Braving Fate (The Mythean Arcana Series Book 1)

by Hall, Linsey

  Her captor parked beneath the single huge tree in the middle of the courtyard. Its twisted roots pushed up through the cobbled ground and looked as if they had been doing so for centuries.

  “Doona even think of calling to them for help.” Her abductor glanced at her, knowledge of her plans in his dark eyes.

  “I—I wasn’t going to.”

  “Sure you weren’t.” He reached over and unbuckled her seatbelt. She scrambled away from him and out of the car, hanging onto the door for support. He strode around the back of the car.

  “Come on,” he said gruffly when he reached her. He grasped her arm, as if he knew somehow that her brain had shut down from too much foreign and impossible information, and led her toward a building at the back of the courtyard. Its mullioned windows gleamed in the light of Oliver Twistian lamps while elaborate gray stone carvings of scenes from history covered the facade.

  If she squinted, she thought she could make out Caesar, Vercingetorix, William Wallace, and dozens more. At the very top of the building, directly above the large double doors that marked the entrance, a female warrior stood, draped in ancient garb. She looked familiar, but Diana couldn’t place her. Something wasn’t quite right about her, though. She was whisked inside before she could figure it out, and she tried not to let her mouth drop at the sight before her.

  “Where are we?” The foyer was enormous, with a strange false sunlight streaming through the glass dome above and gleaming softly on the parquet floor. There was no way this room could be so big given the size of the building she’d just walked into, but after being attacked by actual monsters earlier, she had bigger problems to worry about than a trick of the light.

  He didn’t answer, but led her through a doorway and down a wide corridor. She caught a glimpse of a cavernous library on her right and almost craned her head to see more of it. Bookshelves rose two stories high and books were piled upon tables and chairs.

  “Where are you taking me? Who are you?” To her relief, her voice didn’t shake nearly as much, as if the books had imparted some of their strength to her.

  “You’ll see soon enough.” He opened a door at the end of the corridor and nudged her inside, shutting it behind her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tonight, Esha Connor hunted evil.

  Wet gravel crunched beneath her boots as she crept through the deserted underground streets of Edinburgh. Shivering, she pulled up the zipper of her snug leather jacket. She felt a bit like the Tomb Raider, if Lara Croft had worn jeans instead of shorts, brandished magic instead of thigh-holstered guns, and been accompanied by an irritable black cat. She rarely wore anything else, favoring the practical, and forgettable, ensemble. It allowed her to go about her business without drawing attention. Or so she told herself.

  The truth—that other Mytheans could usually feel her coming and would run for it—just sucked. Their loss if they did, but why give them a heads-up? Especially the one she didn’t want to run away.

  Her black cat, the familiar who was ever present at her side, nearly blended into the surrounding darkness as he strolled quietly along, slinking from one strange scent to another, ever watchful. Though she could smell only rain, dirt, and the light scent of decay, her companion would pick up on the subtler aromas. They were usually the interesting ones.

  The unrelenting dark of the tunnel-like street was softened only by the small ball of cold fire she held in her palm. Its dim light glinted off the soot-black fur of Chairman Meow.

  She could barely hear the bustle of the city above, though the steady drip of water through the dirt overhead echoed as it hit the ground. Drip, drip, drip. She spent so much time down here hunting rogue Mytheans that she barely noticed the annoyance anymore. The Chairman stopped abruptly near the crumbling stone wall that formed the side of the subterranean street.

  “What do you smell, Chairman?” Her voice was soft; it would be inaudible to anyone but the cat, who listened for it constantly. He turned to look at her, citrine eyes glinting in the light of her carefully cradled flame. He had the strong, masculine visage of a large tomcat, his fur shiny, medium length, and constantly disheveled.

  One low, deep meow reverberated in the stillness, and though reading his thoughts was beyond her powers, she understood his intention. The Chairman smelled evil, greasy and dark, a smear on the night that had been left behind by someone, or something, passing in the shadows.

  Shit. It was exactly what she’d been afraid of when she’d entered the underground for a routine rogue hunt and realized that something felt very off. She’d immediately set out with the Chairman to find the source of it.

  She smirked. Curiosity wouldn’t kill her cat, and it wouldn’t kill her, either. She’d made it alone this far through brains and brawn—magical brawn, at least—and she looked forward to the rest of her immortality.

  Esha was a soulceress, a Mythean whose power was linked to souls. Not only did she draw her power from the immortal souls of other Mytheans, she had the ability to see the evil in a being’s soul manifested as black shadows that hovered around them.

  From the feeling of the underground tonight, there were shadows here that were growing freakishly large. And from the Chairman’s meows, she’d almost found them.

  Good. Once she located them, she’d dispatch them, as she had with the rest of the truly evil ones.

  “It’s just too easy, Chairman,” she said to the cat. Her ability made her a natural justice dealer and even paid the bills. Every kill meant a deposit in her account by the university, who paid her to off the most evil Mytheans who might reveal their existence to mortals.

  She continued down the corridor after the Chairman, sidestepping the bones of some creature she couldn’t identify.

  Access to this underground world, and the large Mythean community from which she could draw her power, were the primary reasons she’d settled in Edinburgh. The city had long been a haven for the supernatural community of the British Isles. The eclectic inhabitants of London’s northern sibling had at times been composed of everyone from kings and the literary elite to the unsavory beings of the thriving underground world.

  Chambers, streets, and alleys had been dug out beneath the teeming streets of Edinburgh over the centuries. In the past, the chambers and corridors had been workshops, the sites of legal commerce, dens of iniquity, and the tragic underground slums housing the poorest members of society.

  Modern mortals had turned some of the old workshops and slums into pubs, dance clubs, and tourist traps. But they were the exceptions. Far more Mytheans had taken over other underground spaces for various purposes, both legitimate—at least, as legitimate as possible—and nefarious.

  Underground, mortals and Mytheans managed to exist side by side relatively peacefully, primarily because mortals thought they were alone. They occupied separate sections, with a dead zone of abandoned tunnels in between. Any weak areas were blocked by magic, but all the same, it was a careful balance.

  Esha skirted around a shadow hovering in a cubbyhole. The remnants of old evil attached to the ghost might have made Esha shudder, if she did that sort of thing. But it was weak, and so she continued on. It was because of such beings that Edinburgh was the most haunted city in Europe, and who was she to mess with that reputation?

  “Haunt on, ghostie,” she said to the spirit, because that little one wasn’t the shadow that had been growing, pulling at her from the abandoned spaces in the dead zone. She couldn’t be sure that the evil she sensed was from past souls, but it was something, and she was determined to find out what.

  The Chairman looked at her again, meowing deeply once more, but not with portents of evil.

  “No, we can’t eat yet.” She glanced at him wryly. He looked and sounded like such a badass until he complained about his stomach. Then he ruined both their reputations. Thank goddess only she could understand him. “Let’s go a little farther, then we’ll get food.”

  He glared at her before stalking off into the dark. She follow
ed him down the sloping corridor, constantly scanning the dimly lit tunnel. Eventually, the Chairman began to slow, not in fear, but in caution. He was never afraid, but she recognized his stance as one of wariness in the face of danger. She slowed as well, creeping along in the gloom. The smell of decay assaulted her nostrils here, and as the space widened into a larger chamber, the air became staler instead of fresher as one might expect.

  She squinted into the chamber, but unable to see, focused on the fire in her palm until it glowed brighter. She looked up from the light and gasped, stumbled back, pressed herself into the stone wall. The Chairman hissed, arching his back.

  A great, writhing mass of shadows pulsed in the corner of the large chamber. It was enormous, far bigger than any she’d ever seen, and the blackness at the center appeared endless.

  She reached for the cat. “Chairman.”

  His corporeal form vanished, and turning into shadow, he appeared at her side instantly. He twined about her legs, and when she felt nothing but the energy of his being, they disappeared.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cadan strode down the wide hallway, the figures in the paintings on the wall glaring at him as he stalked past.

  Space. He just needed some space. The lassie was going to be a problem. Her presence was a force he hadn’t felt in nearly two thousand years and seeing her had been like a punch to the gut. This new version of Boudica could really fuck with his equilibrium.

  He tore off his shirt and threw it against the wall as he stalked into the empty workout room that the Praesidium kept for guardians. Various pieces of workout equipment were scattered around the space, but it was the tear-shaped punching bag hanging from the ceiling that caught his eye.

  Frustration was best exorcised in physical activity. And if it couldn’t be exorcised between the sheets, which it could not, it’d have to be here, beating the hell out of something to help repress the memory of her struggling beneath him. The thought made sweat break out on his skin and his palms itch to touch her again.

  He laid into the punching bag. She was not an option. Two thousand years ago, his love for Boudica had distracted him and he hadn’t been able to protect her. She’d died. In the cold and the dirt. When she recovered her memory of that, she’d blame him for his failure. She’d be right to. Worse, he’d be that much closer to losing her.

  No, damn it, he’d lost her long ago. Best to accept it.

  He hit the punching bag harder, causing the last of the screws to come loose and the bag to bounce off the nearby wall. Shite.

  “What’d that bag ever do to you?” The voice came from behind him at the open door. Warren. “Want to spar? You’ve killed the damn thing.”

  Perfect. Just what he needed—someone to hit him back. He swung around to face his friend, who stood in the open door of the big room. “Aye, all right then.” He hopped lightly up and down, rolling his head to loosen up.

  Warren stepped onto the floor mat that roughly marked the sparring area of the gym. They started off circling each other, looking for the best opening. They’d been doing this for centuries, and though he knew Warren’s few weaknesses and many strengths, he could never tell when something might be off one day that would give him an edge.

  “How’d it go, bringing Diana in?”

  “Diana’s her name? Figures. Classic, like she looks.”

  “Just heard it from Lea. So, she fancy you?” Warren threw a low punch at his ribs, his fist fast and almost accurate.

  Cadan dodged it and barked out a bitter laugh. “Nay. She was too busy screaming and running or whimpering and cowering.”

  He grimaced at the memory of her looking at him as though he were the same as the demons who had chased her across Edinburgh. What the hell had made Boudica’s soul choose the small redhead? Boudica had been an excellent strategist, but you wouldn’t know it by her choice of Diana for her next life. Hell, did Boudica even get to choose? Or was it just fate that had made Diana a reincarnate? He had no idea, but whatever she’d been reborn to accomplish, Diana wasn’t nearly strong enough to do it.

  “Huh. Well, I guess you canna expect her to be exactly like Boudica,” Warren said as he landed a punch to Cadan’s cheek that made lights burst behind his eyelids.

  Aye, she was nothing like what he’d expected. From her lithe form and rounded curves to her fine features, she was nothing like the woman that he had known. Boudica had been magnificent—strong and tall, beautiful in a harsh way. Her passion and dogged commitment had shone like a beacon, drawing those around her to her cause.

  The woman he’d just rescued was a mouse. A delicate, intriguing mouse, but a cowering mouse nonetheless. Despite the difference, something deep within him had recognized her. It had clutched at his insides and been impossible to ignore. It made him want, but his world would eat her alive unless he could keep his cock in his pants and his mind on protecting her.

  “Have you heard anything new? This is worse than it seems, isn’t it?” he asked Warren.

  When Warren had said that the tragedy that haunted Boudica’s first life could follow her to this one, he hadn’t wanted to believe it. Hell, he still didn’t want to believe it.

  But after seeing three demons stalking her, he didn’t have a choice. Tragedy, that spectral wraith with the crimson claws, had most certainly stalked Boudica in life. And now Boudica had returned, destined to perish. Yet again.

  What the hell was his withered heart supposed to do with that? Fate was a bastard. It gave him back the love of his life, twisted into a totally different person, and then threatened to take her away almost immediately.

  “Aye, Cadan, someone like Boudica isn’t reborn for a picnic. That’s why she has to remember who she was as soon as possible.”

  “Gods damn it.” That’s what he was afraid of. He didn’t want her to remember the horror of that night. To have to suffer that pain again.

  To suffer with her. Her suicide had broken him. She’d left him. With one quick plunge of the knife, she’d just left. It had taken centuries to get over her. He’d vowed to himself that he’d never fall for a woman like that again, and he hadn’t. Whenever the loneliness became too much, or he’d just wanted to lose himself in someone else, it was easy to find someone for the night. But it ended there.

  And now she was back. He couldn’t let the past repeat itself. He was supposed to be able to protect his woman, and his failure two thousand years ago had been eating at him like a poison.

  “You still care for her, do you no’?”

  “Nay.” Losing his heart to her again was not an option. He wouldn’t survive losing her again. Oh, his body would, but the rest of him wouldn’t. His soul and mind would be done.

  Warren’s brow scrunched, and seeing his opportunity, Cadan delivered a punch to his jaw that made Warren stumble backward.

  Warren shook the pain away. “Good, so I suppose you doona mind if I have a go? Even terrified out of her mind, she was a looker.”

  A red fog of rage rolled across Cadan’s vision and he charged. The force of his blow took Warren to the floor in a tangle of limbs. The feel of flesh and bone beneath his fists was as satisfying as whiskey down his throat.

  “Stay the fuck away from her.” He punctuated the words with blows that made his fists ache.

  Warren hit back and they rolled in a tangle of flailing fists and limbs across the black mat. As Warren whaled on his midsection, the red haze of rage dissipated behind Cadan’s eyes. With a great shove, he heaved Warren off him and they lay panting, side by side, on the mat.

  “Sorry, mate, dinna realize you were no’ over her.”

  “I am over her, damn it.”

  “Okay, sure thing. I hear you, she needs some time to adjust.” Warren pushed his hair off his forehead, then paused, as if he was unsure how to phrase what he had to say next, but barreled on regardless. “It’s a good thing you’re over her. Apparently, since you and Boudica were fucking in your past life, doing so again could be a trigger. Something about intimacy
and trust—you could be a catalyst for her memory. In fact, we’re countin’ on it, since no one believes you can keep your hands off her.”

  What the hell? Sleeping with her could help her recall her past? Diana was fated to die as a result of her task, and they thought he’d sleep with her when it meant she’d remember her identity and set out on the path to her early death? Like hell he would. He took a deep breath and tried to speak nonchalantly. “You’ll lose that bet, mate. But I doona want you or anyone else near her.”

  It was now clear that if she was to survive, she couldn’t be allowed to discover her past identity, at least not until her fated task was accomplished. And there was no need for her to face her task, not when he’d take care of it for her. She finally had a second chance at life. The least he could do was make sure she got to live it.

  Diana’s heart pounded in her ears as she looked around the room into which she’d just been pushed. A bit of the panic bubbling up within her dissipated as she absorbed her surroundings.

  In...heaven. Books lined the six walls of the hexagonal room all the way to the ceiling, which was easily twenty-five feet above her head. Paintings and trinkets were propped against some of the shelves, obscuring titles that she was desperate to see. Light, trilling music drifted from the far corner where a petite figure was fiddling with an old Berliner Gramophone. Dumbledore would walk around the corner any second now.

  Or maybe it wasn’t the room that was calming her. Perhaps she’d gone as crazy as a bag of cats and this was all seeming pretty normal.

  She looked more closely at the small woman in the corner. A woman that she hadn’t seen properly because she was partially transparent. Most of the calm that she’d gained disappeared.