Bloodbound Nocturne (The Sophia Kelly Chronicles Book 1)

by Amy J. Wenglar

  "Well, it's not quite as epic as all that." I correct her. "You gave it to me. And if Chris knew—"

  "It wanted you. It summoned you, and you were summoning it, too, without even knowing it," she exclaims, as if I'm insane for not having realized it myself. "And as for Chris, my dear, he does know. He's known all along. He doesn't talk about it because he's not ready to lose you."

  "Lose me? I'm not leaving that guy. Are you crazy?" I say, laughing at the thought of it. Leaving Chris feels even more unnatural than being a Changeling.

  She presses her lips together, her expression grave.

  "You may not have much choice, my dear," she mutters. "Not if you want to stop these attacks."

  "Where would I go? Where could I possibly go where the Unseelie won't find me?"

  "Faerie," she says with a simple shrug. "You would go to the Seelie Court. Where you belong."

  "Where I belong? Ez, you're crazy." I hold my hands up defensively, warding off the very thought of going to Faerie.

  "You're reading the book, aren't you? What does it say you must do?"

  "I haven't gotten to that part yet." Tension starts to build at the base of my neck. "I don't want to get to that part." I slap my hand down on my leg, frustrated. I'm exhausted already, and the day hasn't even started yet. "I simply don't understand why this journal is so scandalous and so dangerous. And why does everyone think it's me? That I'm The One? How is everyone so damned sure?"

  "You're reading it."

  "Well, then someone else can take over from here," I snap. "You, for example, Es. You have had the book for years. Maybe you could read it. I'll even fill you in on what's happened so far. See? Anyone can be a Changeling."

  "That's not possible," she says softly. "The book is written in the Old Fae language, Sophia. No one can read it." A slow grin spreads across Esmeralda's face. "Except for you."

  "So, that's it, then. My destiny is with the author of that journal, isn’t it? The Fae Prince?" I mutter, narrowing my eyes at her as if this is all her fault. I've never actually said his name out loud. I’m afraid to say his name out loud. "That's what you're going to say, isn't it?"

  A faint smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. "If the stories about him are true, there are worse things," she says softly.

  There is a prophecy, written in the Old Fae Language, about a child who was raised in the ways of humans. She will return to us as a woman. She has been the subject of thousands of rumors and even more sightings over the years. Tales have been told of her. Songs have been written for her. Her return will bring my release from this prison. Freedom from this human form. Freedom to return to my kingdom in Faerie. She can see The Darkness. Only she can destroy it. She bears the mark of a Changeling. She is the last Changeling. Humans call her Sophia Kelly. And she is our only hope.

  The Fae prince's journal sounds an awful lot like Star Wars sometimes. I slap the book shut, snickering to myself. If anything, Fae prince Auberon is dramatic.

  "Your journal is dumb, Auberon," I whisper, laughing to myself again when it suddenly occurs to me that he's used my name. Feeling bile rising up in my throat, I race back over to the book and fling it open. As if knowing I would do just this, it flops right back open to the page containing my name, which now seems to glow and flicker against the dusty page.

  "My God," I say. "He knows my name. He's using my name now." I look around the room as if the Fae prince might somehow show himself. "Just kidding, Prince A. Your journal isn't really that dumb."

  There is a scratching sound on the page in front of me, and I tear my hands from the journal when I see words being formed, as if he's writing them at this very moment. In real time. And in beautiful, flourishy script.

  “I am, Sophia," the words read. "And now that I have your attention, you must read closely."

  "No. This is insane." The scratchy writing sound continues, more frantically now, but I slam the book shut, shoving it back into the drawer where Esmeralda keeps it wrapped in a strip of purple silk cloth.

  A rumbling sound comes from the desk and the entire floor starts to quake beneath my feet. I've pissed it off now. I fly out the door and race to the safety of the break room, my heart racing. A tingling sensation pulls at the muscles in my arms, and I know it's the deathly light-ray that's fighting to show itself.

  "I've heard of book boyfriends and all, but this is ridiculous," I mutter aloud, wriggling my fingers in an attempt to thwart the light-ray. "This is not happening."

  "What's not happening?" Esmeralda appears from out of nowhere and casually steps beside me to retrieve her plastic salad bowl from the sink. She's completely oblivious to the pissed-off journal in her office and the light-ray that's about to explode from my fingertips.

  "Nothing. Just… just a stupid message from a friend who's dealing with a bunch of drama."

  "Oh. Well, I'm getting ready to lock up," she says. "Ready to go?"

  "Yes, I'll meet you upstairs."

  With shaking, sweaty hands, I pack up my belongings for the day and move toward the stairs that lead from the break room back up into the store. The creaking of floorboards above followed by the rhythmic footfalls of someone walking briskly down the stairs stop me from going any farther. The staircase is narrow and even a little dangerous when there is more than one body trying to navigate it, and I definitely don't need to invite any more danger into my life right now.

  I’m carefully backing down the stairs when I stumble at the bottom and lose my footing.

  "Easy there," says a man with a cheerful cockney accent who seems to appear much sooner than his footfalls would have suggested. He catches my arm, stopping my fall just in time.

  It's the same man I've seen sitting in the coffee shop here. It's the man who was my rideshare driver the morning I'd inadvertently tried to kill Madeleine. And it's the same man I'd seen in the tea shop. In keeping with his tradition of unpredictable hipster-inspired fashion, he's dressed much differently today. Taking on an entirely different character. A dark brocade vest over a crisp white shirt and striped high-waisted trousers makes him look like a steampunk bartender. His strange, coppery-gold eyes meet with mine before flicking down to my wrist and then back up at my eyes again. His soft, androgynous face only adds to his costume. He is handsome.

  "Thank you," I say in a voice that's nothing more than a whisper.

  I want to ask him why he's been following me around for the past three months. Who he is and what he wants. But I'm suddenly so flustered, and the words don't come. At all. Of all the times I've mysteriously run into this guy, I've never noticed the odd, almost inhuman gleam in his eyes. His touch is soft. Gentle, yet authoritative. And it seems to further fuel the energy inside of me, making me feel radiant. Powerful, even. And I'm not sure I like it. That's Chris's job. Chris should be the one that can turn on a radiance inside of me with a single touch. Not some random guy on a stairway.

  "Don't mention it." He produces a vintage-looking pocket watch and looks at it for a moment before pressing it back into his vest and giving it a loving pat. "Well, I must be going."

  And with that he's gone, leaving a blast of cold air in his wake. Where he's going, I have no clue. There isn't really anywhere to go down here unless he's going to Esmeralda's private office, which doesn't seem likely, and if he does, he's in for a real shock when he discovers there's a pissed-off journal sputtering inside Esmeralda's desk drawer.

  My mind races with thoughts of where he might be headed. There is something weird going on around here, between the journal and this strange man following me around. This is not just a bookstore, and there is undoubtedly more to Esmeralda and her underground apartment full of dusty old leather-bound books than meets the eye. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I hastily climb the stairs, more than ready to get out of here.

  "Who was that man I just saw?" I finally ask the question I probably should have asked months ago as I help Esmeralda tidy the area around the cash register. "In the hipster bartender outfit? Headed to
ward your office?"

  Esmeralda frowns. "Huh. I didn't see anyone go down there. Are you sure you saw someone?"

  "I did. As a matter of fact, he helped me when I nearly fell. He caught me before I could break my neck on those horrible stairs."

  "Ah." She holds up a finger. "It was probably Horace. Yes, I'm positive that's who it was. He hangs around here from time to time, but he usually stays in Faerie."

  A cold, clammy feeling creeps through my stomach. "That guy is Fae? And his name is Horace? I knew a cat named Horace once," I say, more to myself than to Esmeralda.

  Esmeralda nods. "A bit of trickster, that one. He likes to remain invisible. Knock stuff over, ruffle papers, create breezes. Anything to get a reaction." Her eyes narrow again. "And you could see him? As in, he presented himself to you?"

  "Yes. I saw him yesterday, too. I see him all the time, as a matter of fact."

  "Horace is everywhere," Esmeralda mutters before her expression brightens. "Best not let Chris see him." She whoops with laughter. "That would be the fight of the century."

  "How would Chris… Oh crap. He's picking me up tonight. I almost forgot. Damn. I need to change real quick." I redden, embarrassed that I’ve nearly forgotten that Chris is taking me out on a proper date tonight. Feeling flustered, I quickly change into yet another beautiful cocktail dress Chris has bought for me and stare blankly at myself in the mirror for a moment, noting the feeling of dread that forms in the pit of my stomach. Chris and I are a normal couple going out for a normal date. Just like normal people do.

  Except when things feel this normal, there's a catch. There's always a catch.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Chris is dressed in a gorgeous cashmere sweater and slacks that seem to hug his hips just so. I can't help myself. I stop in front of him and gawk, just to get a nice, lingering look at him. I still can't believe he's mine, and I certainly can't believe that I'd almost forgotten about our Christmas Eve dinner date because of that silly journal.

  I give him a shy smile, and for a second we just stand there, lost in each other's gaze, before our romantic moment is rudely interrupted by chilling screams that seem to come in with the roar of the ocean waves hitting the shore. Chris's head jerks up, and in a flash he has a protective arm in front of me like a mother shielding her child, or her purse, from flying forward in the passenger seat.

  My teeth begin to chatter as an icy finger of fear slowly tickles its way up my spine. "W-what in the h-h-hell was that?" I can't control the sudden shaking in my voice.

  A lopsided grin spreads across his face as he turns, peering out into the darkness. "Ri ron't row, Raggy. Probably a g-g-g-ghost."

  I nudge him with my shoulder. "Scooby-Doo," I mutter. "I'd like to think I'm a little braver than that." I snicker to myself as he starts to dash toward the action. I take a leaping step after him, struggling to keep up. "Germans should never attempt to do any sort of impressions ever." He stops suddenly and I crash into the back of him, hearing a sickening crack in my foot as my toe slams against his heel. "Will you… Jesus! Ow! Warn me before you just stop. We don't all have the reflexes of a c—"

  "Shhh!" Chris interrupts, holding up a finger in warning. He sharply inhales a couple of times as if sniffing the air, and then says something under his breath.

  My voice comes out as a nervous whisper. "What is it?" I'm afraid I don't really want to know.

  "Blood," he murmurs thoughtfully. "And a lot of it."

  "Lovely. Unseelie?"

  "If I had to guess… yes."

  In a flash, Chris hoists me across his back like a sack of flour and starts to run so fast I have to close my eyes against the salt spray that pelts my face like tiny sandpaper bullets. Concealed under the blanket of darkness, Chris runs at full speed, which is great for him, but leaves me feeling as if my stomach has dropped out. Abruptly, he stops and sets me on my feet, and I teeter for a moment before regaining my equilibrium. I need to be ready for a showdown.

  "Why are we here?" I ask, looking around the empty street and picking what is probably a small insect from my teeth. "The screams weren't coming from your fancy car, Chris."

  Chris unlocks the driver's side door of his McLaren and shoves me inside. "I don't want you getting hurt," he says urgently, glancing over his shoulder. "If they find out you're here…"

  He trails off, shaking his head as if contemplating the worst.

  "I can fight. You've seen what I can do. You know I can—"

  "Sophia," he says through clenched teeth, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Go home. Do not stop. Lock yourself in the house and stay there until I return."

  "I have a deathly light-ray," I protest.

  "That you cannot control or summon at will."

  "I think that—"

  "Do not argue with me, or I swear I will bend you over my knee." My face lights up for a second. "Not like that. Christ, Miss Kelly, even in the face of danger, your mind is in the gutter."

  "But what if I—"

  "You will do as I say." His eyes emit a dangerous red glow that reminds me once again that he is not to be crossed, and he is gone in the blink of an eye.

  I don't go home, though. Feeling useless, I sit there in the driver's seat of his fancy sports car trying to formulate a plan. The minutes seem to drag. The car starts to feel stifling and uncomfortable. I know I should go home. Do what he says. But I can't. Not when I know he's out there fighting an enemy who wouldn't even be here if it weren’t for me.

  I glance at the rearview mirror but see nothing. The boardwalk that had just moments ago been filled with couples, tourists, and revelers is now deserted. An eerie somberness hangs in the air, despite the jaunty Christmas melody that floats along a sad ocean breeze, bringing its festive spirit to no one. I feel like I'm living a horror movie, and I'm at the part where the blond bimbo goes down into the dark basement looking for her boyfriend, who has just been brutally hacked apart by some psychopath.

  I touch the key in the ignition, debating whether or not to leave. To follow Chris's strict instructions for once. To not be the bimbo who goes down into the dark basement.

  "No. Nope. Chris, you should know me well enough by now to know I don't listen," I say aloud. "And I'm no bimbo."

  With a frustrated groan, I dig through the glove box, looking for something, anything I can use against supernatural bad guys, but all I come up with is a pencil. "Great. I can write them a note." I toss the pencil aside. "Okay, think… think, Sophia. Okay… Dagger. Iron dagger." I reach for my purse, rifling through it until I find it stashed deep inside the narrow zipper pocket. "Call Sebastian. I need to call…"

  With shaking hands, I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find his number. "Please answer. Please answer," I whisper.

  "Sophia," he says urgently. "What is wrong?"

  Tears well up in my eyes. "It's Chris," I blurt. "I need—"

  "Are you hurt?"

  “No, that bastard took me back to the damned car. Told me to go home. He's off fighting them or something. I don't know who they are or what's going on. It's been almost twenty minutes, and I want to… I'm worried something's happened. I'm going to help, but I will need backup."

  "I will be right there. Stay where you are."

  With a click, Sebastian hangs up.

  Does no one around here take me seriously? No. Do not stay where you are, Sophia Kelly. Go. You can help him. You have to help him.

  Tears start to spill from my eyes as I struggle to breathe. The ball of energy starts to percolate in the pit of my stomach, and I feel like I am losing my mind.

  Thank God you're here, light-ray.

  With a yelp of determination, I kick my shoes off, throw open the car door, and tumble out, my legs giving way beneath me as I pitch forward and hit the pavement.

  "Off to a great start," I mutter to myself as I brush off my skinned knees and take off down the empty beach.

  Chris is not the kind of vampire I could picture ever losing a fight. He's powerf
ul. He's fast. And he's incredibly lethal. But Chris is losing this one. Badly. I crouch in the shadows behind a lifeguard station, taking a moment to observe the situation. Bodies litter the beach ahead, some of them so dismembered it's hard to see just how many there are. The enemy, whoever or whatever it is, rush at him from all sides, but his reaction time is slow. He would call it sloppy if we were sparring. Chris is not a sloppy fighter. In fact, nothing Chris does is ever sloppy. And that's when it hits me.

  He can’t see them. Dammit, Chris, why can’t you see them? You could see them before. Why can’t you see them now?

  My thoughts run frantically through my head as I stand there, chewing my lip, trying to figure out my next move.

  They are Unseelie, and I am a Changeling. Dammit. I really am a Changeling. The Changeling. And even though it’s Christmas Eve, and I’m trying to feel festive, it's time for me to kick some Unseelie ass.

  Gripping my little iron dagger in my hand, I lurch forward, throwing myself from the safety of my vantage point into the battle with no idea of what to do next. But I can't give up now. If they want a fight, I'll give them one, even if I have no idea what I'm doing.

  "Do you want me?" I bellow at the top of my lungs. "Is that what this is about? You want your Changeling?"

  White-hot rage boils inside of me when I see the man I love, battered and bloody, barely hanging on as he swings uselessly at a hideous black-cloaked Unseelie levitating over him. Chris slumps to the ground as the Unseelie abandon their fight with him and all turn toward me, mechanically, as if they are being manipulated by some unseen force.

  The iron dagger grows hot in my hand. So hot that it burns my palm. With a gasp, I drop the blade, realizing that whatever power I have inside of me is about to erupt into something much more potent than anything that silly dagger could do. And it terrifies me.

  The Unseelie move toward me at lightning speed, their gaping faces alive with ugly determination. Fortunately, I have experience dealing with beings that can run at lightning speed, but I have no idea what to do with an unruly herd of Unseelie headed straight toward me. I wish I'd thought this through a little better.