by Chloe Adler
Planeswalker
Chronicles of Tara - Book 2
Chloe Adler
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Author Musings - Stream of Consciousness (Unedited)
About the Author
Copyright
Planeswalker by Chloe Adler
Chronicles of Tara - Book 2
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of a brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Criminal copyright infringement including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Copyright © 2018 by Signum Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-947156-27-2
* * *
© 2018 Cover Art by Cora Graphics
Editor: Elizabeth Nover - Razor Sharp Editing
Chapter One
“Amaya Reynolds, you’ve been harder to track down than a werewolf in a petting zoo. Suh?” Jules takes a sip of her drip brew and sets it down. My best friend wraps her hands around the coffee cup on the green-lacquered café table. “At least you took the time to get away for a few minutes and meet me here. So, what’s eating you now?”
I bristle, immediately put on the defensive. What used to be endearing, her no-nonsense way of communicating, just sounds bitchy to me today. It’s what everyone who knew us complained about while growing up, so why did I never see it before?
I look up from my chai latte, setting my jaw. “I can’t stop worrying about my parents’ house.” Just one of my many problems and Jules knows them all.
She shrugs. “Yeah, Bob screwed you pretty hard. I don’t think you have a lot of options. At least your parents are happily oblivious in Taiwan.”
“They left me in charge. It’s not like they won’t notice they’ve been evicted when they return. It seems unlikely I’m going to fix this in twenty-one days.” What will they come back to? And what about all their belongings? Where will I put them?
“Your hotties will help you figure it out.” She flashes a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Bells at the front door tinkle, announcing a new customer. Her eyes dart from me to the door of the café behind me and widen. I start to turn around.
She shakes her head quickly and leans forward. I do the same.
“Don’t look now,” she says in a low voice, “but the devil just walked in.”
I don’t have to ask who she means. Bob lumbers by our table a second later, not casting us a glance, and goes to order at the front counter.
“Let’s leave,” I say and push my chair back.
“Like that won’t be obvious,” she hisses. “Let’s stay and show him we’re not afraid.”
She’s right, dammit.
“Just ignore him. When he sees we’ve been sitting here without shaking in our flip-flops . . .”
I nod and pick up my cup. “Good call.”
She pushes her short fuchsia hair out of her eyes. “Never mind all that anyway. I wanted to get you alone so you could catch me up on what’s going on.” Her mouth crooks at the corner. “Are you and Vasily an item? Can I hit on the Stetler brothers?”
I shoot her a withering look. She’s not joking. I remind myself that she doesn’t know how smitten I am with all of them, Vasily and the four warlocks, but this type of reaction shows me just how out of tune we are. I don’t expect my best friend to be a mind reader, but is picking up on emotional cues too much to ask for?
“Geez.” She rolls her eyes. “Possessive much? You’ve got Vasily. You can’t have all five.”
I raise my chin. “Why not?”
She cocks her head, eyes narrowing. “You only have three holes.”
I burst out laughing. The bangs of her normally short pixie cut have grown out, tumbling into her eyes. “You little skank. Good for you. So that’s why they haven’t shown any interest in me after I’ve laid down more moves than Magic Mike.”
I sigh, pushing my tight curls off my shoulder. “It’s not like that . . . yet.” I wink at her and she breaks out in giggles.
“Well at least you’ll be busy.” She waves her hand in the air. “Plenty of other men in the Edge to go around.”
Raised voices from the front of the café interrupt our conversation.
“I don’t care what you think you heard,” Bob growls. “This is not what I ordered.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but—”
I turn to look and so does half the café. Bob holds up one of his meaty hands palm out and facing her. Around it, a faint blue nimbus pulses, bathing his hand in a subtle glow. The girl stops talking immediately. Even from where I’m sitting, I can tell her entire expression has changed. Her eyes are no longer clear, but glassy. She stands like a stone in front of him, not speaking.
“You will go back there and make me another one,” Bob says in a tone I’ve never heard from him before. It’s over-the-top sweet, cramping my stomach the same way that eating far too much candy does. “You will stop helping the other customers and make me the perfect tall mocha with three pumps of chocolate and skim milk. Okay?”
Even though she’s a cashier, not a barista, the girl reaches for the cup in his hand without hesitation. “Of course I will.” Her voice is flat, without inflection.
He holds his cup tighter. “And you will leave this cup with me.”
“Of course, sir.” The girl’s voice stays monotone as she retracts her hand, the motion jerky. She turns around and walks to the back, where she ignores several people in line and busies herself with the espresso machine.
“Good girl.” Bob’s lips are pressed into a patronizing smirk.
“Geez,” Jules leans forward again, “you weren’t kidding. That guy’s a huge dick. Is he Signum?”
I shake my head. “Not that I know of. Is Miss Cheryl?”
Her brows draw together. “I didn’t think so but maybe they are. It’s not like we could ask.”
She’s right, of course. Living in the supernatural hotbed of Distant Edge, asking if so
meone is a witch, warlock, vampire, shifter or werewolf is so beyond disrespectful, it’s simply not done. An unspoken rule that encourages everyone to live in relative peace on an equal playing field. Maybe Bob is a warlock and his sister is a witch. I shrug. “That would explain the blue light.”
She nods, swirling her coffee. “Yep, warlock. Must be.”
“Then he should know better. It’s against the law to use your powers on the general public.”
Jules wrings her hands, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Let’s report him.”
“We can’t prove it now, plus I’m already on his bad side.”
“Yeah, but if he’s in jail for abuse of magic, there’ll be no one to kick you out of your house.”
She has a point but it’s an ugly one. As much as I’d like to see Bob get what he deserves, his sister is my boss. Things could get much worse for me.
Jules raises her chin. “Just think about it. Your landlord really is a piece of shit.”
I let out a long breath and lean back. “And his sister isn’t much better.”
“You’re telling me.” She places her arms on the table. “Last night she tried to sell me to the highest bidder.”
I cough to cover my gasp. Miss Cheryl did that to me once too, which is not only unethical, but also illegal. But Ichor, our local vectum, is not a vampire bloodbank that operates within the law. Janice, the owner, sure picked the wrong person to run it when she left for New Orleans. But if any of us turn Miss Cheryl in or report what’s going on, we’ll all lose our jobs, and the pay is too good to pass up. The women and men who work there are highly dependent on their paychecks, and even if I could afford to lose the job—which I can’t—I wouldn’t throw them under the paddy wagon.
“No matter. I told her to suck it.” Jules adds another packet of sugar to her coffee. I’m surprised the thing doesn’t crystallize on the spot, she’s added so much to it.
Jules is the only person I know who can tell Miss Cheryl to suck it and live. I’ve always suspected that Jules’s small stature lets her get away with murder. At four foot ten, most people don’t take her seriously. They think it’s cute when she tells them what to do. Little do they know she packs quite a punch and isn’t afraid to throw one.
“Well, well.” We both look up. Bob looms over our table, double fisting his drinks. He eyes my drink and sneers. “If you’re spending your money here, it’s no wonder you can’t afford a little rent.”
Jules slams her hands down on the table and the patrons look our way. Great, thanks, Jules. “There’s nothing small about an extra thousand dollars a month.”
“You know the law. I could have doubled it.” He turns to me. “Having your bulldog speak for you, I see.”
Jules shoots up so quickly her chair falls backward, crashing to the floor. “You want to take this outside, asshole?”
Bob, who’s gone quite red in past altercations, appears unconcerned. “No thanks, you’re too scrawny. It wouldn’t be a fair fight.”
Jules glowers, hands on her hips. Somehow she manages to look down on him despite being over a foot shorter.
“Nice to see you, Amaya.” His eyes flick toward me. “Make sure your parents’ crap is out of my house in three weeks or I’ll throw it into the dump.” He practically skips out of the café. Jules takes a step after him, but I rise and drop my hand on her arm.
“Not the right battle, bestie.”
She growls and returns to her seat. “If you ever need me to pummel his ugly maw, just say the word.”
She’s scrappy and loyal. I’ve no doubt she’d try to beat up someone bigger and stronger, even if it was suicidal. “Hopefully it won’t come to that, sweetie.” I force a smile. “Besides we’d both lose our jobs, and that we cannot afford.”
She sets her jaw. “It’d be worth it.”
My heart taps out a frenetic jig. She’s one to talk. No one’s counting on her to keep their house. She’s got a great studio at a fair price with no overbearing, lying, cheating landlord trying to kick her out. And she can turn to her family for help if all else fails. I don’t have any of those things. All I have is three weeks to fix the nightmare called my life.
Chapter Two
Lounging in the den outside my bedroom, the men all look up when Jules and I return to the mansion. It’s only been a few weeks since the fairy king Vasily welcomed me into his home and I welcomed him and Bodhi, an elemental warlock, into my bed. I also welcomed Bodhi’s three brothers, a five-package deal, into my heart. In that time, I’ve grown close to all of them, even if I don’t really know them or fully understand my attachment yet. There’s an intangible element to the entire Stetler clan and my longing for Arch, Forrest and Cedar in kind. Who are these men to me and what am I to them? How do we fit into one another’s lives?
Vasily stands, inclining his head toward me. I offer him a sad half smile and walk to the window. He winces but remains standing, his slumped shoulders all wrong on his regal frame. He’s a fae king, after all, even if he’s currently an exiled one. It just seems wrong to see him so cowed. It’s not like I want to punish him or anything, but I’m confused, and things have been strained between us ever since I found out he was the one who let the destructive fae Azotar into Tara, his realm. I mean, Vasily invited Azotar in, and then Azotar banished him to Earth. Who does that, invites their worst enemy with open arms? And that’s on top of all the batshit-crazy slave nonsense. I don’t care if Candy thinks Vasily saved her from a worse fate by taking her as his slave. Any system that thinks slavery is an answer is fucked. And who is responsible for that system, if not its king?
And yet, Vasily is kind, generous and smart. The kind of natural-born leader anyone would want at the helm. And the kind of man a woman can’t help but crave. It’s screwing with my head, to say the least, and I’m ready for some answers.
Jules is perched between Bodhi and Forrest, blinking her long dark lashes at a rapid pace and giving each man a coquettish smile, one that tugs up the side of her mouth. I don’t bother shooting her a look. She’s just trying to goad me.
“Can we talk for a minute?” Vasily appears next to me, cupping my elbow in his dark hand.
Blinking fast, I incline my head. He flashes me the first genuine smile I’ve seen in a while, bringing out the fine lines around his dark eyes, and guides me back down the hallway toward my bedroom.
“Have fun,” Jules calls out. “I know I will.”
I fight the urge to run back and claw my best friend’s eyes out. Why is she being such a bitch?
Vasily keeps his hand on me, leading me to my bed and motioning for me to sit down.
“I’d rather stand for now.” The tension between us is thick and suffocating, not like a few hours ago, when we were eating each other up, before Sabin spilled the beans about Vasily’s deception. The sylph very nearly committed treason to save Candy from Azotar, yet he’s the only one who told me the truth about how Azotar came to Tara, about Candy’s enslavement. I remind myself again how well I’ve gotten to know Vasily over the past few weeks. How he’s been nothing but kind to me, and protective. A stab of guilt jabs my gut. Whatever else Vasily is, he is a protector. That’s what he does. He protects everyone here and everyone in Tara. I clench my jaw, unable to hold back any longer. “How could you let that thing into Tara?”
“Amaya.” He brushes his hand down my arm and I shiver. “It’s complicated.”
“I get it,” I cross my arms over my belly, “but so what? I played by all your rules, not asking questions about who you were until I found out. I accepted your banishment from Tara. I didn’t kill you when I found out your niece Candy was bound to you as your slave due to the archaic laws of your land.” I take a step back. I spent weeks in the dark, weeks with him doling out one tiny crumb of information after another. And just when I finally felt like he was confiding in me, Sabin dropped the other shoe—on my head.
He sighs, lowering himself onto the bed. “This all has to do with Candy.”
; I cover my mouth with a hand. Protecting his niece is this man’s—fae’s finest quality. Yet he enslaved her to do it. “Go on,” I say through my fingers.
“She’s been enslaved to me for practically her entire life. To keep her in Tara was to keep her enslaved forever. I tried everything, but there was nothing I could do to free her there.”
I shiver and he reaches for me but I don’t move. His hand drops. A silent gesture as loud as a cymbal crash.
“I racked my brain and the only solution I came up with was for me to take Candy to the human realm and find her a husband.”
I bite my tongue to keep from muttering and that worked out well, didn’t it? I know he’s telling me the truth, that he did what he thought was best for his niece, whom he loves. But that doesn’t change the fact that his solutions were to first enslave her, rather than let her die, and then to throw his entire realm and all his people under the proverbial bus. Maybe he didn’t know Azotar would be such a monster?
“I let Azotar back into Tara, it’s true. And because I did, Candy did find a husband, and as soon as she and Sabin are married, she will be free of her bonds. Free of her servitude.”
Ironic that in order for her to be free from serving one man, she has to be betrothed to another. How ridiculously old-fashioned, as if women were chattel to be willed between men. “Azotar used to live in Tara?”