The Shadow: The Original's Trilogy

by Cara Crescent

The whine of the saw stopped. “My name is Moss, Mr. Crowley. We spoke yesterday, do you remember?”

  He hadn’t spoken to Moss. He didn’t even remember how he came to be here, wherever here was. Unless . . . shit. Azazel. What kind of sick deal did you make? Why are you doing this?

  Azazel remained quiet.

  “Interesting. I’ll have to make a note of your memory loss. That could be a problem. To recap: We have several sick men here who need to recover. As you can imagine, we find your healing capabilities quite interesting—you’re immune to the bioweapon—but I’ll need more precise measurements. For one thing, I have no way of knowing how old those injuries were. My notes must be thorough if I’m going to gain approval to proceed.”

  This wasn’t happening. What the hell had Azazel gotten him into? What could he hope to gain from this? Was it another of his twisted punishments?

  “I’m going to cut the tip of your finger off so I can measure how long it takes to grow back.”

  “What?” He struggled, but with his limbs restrained all he managed to do was smack his head on the table. Get us out of here. I know you can. Why would you allow—

  The saw started again.

  Goddamn it! Make him stop, you fucking—

  The pain came.

  All his muscles seized under the sudden attack of acute agony. It was too much effort to even drag in a stale breath of air around the blinding fire.

  His thoughts shattered.

  Chapter 10

  Carnation, WA

  Trina stared at her Tarot reading. Everything pointed to major turmoil. To the fate of the world resting on her shoulders.

  The goddess must be as crazy as the Watchers.

  The Shadow. Fucking great. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. She jammed the top edge of each of the Tarot cards from her reading into the frame of her mirror with far more force than necessary. There were more capable witches in the coven. Did it mean she was evil? The violent, horrible part of the Original? Was she meant to spend the rest of her life fighting against such impulses? Did it mean that no matter how hard she tried, she’d always taint what she touched?

  She ruins everything.

  She rested her elbows on the dresser next to a small pot of dirt which once housed a sick fern. Now it held a little, once-white rabbit in a yellow sundress impaled on a Popsicle stick. She ran her fingertip down the rabbit’s head. Sun-bleached and dusty, the condition of the toy solidified the fact that she did, indeed, ruin everything. Even a stupid yarn bunny wasn’t safe.

  Someone rapped on her door. She jerked around to stare.

  The door opened. Duncan popped his head around the corner. “Heard you up, love. Can’t protect you from the other room.” He stepped in, closed the door and leaned on it, folding his arms across his chest.

  As if she needed protection. She took him in from beneath her lashes.

  Unlike James, who always dressed for comfort, Duncan appeared to put more thought into his clothing. No worn jeans or tees for him. Even now, half put together and wounded, he looked fresh off the page of some Calvin Klein ad; a fresh, trendy designer shirt hung open over low-riding chinos. The goddess had taken her time creating that body. He was all sharp lines, hard planes, and tightly packed muscle. Handsome or not, his potent male energy commanded her attention.

  She blinked. When the hell had she started being attracted to him? She should’ve never invited him into her home. “Get out.”

  He gifted her with a lopsided grin that threatened to turn her to mush.

  “Are you deaf?”

  “If I was, I wouldn’t have heard you trying to walk through the floorboards, would I, Duchess?”

  She ground her teeth together.

  “Just wanna talk.” He held his hands up in a placating gesture. “I hurt like hell and now that I’ve fed I can’t seem to sleep.” He pointed to the chair sitting at an angle in the corner near the door. “Can I sit? You stay on that side of the room, I’ll sit over here, and we’ll both behave.”

  He gimped over to the chair and sat. This wasn’t a good idea. She had no desire to get close to him. Knew better than to risk his safety by having him anywhere near her right now. But she couldn’t continue to sit around here feeling sorry for herself. Hell, if they talked a while, maybe she’d discover Duncan was just as much of an ass as Trevor had been. Then she wouldn’t feel so bad when it was time to part ways.

  In the end, she sat on the bed and pulled the remaining pillow into her lap, holding the feather-stuffed sack in front of her like a shield.

  He glanced around, his gaze pausing on her suitcases, on the items on the dresser, the cards hanging from her mirror.

  Quiet seconds ticked by. She began to fidget. She didn’t want to discuss her problems and she sucked at small talk. “What did you want to talk about?”

  The full weight of his attention fixed on her. “Anything. I’m knackered. Something dull enough to put me to sleep.”

  “Let’s talk about you.”

  “You do know how to wound a male.” He chuckled, which forced her own reluctant grin. Duncan Sinclair was a dangerous man—he wasn’t easy to dislike.

  “Ask me anything.” He crossed an ankle over his knee, wincing. His head rested on the cushioned back, his elbows on the arm pads. He appeared relaxed enough to fall asleep at any second.

  “Where are you from?”

  His lips quirked. “What, the accent didn’t give me away?”

  “Obviously England, but where?”

  “Bow Bell, love. I’m true-blue Cockney.”

  She arched her brow.

  “Back in the day we had the gentry, the poor, and the Cockney; working class riff-raff born near St. Mary-le-Bow’s church in London. If you heard the bells from where you were born, you were considered a Cockney. Nowadays it just means you have a charming accent.”

  “That is one of the strangest things I’ve ever heard.” His chest rumbled with quiet laughter and she smiled again. “When was ‘back in the day’?”

  “Oh, what . . .? Would’ve been around fifteen-sixteen to fifteen forty-eight.”

  He’d been thirty-two when transformed. “What’s it like?”

  “The sixteenth century?”

  “No, well . . . yeah, that too, I guess, but living for so long.”

  “Poor choice of words, that.” He stared at the ceiling. “Right, so, as a human I wanted to put food on the table, keep a roof over our heads. Now, I can’t remember specifically what I look like.” He grinned. “Which may be a good thing. I don’t recall how food tastes, not even when I catch the scent, nor what sunlight felt like. That’s the hardest part.”

  She’d never thought too much about what it would be like to not have a reflection or eat regular food. She couldn’t imagine forgetting the flavor of chocolate. “Not remembering?”

  “Nah, more . . . knowing I didn’t experience things enough. I never bothered to pay attention to the mundane stuff I did and saw a thousand times over. Now there’re no specifics to recall.”

  “Oh.”

  His eyes met her gaze.

  “I didn’t expect a serious answer.”

  “Mm.” His lips curved. “I’ve been around awhile. You can’t go long without noticing some of the darker aspects of life.” He bobbed his head to the side. “And death. I have a serious and thankless job. What I’m trying to say is I prefer to keep things on the light, yeah? Makes the nights pass smoother, keeps the wrong people from paying me mind, but don’t mistake it with me being light in the head.”

  “And fifteen forty-eight?”

  “Right,” he muttered on an exhale. “Pretty much the same as now.” At her scoff, he added, “Minus all the modern conveniences and cleanliness.” He cleared his throat. “This is nice. Had a feeling you’d be a bit of all right once you retracted your claws.” When she didn’t comment, he continued, “I think you and me are more alike than you want to admit.”

  She failed to stifle her laugh and it came out
as a snort.

  His brow shot up.

  She coughed, tried to bluster through. “Sorry, but I can’t find any similarity. I grew up in the States, graduated, and served in the Navy. You . . . .” She let her words trail off.

  “What? I’m an uneducated villain from the wrong side of town?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You’re handing me your CV, in’nit?” His accent became almost too thick to understand. “Listing off your accomplishments to weigh against mine. But what? You don’t have anything on me yet? Nothing to compare, good or bad?”

  “I was going to say I can’t find any similarities and I got embarrassed and the thought came out wrong. But we are nothing alike.”

  “How?”

  Her mind went blank. She didn’t even understand why they were arguing.

  “I’ll hand-feed you a couple. We’re opposite sex and were brought up in different countries. So, come on. How else?”

  “Listen to—”

  His cheeks flushed. “You shouldn’t make snap judgments based on a person’s speech.”

  “I was going to say, ‘Listen to how arrogant you sound.’”

  His cheeks reddened more.

  “Why are you mad?”

  “I ain’t. Said what I had to say.” His accent smoothed out with his temper. He leaned forward as if he were going to rise to leave.

  “What were your parents like?” She wasn’t ready for their talk to end.

  He paused. Settled back in the chair. “My father was a butcher, had a shop in Cheapside.”

  “Did you follow in his footsteps?” She couldn’t quite see him doing that kind of work.

  “Nah. I—” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  She waited for him to say more.

  He shrugged. “I was a pugilist and a filch.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A boxer. During dry spells, a thief.” His gaze met hers. “A villain.”

  She grinned. It suited him. “Sounds hazardous.”

  “I tend to have an unusual amount of luck.”

  “Not enough.” She grinned. “Did you break your nose in a fight?”

  He grew still, his expression guarded. “Of a sort.” His gaze zeroed in on her suitcases. “So, you’ve been away. Where?”

  “The Navy. I did ten years.” She hated lying, but ten . . . eight, who would ever know?

  “You liked the service?”

  No. Yes. She shrugged. “I had a freedom I didn’t have here.”

  “In the military?” His tone dripped skepticism.

  How could she explain? “Have you ever felt . . .?” She held her hands up. “I don’t know . . . like parts of you were missing?”

  “Empty inside?”

  She nodded.

  He leaned forward. “Yes.”

  Why was she telling him this? Lilith was her best friend. She’d always told her everything—at least everything she was willing to say out loud. But his gaze held steady—intent and understanding—and the words spilled out. “I don’t remember ever not feeling like that and when I”—was forced into the military—“joined the military, I didn’t have Rowena or the coven hovering over me and I could do things that made the emptiness go away for a little while. Does that make sense?”

  “Drink. Women . . . .” He bobbed his head. “Well, women for me.” He winked. “Lots of mates who weren’t true friends because I never talked to them about anything important.” He sat back. “Parties and rows. Filching and conning.” His gaze met hers. “I get that. Went through a similar phase.”

  “Except whenever I was still again . . . whenever I was alone . . . .”

  “The emptiness was worse than ever.”

  She stared at the brutish man sitting in her recliner. “Yes.”

  His bottom lip popped out. He nodded. “Took me a long, long time to figure out I was distracting myself, not fixing the problem.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes widened. He did understand. Maybe they were more alike that she realized. “I even asked the Watchers to send me my mate. I thought that would fix the problem.”

  “Didn’t it?” He tipped his head.

  She needed to stop before she said too much. “It didn’t work out.”

  His gaze dropped to where she rubbed her hand over her tattoo. During this life, I belong to no man.

  “If you say so.” His gaze turned intent on hers, in the pregnant silence. Then, his expression softened. He settled back into the chair again. He cocked his head toward the mirror attached to her dresser. “What d’ya got there?”

  “Tarot cards. Whenever I do a reading for myself, I pin them up.” She’d hoped to find solace in the cards. Unfortunately, her spread had nothing comforting to say.

  “What do they mean, then?”

  She settled on giving him the barest of details. “Uh, well, the Ten of Swords indicates change.” Actually, she had a feeling it indicated transformation . . . as into a vampire and she just wasn’t okay with that.

  “Fitting. The next?”

  “Judgment is about past mistakes.” And not letting them rule your future actions. “The Hierophant”—his eyes narrowed on the card as she spoke—“suggests I’ll need to make a trade”—a sacrifice—“for what I want.”

  He tipped his head to the side. “And the last set?”

  Instinct told her he knew she lied. Knew she was feeding him half-truths. Still, she continued, focusing on the cards: The World crossed by Death. “They refer to the Rapture.” To a major transformation needed to even get close to her goal of stopping Armageddon. Typically, the cards were read in order, first this, then that, so if the Ten of Swords predicted her transformation into a vampire . . . what the hell kind of transformation was involved in the last set of cards?

  He regarded her for a long moment, lips pursed, nodding slowly. She needed every ounce of composure she had not to squirm.

  “You know,” he kept his words conversational, but his tone held a note of challenge, “the Tarot originated in Europe—fourteenth century or so. Tarocchi, they called it. These here are remakes of the Rider-Waite deck.”

  Well, shit.

  His lips quirked. “See, historically speaking, the poor tend to be a superstitious lot. They’re most apt to put credence into such things as divination and witches. Yeah?”

  Her stomach did a little summersault. “I suppose they were popular in Cheapside.”

  “Very.” He flashed a brilliant smile. Checkmate, that smile said. I caught you telling me half-truths.

  Maybe he knew she wasn’t giving him the whole truth, but she doubted he could read them. “What’s your take?”

  “Well, let’s see now.” He pulled himself out of his chair, wincing, his hand pressed tight to his side, and crossed the room to the cards. “I’d have to say the Ten of Swords speaks of major changes. It’s warning you, as a person who likes to command her environment, you can’t retain control. Your whole world will be altered. The card is telling you not to fight fate. Resistance causes pain.”

  She swallowed hard. He had talent. His reading was correct.

  “Judgment wants you to stop judging yourself. New things are coming. Don’t let past mistakes scare you off unfamiliar experiences. I’d say this card indicated a special someone in your future.” He leaned on the wall. “Intense feelings.” He winked. “And great sex.”

  “Duncan.” She instilled a warning in his name.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He straightened with a chuckle. “The Hierophant might be what you said, maybe, if someone else drew the card.” He grew serious. “For you, this indicates big compromises to fulfill your goal. Dangerous things. Hard choices. This last set, The World crossed by Death, everything considered, the literal translation is fitting—it being the Rapture an’ all.” He ran his finger over the little sun-bleached rabbit the same way she had earlier. “Even so, we could be a bit more philosophical. The World indicates you’ll near your goal, but not achieve success as you’re thinking of it now. Death suggests the
goal will require a major transformation on your part. Since Death crosses your desire, that change will be something you’d rather not do: A sacrifice.”

  He turned back to her and she snapped her mouth closed. “You’ve studied Tarot?”

  Shaking his head, his bottom lip popped out in a thoughtful expression. “Knew someone who did. Watched her read sometimes.”

  He’d done more than watch. “It takes study of the occult to understand the symbolism. Most people don’t learn that from just watching.”

  “Most people don’t take the time to learn anything other than what they’re told to know.”

  “You’re cynical.”

  “A cynic can’t imagine the possibility of better things. My problem is, I can.” His heavy-lidded gaze shifted away. He returned to his seat, stretched out his legs and crossed them at his ankles. His little performance must have zapped the remainder of his energy.

  “They’re beautiful, don’t you think? Same as Monet or Van Gogh, just in a different way. Always thought they belonged in a gallery.”

  She glanced at the Tarot cards. They’d never been more than a tool of her trade, but now that he’d mentioned it, they were beautiful. “You like art?”

  “Mm. Took a holiday once.” He let his head rest on his chair, turning his hooded eyes to her. “What? Guardians get pay and benefits same as anyone.” His eyelids slid closed. “But, yeah, I had a hard time getting up in the evenings. All seemed pointless. I couldn’t rationalize my job anymore—going out each night, destroying this daemon or that one. What gave me the right? And the humans who lived because of me interference, did they deserve a second chance? Did I save humans who would do good with their life or, being how I’m a daemon, did I precipitate evil?”

  Good question. One she’d often thought about, too. Her Magic was a dark thing. Deadly. Uncontrollable. So what was her purpose in life as the Shadow-self of the Original? To precipitate evil? Was there anything good that could come from her gifts? She pulled herself out of her thoughts. “What year did you take your holiday?”

  “Recent. The nineteen hundreds. ’Forty-five. August.” He stretched, folding his arms over his chest, settling in the chair. “Decided I needed something beautiful in me life. Something to remind me what I fought for every night. I ended up at the Louvre, in Paris. Back then, they had the place locked up tight. Half the art had been crated, but what still hung out . . . . Amazing.”