Shattered (the Spellbound Series Book 2)

by Rene Lanausse

  ***

  My conversation with Michael was an informative one, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something I’m missing. Key pieces of the story that haven’t been told, gaps in my knowledge of what little he did explain. And considering the fact that I still don’t really know who or what he is, I’m not sure I’m willing to trust that anything he said was true. But, for all I know, he actually could be my father. Or, he could be a random stranger who forced his way into my apartment. It doesn’t matter to me either way, as long as I find out which version of events is the truth.

  I’m roused in the morning by the sound of my mom’s keys jangling in the lock, and without even waiting for her to put her bag down, I ask about my father’s death. Between breaths, she feeds me the same story as always; a drunk driver crashed headfirst into his car, and neither driver survived. The only bit of my father to make it home was his necklace, the completed version of which has returned to its proper place, hanging from my headboard.

  It’s when I ask my mom to see a picture of him that I start to get suspicious. She hesitates at first, then leads me into her room, and pulls a pamphlet out of her bedside drawer. It’s dated nineteen years ago, displaying the details of a funeral dedicated to the memory of an Adam LaLaurie. I’m sure I’ve seen this pamphlet before, when I started asking questions as a kid, but somehow this doesn’t feel right. The name sounds alien, and Adam doesn’t look like someone my mom would go for. In fact, I look even less like him than I do Michael.

  I ask why we’ve never heard from anyone on his side of the family, and it takes my mom a little too long to answer. I’m not even listening to her explanation; it’s becoming clearer and clearer that one of my parents is lying to me, but the question is which one?

  The only other person I can go to for confirmation on any part of Michael’s story is my mentor, Krystal. She’s far too busy these days for me to just drop in, however; evidently, being the head of the Caelestia clan actually requires work on her part. So I wait a couple of days until I’m scheduled to see her for the second of our biweekly training sessions, which she still makes time for in spite of her responsibilities.

  I arrive at Nick’s condo around noon, but since Nick’s at work, and Landon hardly even remembers where home is when his work is in a gallery somewhere, the place is empty save for me and Krystal. Before we start training, I ask Krystal what she knows about Conduits. When she asks why, I fill her in on my conversation with Michael, only leaving out the part where he claimed to be my father. Krystal listens silently, her expression shifting from curiosity to confusion as the story unfolds.

  “I don’t know much more about Conduits than anyone else,” she says, “so you’re asking the wrong person, I’m afraid. And I’ve never even heard the other term he used for them – Nephilim, right?”

  “Yeah, Nephilim. Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell me?”

  “Sorry, Heather. I’m sure the Guardians would know more than I do, but getting to their realm and back is a hassle.”

  Part of me wants to pretend Krystal had never suggested their help. The Guardians are ethereal beings who rule over a realm parallel to our own. They’re echoes of spellcasters who’ve long passed, ghosts of the most powerful of our kind to have existed and decided to leave bits of themselves behind. Among them are powerful figures from mythology, and the recently departed alike. All young spellcasters have to pass through their realm on an arduous journey to unlock their full potential and become official members of their clans, myself included. And I’m in no rush to go back; the horrors of my last visit are still fresh in my mind.

  “They already claimed they didn’t know much last year,” I whine in protest.

  Krystal shrugs at me, lost for a solution. “If all else fails, there’s always Google.”

  I groan inwardly at Krystal; I’d been hoping she would be a lot more useful.

  As I trudge towards the door so we can head up to the roof and train, Krystal motions for me to stop. “My turn,” she says. “I heard about what happened on your birthday.”

  “You mean the part where I turned nineteen?”

  “I mean the part where you beat the hell out of three spellcasters in a subway station.”

  My heart catches in my throat. I’d completely forgotten about that encounter. Didn’t even consider it important. “Yeah… what about it?”

  “Heather, you need to be more careful. You could have been seen! Someone could have taken a video-“

  “And it would have been laughed off as a hoax. No one’s going to believe it if another video pops up, you know that.”

  Krystal rolls her eyes, but she knows I’m right. A year ago, during the battle at Grand Central, someone had taken a video of the chaos and submitted it to one of New York’s news channels. As a result, millions of people saw hardcore evidence of spellcasters and werefolk, watched as they killed each other, and suddenly, the entire supernatural world was on the brink of being exposed.

  For a good week or so, everyone was either fascinated with, or terrified by, the aspect of the new class of people dubbed “metahumans”. It’s a nicer word than freak, but it carries pretty much the same meaning. Then a forensic analyst named Vincent Rivera came on the news a week after the video debuted, and pointed out several “flaws” in the footage that made it seem as if it had been tampered with. A few more videos have surfaced since then, mostly of vampires doing what they do best, or werewolves transforming, but they’re never taken seriously. Like with the original video, there’s one believer for every hundred skeptics.

  We never found out exactly why Vincent Rivera decided to cover up for us metahumans, but all of us have been much more careful about exposing ourselves to the public ever since. Well, most of us.

  “It doesn’t matter whether or not people will believe what they see,” Krystal says, “it matters whether or not you’re being stupid and putting all of us at risk.”

  “Fine. Next time someone threatens me in public, I’ll tell them now’s not a good time.”

  “You do that. Now, head up to the roof. I’ll go grab the targets and be right behind you.”

  I shrug, and leave the condo’s front door open as I walk down the hall, and wait for the elevator to come. Krystal’s right, I know she is. I just don’t want to admit it. The elevator doors open, and I sigh as I step through them and press the button for the highest floor. I can feel it in my gut; today is going to be a long day.

  4

  Nick’s arrival towards the end of our training session catches me off guard; he almost never comes to watch anymore. I lose my concentration when the door leading downstairs opens, and he steps through, still wearing all black from his shift at Starbucks, a tiny streak of dried caramel down his front. The spell I’d been trying to maintain falters at the sight of him.

  Krystal groans from her seat behind me on the edge of the roof, and says, “Focus, Heather. Just do this one last time, and we’re done for the day.”

  I take a deep breath, and amass the energy I need at my fingertips, then let it flow outward and take on the shape I have in mind. A shimmering, light blue bow appears in my hands, and I pull back the drawstring, taking careful aim at a wooden target at the other end of the roof. The bow hums softly, the energy holding it together wavering whenever my thoughts wander. I release my breath, along with the drawstring, and a thin bolt of energy bursts through the target at the speed of light, leaving a smoking hole just to the right of the center.

  I’m kicking myself mentally as I release the spell holding the bow together; I’d been hoping my aim had gotten better. There go my dreams of being anything like Katniss.

  At least Krystal seems pleased with my performance. “Not bad,” she says, “I think you just about have it down.”

  “Yeah right. I suck at this.” I kick at the gravel on the rooftop out of frustration. A year ago, I felt like a genius. Back then, I could master any spell that was thrown at me in record time. Now, it feels like my progress
has slowed. I seem to have hit that point where I have to stop relying on talent, and start putting in actual effort in order to improve.

  Krystal offers me a predictable response: “You don’t suck, Heather. You’re doing fine.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m not good at energy manipulation, or transfiguration, or summoning… The only spells I’m good at are the quick and dirty ones.”

  “You’re still learning at an above average pace. You just seem to have an appetite for destruction.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Nevermind. We’re done for the day. I’ll clean up here, you head downstairs.”

  I shrug, and walk over to the door where Nick stands waiting, leaning against the frame with his eyes trained on the ground. There are bags under his eyes; either he has yet to adjust to a human sleep cycle, or something’s been bothering him enough to keep him awake. I’m more willing to believe the latter; Nick may be able to hide his emotions from others, but I know him too well. Ever since the euphoria of becoming human again wore off, he’s been withdrawn, and the lines on his forehead have been more pronounced, which only happens when he’s unhappy in some way.

  When I’m close enough to reach out and touch him, he finally looks up, and says, “Hey.”

  “Hi!” I wrap my arm around his, and ask, “How was work?”

  “It was pretty decent, I guess.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What?”

  “I dunno, I was hoping for a more detailed response. You’re a lot less talkative when something’s bothering you.”

  “Nothing’s bothering-“

  “Nick. Just talk to me.”

  Nick sighs, and his eyes meet mine. “I’ve just been thinking… there’s something I want to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to see my family again. Maybe now that I’m me again, they’ll actually let me in the house.”

  “Oh…” Now I see what’s been plaguing Nick the past few days. His family hasn’t exactly been warm to him ever since he became a vampire, even less so since his little sister died. “What’s stopping you?”

  “I’m a little afraid to go it alone.”

  I take Nick’s hand in mine, and squeeze it firmly. “Well then, it’s a good thing you don’t have to do it alone. Let’s go.”

  “Right now?” Nick glances down at his shirt, looking a little self conscious when he brings his eyes back up to mine.

  “Right now,” I reply. “No time like the present.”

  ***

  Out of all the boroughs, I’ve spent the least time in Brooklyn. (I mean, I’ve never even set foot on Staten Island, but they hardly count as part of New York City to me.) When Nick and I step off the F train, I’m actually entirely lost for the first time in years. Prospect Park stands on one side of the street, and rows upon rows of brownstones occupy the other. I ask Nick where we are, and he responds with a quiet, “Park Slope,” before guiding me down 15th street.

  “Are you sure you wanna do this?,” Nick asks as we pass by a couple wearing matching thick-rimmed glasses. “It’s not too late for you to bail, and let me handle this on my own if you want.”

  I give Nick’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  ”Okay.” We come to a stop in front a brownstone with a solid mahogany door, and a polished brass doorknob. Nick presses the buzzer for the third floor, and we wait for the speaker to crackle and spit out the garbled voice of someone in the apartment, but the moment never comes. There’s a faint buzzing sound, and Nick pushes the door open. Whoever’s home, it seems like they don’t care enough to know who’s coming up.

  There’s only one apartment per floor, so it’s hard to miss Nick’s old home when we hit the third floor landing. My heart hammers against my ribcage as his door comes into sight; regardless of the unconventional circumstances, I’d still admittedly be a little nervous about meeting Nick’s family. Attached to the door is a miniature cross, complete with a bleeding wooden Jesus with nails in his palms and feet. I groan in distaste as come close enough to the door to inspect it. I don’t have anything against hanging up religious symbols, but this one’s too gory and detailed for my taste.

  “That wasn’t there last time,” Nick whispers when he notices the door. “I guess they’ve become even more paranoid about the supernatural.”

  “Do crosses even effect vampires, or is that an urban legend?,” I whisper back.

  “Urban legend. Garlic, too.” Nick takes a deep breath, then grabs onto the brass knocker just above Jesus’ head, and slams it into the door three times.

  Almost immediately, a girl that looks roughly my age pulls open the door, glances at me, then lets her mouth hang open slightly when her eyes land on Nick. Her eyes, soft and brown as his, widen in shock, and in a hushed voice, she asks, “What are you doing here?”

  Nick squares his shoulders, and asks, “Are Mom and Dad home? I have some news for you guys.”

  “Just Dad, but neither of them wants to see you. They’ve made that clear.”

  “Emma, please. All I need is fifteen minutes, tops.”

  The girl, Emma, looks back into the apartment, then stares at Nick intensely for a moment, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. “Alright,” she says once she’s made up her mind. “But if he asks, you forced your way in.”

  Emma backs away from the door, and allows Nick and I to step inside. The décor in his old home matches the cross on their door; there are religious artifacts hung on walls or placed on bookshelves, anywhere one can hang a cross or place a figurine. Under my breath, I ask, “Were your parents always this crazy about God?”

  “No,” Nick responds. “They’re Sunday Christians, if that. The only commandment they take seriously is ‘Thou shalt be two-faced’.”

  I’m not horribly religious myself, but I’m pretty sure that’s not an actual commandment. I’m about to correct Nick when a voice from down the hall calls, “Emma? Who was at the door?”

  “Come and see for yourself!,” Emma yells back.

  A door opens down the hall, and a balding, middle-aged man in a navy blue polo steps out into the living room. Like his daughter, he notices me first, and his lips open to ask who I am just a split second before he notices Nick. He pales, and backs away until he lands on their leather couch. “W-what do you want?,” he stammers out, his eyes reminiscent of a deer in headlights.

  “Hi, Dad. Thanks for the warm welcome.” Nick holds his hands outward, I suppose as a sign that he’s not here to hurt anyone.

  “How did you even make it through the door? You’re not welcome here!”

  “Even if your ‘faith’ could have stopped me from getting in, it wouldn’t have any effect on me anymore.”

  “Why not? It keeps out the others.”

  “Right… whatever. What I came here to tell you is that I’m not one of them, not anymore. I’m cured, Dad.”

  The man on the couch straightens up a little, and puts his hands down at his sides. “What?”

  “I’m not a vampire anymore. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but I’m normal. I’m me again.”

  Emma puts her hand over her mouth, and makes a sobbing sound. She might not have been very friendly at the door, but it seems like she missed her big brother. She goes to hug Nick, but their father yells, “Don’t touch him!”

  “What’s wrong?” Nick frowns at his father, and says, “You don’t have to be afraid of me anymore.”

  “Even if you are human again, you’re still not welcome under my roof. You’re still the reason Caroline is dead.”

  Caroline. Nick’s youngest sister. He’s only mentioned her once, on our first date. Ever since, we’ve both known to steer clear of that particular topic; it’s too painful. But apparently, his father has no problem using it as a weapon, and I can see it working. Nick’s fists clench, and his voice shakes as he says, “You know that wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t the one who-“

  “I don’t believe you. I never have. You sa
y there was another vampire, that she knocked you out, but the fact remains that I opened my door to find you covered in my daughter’s blood.” Nick’s father wipes something from his cheek, and says, “You tore this family apart. So even if you're telling me the truth, and you’re cured, you’re still no son of mine.”

  “How dare you!,” Nick yells. “I may have had a constant craving for blood, but I would never have taken it from Caroline!”

  “As if you could control your urges! You killed her, I know you did!”

  “You weren’t there, you didn’t see-“

  “I saw enough! Now get out of my house, you monster! I’m warning you!”

  “Or what? What are you going to do?”

  Nick’s father makes a sudden movement, and it feels like time slows down. I see his hand dart beneath the sofa cushion, feel Nick tense next to me, hear something whistling through the air, and –

  My hand wraps around a small kitchen knife, inches away from burying itself into Nick’s chest. The blade digs into my flesh, and I can feel something warm dribbling down my arm, but I hardly care. All I’m aware of is the rage bubbling within me, and I fix my stare on Nick’s father. He looks ashen, and whimpers a little before saying, “You… you’re another one. A monster, just like Nicholas.”

  “Actually, no. I only see one monster here, and that’s you.” I’d expected to struggle with keeping my voice down, but it comes out even, menacing. People tell me I’m at my most dangerous when I’m quiet, but this is my first time being conscious of it. My upper jaw hurts, but I pay it no mind as I say, “You can be angry all you like, but the second you attack my boyfriend, your own son, that’s when you’ve taken things too far. So-“

  “Enough.” Nick squeezes my uninjured hand, and I turn to look at him, noting the defeated, slightly panicked look in his eyes. His eyes roam over my face as he says, “It’s fine, this isn’t your fight. Let’s just get out of… Oh my God.”

  “What, what is it?”

  It takes Nick a moment to answer; he’s too focused on my mouth. Then, finally, he speaks. “Heather… you have fangs.”