the lot of you. Leaving me hanging like that. No warning. No nothing. Now you wanna chat?”

  The radio clicked off.

  “That had to rank as one of the strangest conversations in all me three hundred years. The target appears human.” Brilliantly human with those dark eyes, petite frame, and an abundance of feminine assets. “She knows an unusual amount about daemon kind. I mean, she determined from the scar on me neck that her gun was useless.” She understood the natural rules of vampirism—the door shield. She didn’t ask him to expound on what a Watcher was. “Not surprising, maybe, if she knows Pasquino.”

  Interesting, too, that she’d tried to banish him but only managed to push him about. He’d seen humans banish daemons before, they had a natural right to protect their homes. But either she’d been conflicted over whether she wanted to banish him, or the powers that be were conflicted on if she had the right to do so. Maybe even conflicted on her status as human?

  He was. He suspected she might be more than human. As soon as she’d opened her door, energy had crackled in the air around them, lifting the hair on his arms. Even more interesting, she appeared to be getting up as opposed to going to bed. Her hair and makeup looked fresh. The scent of coffee had filled the house. “What is she?”

  The radio clicked on and a DJ said, “Tell us her name.”

  Duncan blinked. Three hundred years he’d worked for the Watchers. Never, not once, had they asked him a question. “Think maybe we got our wires crossed. Don’t think I heard that right.”

  Again. “Tell us her name.”

  The numbers flashed over the screen of the radio as the channel changed. A newscaster’s voice filled the car. “Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”

  What the fuck?

  The dial spun. “Tell us her name.” And spun. “Her name . . . name . . . name . . . name.”

  The hair at Duncan’s nape lifted. What in the hell was going on? The Watchers were insane, everyone knew that, but they’d never acted quite this bizarre before.

  A little girl’s voice, maybe from a commercial said, “Stay out of this.”

  The dial spun. “Yakity Yak (Don’t Talk Back)” blasted as the volume raised. Again, “Her name. Her name. Her name. Her name.”

  Were they arguing? Legend said there were two hundred Watchers, it stood to reason they wouldn’t always see eye-to-eye. His phone buzzed in his pocket. The message: Don’t listen to electronic messages. Communicate by humans only.

  He hadn’t even finished reading it before it buzzed again: Don’t listen to them. Listen to me. Say her name. Say her name. Say her name. Say her name.

  The second message went on and on.

  They were arguing. And he was stuck in the middle of it. Which ones were the ones that had assigned him this job? Why did they only want to communicate through humans? Couldn’t all Watchers take over a human body the same as they could take over the electronics they usually communicated with?

  “I wish you fuckers would’ve picked someone else.”

  Did he? If they hadn’t picked him, he wouldn’t have gotten to see her again. Wouldn’t even know she was here. The more he considered it, the more he was sure that was her. Satrina. He should know, he’d made love to her on a regular basis. She’d been his refuge.

  Christ, things had been bad in those days. Charlie, his son, had been a bit of a thing. Gertie, she’d always been so angry. There had never been any peace in his house, so he’d often found himself in his mistress’s bed.

  He stared through the windshield at the path that led to Haven House. That was her. She looked different now, sure, but there were similarities.

  Or maybe he only saw what he wanted to see. She was a fit woman and surprising enough, out of all the emotions he’d seen cross her face, disdain hadn’t been one of them. Hell, not even Satrina had looked at him like that. She’d put up with him, but . . .

  He wiped his hand over his stubble, noticed his hand shook and put it back on the steering wheel. “Forget it.” He spoke the words aloud, letting them settle into his skin. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” Focus on your rules. Don’t let your emotions show. Do your fucking job.

  Either way, whether she was his Satrina or not, he couldn’t leave her alone. Whatever might be going on with that woman, he had no desire to see her dead, or worse, in Leo or Crowley’s clutches. “So, I’m thinking I’m on my own. I won’t be chatting you up anytime soon.”

  Marilyn Manson’s Deep Six came on.

  The message was clear. He was on at least one Watcher’s shite list—a place he had no desire to be.

  He was in the process of fucking over the head of the Vampiric Council, for the benefit of a woman who might, or might not be the reincarnated soul of a past lover. He’d left Harry, who he was responsible for, alone in London. Humans were disappearing. The Watchers were fighting among themselves and now at least one of them wanted him ashed.

  “Well, there’s nowhere left to go but up, right?”

  The radio went dead.

  Headlights broke through the foliage leading to Haven House. A little red sports car came into view. He ducked.

  Duncan smirked. He’d scared her out of her burrow. Nice.

  As soon as she passed, he popped his head up, turned in his seat to watch until she’d made it around the bend in the road. Once her taillights disappeared, he put his car in gear and followed. He stayed well back, tailing her toward Main while he tried to ring Harry again. This time, the phone rang. And rang. And went to voicemail. Christ, what if he’d become one of the missing?

  “Listen, pup, I know you’re still brassed off ’bout being left behind, but could you give me a bell? Or at least answer your bloody phone? It’d be nice to know if Leo’s got you, or, you know, if you’ve gone missing.” He cut the call. “Fuck’s sake.”

  Despite being after three AM, humans rushed around Main as they looted the shops for emergency supplies. Somewhere farther up the street a gunshot rang out. Humans screamed, scattering. Three men, their arms full of stuff, dashed out into the road. His target had to slam on her breaks and swerve to avoid them.

  All hell was breaking loose in the small town of Carnation. He couldn’t imagine what it might be like in the big cities. Damn. He shouldn’t have left Harry in London.

  They drove to the end of Main where a cemetery sat at the edge of town, then down an unlit arterial. There wasn’t much around but farmland. As he turned, his headlights swung over tall grass and black-and-white spotted cows.

  The woman stopped at the end of the road, right before a sharp turn. He parked in front of a farm on his left. Cut the lights.

  His phone beeped and he checked the message. Harry: Toss off.

  Duncan sighed. At least the little shite was still alive.
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br />   He set his phone aside and scanned the area. There wasn’t much cover—a few trees along the road. He got out of the car. Shut the door.

  Down the street the woman got out of her car and glanced back.

  He ducked behind the Escalade.

  Closing his eyes, he called up his Vampiric Talent. They all had one—a gift passed down from the fallen angel they’d descended from. He sorted through the familiars he’d gathered over the years, settling on an English Mastiff. The dog he’d bonded with had been a sweet, calm male who’d been as protective as hell. He’d suit this job nicely.

  He allowed the familiar to take over, the other creature’s form settling in over his. It was a tight fit, he preferred to shift to larger animals, but a smart woman wouldn’t allow anything bigger than this mastiff close to her. Hell, this was a long shot.

  He padded down the road in the mastiff’s form, in time to see her enter a cottage-style home tucked back in the corner. She hadn’t turned on any lights and no door shield protected the house. No one lived there.

  He’d sneaked up closer, almost to the front door, when the smell hit. He paused. Sniffed the air. Death. The scent grew stronger round the side of the house. He padded through the back yard where tall blocks of stone stood in a circle—a modern rendition of Stonehenge.

  What was this place?

  The scent pulled him forward, past the circle, and into the woods. He jumped up on a fallen log near the river to survey the area. Bodies littered the forest. Bodies and ash. Daemons had fought humans here recently.

  What in the hell was going on? Was this linked to the human disappearances? To his job?

  The sound of heartbeats neared. He’d expected the woman and maybe someone from the house, but two men approached from the other direction.

  “What a mess. Did they say what happened?”

  “Do they ever?”

  Duncan hunkered down to watch. Both wore some kind of uniform. A patch with the initials: RI, rode the right front breast of their shirts. Both had guns. Assault rifles from the look of it. The one on the left looked nervous as hell, kept messing with the safety on his weapon, jumping at every little noise.

  “Relax, will ya?” The blond on the right kept his body relaxed, his weapon ready, his gaze watchful. He was the more experienced of the two—the dangerous one.

  “What if whoever did this comes back before the clean-up crew arrives?”

  Blondie turned to stare at the Noob. He shook his head. “We detain them.”

  Duncan didn’t wait to hear more. He slunk through the underbrush back to the house to alert his target. He wouldn’t be able to warn her in his familiar’s form. He’d have to play this straight and hope to hell she didn’t scream or run when she saw him. He shifted back into his true form, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck as he strode up to the door.

  Knock, or go in? It’d be easier on the woman if he knocked . . . but she could slip out the back right into those two thugs. Duncan entered the house, ducking a bit so he didn’t bust his head on the frame. He closed the door. The small entryway—a five-by-five area of tile—led into a living room lit by a night-light. Books, papers, jars, and piles of stones littered every surface. To his right, an arch led to a dining room crowded with table and chairs. The house had a weight to it—a heaviness in the air that urged him to leave.

  He stayed in place, speaking to the house at large. “Just here to warn you, there are two armed men outside, planning to detain anyone they come across.”

  While quiet before, the whole place went silent in an unnatural way.

  “Look, I’m not here to hurt you. The Watchers sent me to protect you. I’m a friend.”

  The woman stuck her head out from behind a wall deeper in the home. Straight black hair framed a narrow face punctuated with big, dark eyes. Her lips parted.

  At least she wasn’t a screamer.

  He held his hands out to his sides showing her he wasn’t armed. “Name’s Duncan, love. I wanna help.”

  *****

  Trina straightened and came out from behind the wall, clutching the Black Book of Daemonology against her chest. She didn’t need this right now. She’d just been reading about the Original. Just started to process through what it meant for Lilith to be the Original.

  Her gaze narrowed. The door shield should’ve prevented his entrance. “How the hell did you get in here? You are a vampire, right?”

  “Isn’t your place.” He glanced around. “Isn’t anyone’s, else there’d be a seal on the door.” He tipped his head toward the right. “Is one of those bodies out there the owner?”

  Indeed, Rowena had died last night. “I’m here. I’m human.”

  “Ah, but this isn’t your home.” He rubbed his palm over his stubbly chin. “You don’t have any more right to be here than I do.”

  Her heart shuddered. Shit. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Lilith had given her half-ownership of Haven House, but here, she was an interloper.

  “Calm down.” He eased a step closer. “That heart of yours sounds ready to take flight.”

  She backed away. “Stop. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

  He motioned toward the dining room. “How ’bout we have a seat? Chat things over?”

  That might be good. Rowena’s dining room was a tight fit for her with that mammoth table. If she could get him seated in there, thinking she meant to cooperate, she’d have half a chance to get a head start when she bolted. “Okay, you first.”

  Duncan entered the dining room. The seat at the head of the table was piled high with boxes. He sidled between the back of that chair and a sewing mannequin, almost toppling it as he squeezed past. He pulled out the chair across from her, easing into it, as if afraid it might break under his weight.

  She took the chair closest to the entry, setting the book down on the table.

  “Now, I’m not here to make you nervous, love.”

  She almost laughed. She couldn’t picture anyone being comfortable around him, big as he was. “I’m not fond of daemons.”

  “Ah. So then it’s not me looks or accent that’s got your hackles up?”

  “You do remind me of the villains in most of the historical romances I’ve read.” He sounded like one, too.

  He winked. “And you, love, you’d play the part of a duchess well. What with your straight-backed posture and your chin tilted just so.”

  Her cheeks heated. She didn’t dress like a duchess with her combat boots, ripped jeans, and Disturbed concert tee. Had he meant that as a compliment or an insult? Goddess, this man was her mate? She’d never have chosen him. The Watchers couldn’t have gotten their match right. “Duncan, can I be honest with you?”

  “Rare thing, honesty. Though I do prefer it, meself. Go on.”

  “The Watchers aren’t high on my trust scale.”

  “Are they on anyone’s? Daft bastards, the lot of them. Never know what to expect when they’re involved, know what I mean?”

  She blinked. Strange, but when in motion, his features softened. “I, uh, yes. Yes, I do. And I’ve already shared with you my thoughts on daemons.”

  “Now, there”—he wagged his finger—“I think you’re wrong. Daemons are an honest sort, they don’t shy away from the dark truths of life the way humans do.”

  Her lips had parted while he spoke and she snapped her mouth closed. He was almost . . . almost . . . pleasant-looking when animated. “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t think we suit.”

  “Suit?” His features scrunched up. “Why would we need to suit? Look, Duchess, I’m here in the capacity of a bodyguard. Don’t need to ‘suit’ anything to guard your person. Just need to be able to fight. Now, then. Where are your friends?”

  Stubborn man. Maybe she could at least squeeze some information from him. “You expect me to give you the location of my friends, who the Council has issued a kill order on, knowing that you work for the Council?”

  “Know about that, do you?” He kissed his teeth.


  She did now. “You admit it?”

  He grinned. “Council tried to hire me to off one of you women, with a side order to dust James Pasquino if he got in the way.”

  She stared.

  “What? You wanted honesty. Thought we were putting all our cards on the table.”

  She started to get up.

  “Now, I said they tried to hire me.”

  “You’re here.” She paused. “You must have taken the job.”

  “Well, yeah, I—”

  That was all she needed to hear. She grabbed the book and lurched out of the chair, smacking her thigh hard against the table, enough to make her eyes water.

  He jumped up, too. “Wait—”

  Shit. He was coming over the table, not around. She whirled. Made it a couple of steps before he caught hold of her wrist.

  No Magic. Don’t use Magic.

  He pulled her back. “Now, we’re having a nice little chin wag—”

  She round-kicked his knee out from under him. He went down hard. She turned to run.

  Don’t use Magic. No Magic.

  He grabbed her foot. She fell flat on her stomach, grunting with the impact as her cheek smacked the floor. The book flew out of her hands, skidding across the polished wood. No Magic. Kicking out with her free foot, her boot connected with his cheek.

  He cursed.

  She flinched. Don’t use Magic. Scrambled up. Ran to the door, pausing to flip the lock.

  He spun her around.

  Don’t use Magic. No Magic. Can’t use Magic. Her heart thundered so hard her whole body twitched with the reverberations.

  He still wore her shoe print. His lips had thinned into a harsh slash. Without a word he picked her up, holding her against the door, nose-to-nose. She fisted her hand and tried to throw a punch, but hindered by the proximity of the door, it was more awkward than effective.

  He changed positions, using his linebacker’s body to hold her in place, restraining her hands on either side of her head. Even his damn thigh blocked her from kneeing him in the groin.