Feathers and Fire Series Box Set 2

by Shayne Silvers

  “Callie…” Roland repeated in a breathless whisper, gripping the table with both hands as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. “How…”

  I stared at him, my blood pounding in my ears, magic literally screaming and crackling at my fingertips and down the length of my katana, begging to be unleashed—even though Roland held no weapon or magic at the ready.

  “Do me one favor, Roland. You owe me,” I said, calmly shrugging out of my Darling and Dear jacket and walking away to hang it on the wall. I wouldn’t need it. It wouldn’t be fair.

  He watched me return back to my initial position, now garbed only in my white set of ninja garb with the bloody red cross over my chest. He didn’t say a word, his eyes haunted as everything he had done recently seemed to suddenly hit him at once, filling him with despair and shame.

  I wasn’t even surprised that he knew me. My Horseman’s Mask must have stripped away the Demonskin.

  “And what is that…Callie?” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He said my name like he personally needed to hear it, a lifeline through the rivers of blood he had unleashed upon my city.

  “I want to savor this moment…” I told him.

  He nodded slowly, willing to do anything to have me back.

  “You, my father, there on the sad height,” I whispered, not even having to try hard to remember the words of his favorite poem.

  He shuddered as if stabbed. Because he’d spoken Dylan Thomas’ famous poem out loud before prayer every single night before going to sleep. When he had been a good, pious man.

  A single tear rolled down his cheeks.

  The power around me manifested more noticeably at his audacity to shed a tear for my judgment when he’d spared none for shedding blood. The magic screamed and whipped, tore and railed against our clothes, the walls…our souls. Henri Bellerose was openly whimpering.

  “Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray,” Roland finally whispered.

  My rapid breath felt as sharp as razors.

  “Do not go gentle into that good night,” I quoted. But I was also telling him…

  Telling him to give it to me as hard as he could. To show me no mercy. I needed this. To know I had beaten him, utterly, once and for all. That at least one of us had remembered his lessons, his creed. That I had followed that creed and was here now to punish him for breaking that creed. The ultimate poetic justice.

  Pun. Fucking. Intended.

  This wasn’t him committing suicide. This was a debt between every master and student. That one day, the student learned enough to challenge the master, and on that day, she deserved an honest, all-out confrontation. A true win.

  Not a participation trophy.

  He nodded, another tear spilling down his cheek, making my already tumultuous grip on my magic flare stronger, more violent. He held out his hand and Henri hunched as he tugged Roland’s own katana from the wall where it had been mounted. Henri carried it to his master, handing it over with the weapon reverently balanced on the meat of his two hands.

  Roland took it, closed his eyes, and nodded to himself. Then he looked up at me, and through his pain, his guilt, his unhappiness, and his shame, I saw a flicker of honor and obligation. Of excitement and respect. Of…anticipation.

  This situation was rare and was a tradition to truly cherish.

  He knew what I wanted. What I deserved. Even if it never should have been this way…

  He owed it to me, and to himself, to test his student once and for all, holding nothing back. Because even if he lost, that loss only verified—beyond question—his superiority among all teachers. That he had taught someone so well that they had beaten him.

  The only one who had anything to lose in that regard was me. And by challenging him like this—with his own poem and the first weapon he’d ever trained me with—I had willingly forfeited any easy way out, claiming that I believed I was the better swordsman.

  “Rage, rage, Callie, against the dying of the light!”

  He’d even personalized the ending.

  I would do the same. With my blade.

  And the church pretty much blew to hell as the master’s blade flashed out against his student’s blade in an explosion of sparks and sound.

  We were both laughing and crying.

  Living and dying.

  Triumphing and losing.

  Hoping and Despairing.

  Loving…as only two true warriors could ever understand.

  It was a celebration. A wake. A cumulation of our entire existence encompassed in the momentary flash of steel on silver, blade on blade, eye to eye with a true warrior.

  Chapter 57

  Roland roared, his fangs glinting in the candlelight. And our blades met again, chiming violently as we both pivoted and danced, spun and swung, lunged and parried…

  He kicked over one of the bowls, sending a cascade of coals my way that forced me to hop back—and I barely avoided his sword lunge with a clumsy parry. The coals ignited the carpet, slowly filling the room with smoke.

  And still, we danced, both resetting our stances to resume our swordplay.

  There was no judgment of any form of attack. Roland had taught me to use everything at my disposal—and him kicking over the bowl was a subtle reminder that anything was fair game. This was a battle between master and student—not just in swordplay…

  In the art of war.

  In response to the maelstrom of magic still crackling down my blade—the magic that I hadn’t actually intended to use, Roland flung up his own to counteract the constant wind batting at us from every angle, and it was only a matter of seconds before we were hurling magic even as our blades clashed in a continuous peal that sounded like windchimes in a storm.

  Because he hadn’t only trained me in blades.

  He’d trained me in magic.

  So it was a duel on multiple fronts. He hurled jagged bolts of crimson lightning at me, and I flung up traps to catch them—not even sure how I’d done it. His bolts of power would strike the white orbs I flung to hover about the room like magnets, even when he tried throwing them directly at me. They sucked up his lightning, turning them to crimson glass bars that fell and shattered on the floor.

  And all the while, we danced, our blades never halting, as we circled the room, knocking over candelabras and stepping over the crimson glass hunks strewn about the floor.

  Flame met ice, spirit met water, air met earth in concussive explosions that rocked the attacker as much as the defender.

  And soon, we both sported dozens of minor cuts—none debilitating, but each slowly weakening us. Our breaths were heavy and loud, our passion wild and savage.

  Our love unbreakable.

  Which is why we never slowed. This was our moment. Our greatest achievement.

  We didn’t want to slow down. This moment was as alive as we would ever feel.

  I harried him, slicing, lunging, spinning, pirouetting with my katana until I neared the lone remaining brazier of coals. I encased my hand in my angelic gauntlet like I’d done when fighting a demon long ago and shoved my hand into the orange embers in an explosion of sparks. Roland gasped, dancing back a step as I lifted my massive gauntlet to reveal a large pile of smoldering coals. I used air to lift and slam the coals together with an explosion of embers and sparks, forming a crucifix as large as a man’s torso, and bound together by Silver wire whipping out from my gauntlet like spider silk.

  And then I hurled it at Roland with as much power as I could muster, banishing my gauntlet.

  It struck his chest and he screamed from the depths of his soul, the crucifix burning into his flesh down the center, literally branding him with a crucifix the size of his body. He flung it away, panting and gasping, almost dropping his sword. The smell of burned flesh filled the room.

  But I was already pursuing my weakened, battered, injured prey.

  I chased him around the perimeter, ignoring the smoke and burning carpet, the hunks of crimson glass littering the floor, lunging an
d swinging as he knocked over more candelabras in an attempt to get a single second of reprieve so he could turn around and reset his stance.

  But I didn’t let him.

  Just like he wouldn’t have let me.

  I kicked him in the back, knocking him into the table with the book and bowl of blood. I pivoted with my hips, bringing my entire strength and momentum behind my overhead strike to end this once and for all. In one toe-curling climax.

  Roland had spun and, upon seeing my inbound attack, ducked beneath the table, knowing he didn’t have time to get his sword up fast enough to parry my strike.

  My silver katana sliced entirely through the table, the book, and the bowl of blood, showering him with all of it as the table crashed down—each jagged end of the center of the table trapping an arm to reveal the helpless, wounded, branded man beneath.

  He was covered in blood and pages of paper, and the crucifix brand looked ghastly.

  And I didn’t give him the chance to roll free or use his magic to blast the table away.

  I had already lifted my sword from my initial blow, and it was screaming down towards his face before I could have even tried to stop it.

  In his eyes…

  I saw a glint of relief.

  An applause of congratulation.

  A lifetime of memories.

  A bond of love and respect that…

  Welcomed this end.

  The only end he’d ever wanted.

  Not in a fight with some punk monster, but in a battle that truly meant something.

  A battle of love. A death he could be proud of rather than ashamed of.

  And I saw forgiveness. And gratitude. And a million other emotions. I knew it would be the last thing I saw in his eyes before the blank stare of death took its place.

  A third silver blade abruptly darted between us, batting my katana clear out of my hand to fly free and stick into the wall.

  I don’t know who was more shocked. Roland, as he was kicked clear of both me and the portal by his own Renfield…

  Or me to see Henri Bellerose no longer hunched and cowering.

  Henri stood before me with a confidence even deeper than the first time I’d ever met him.

  “Enough, Callie,” Henri said in a gentle tone. “Enough. Your mother would be proud.”

  And the heartfelt smile on his face made absolutely no sense to me. He slowly descended to kneel before me, holding up the sword he’d just used so that it rested on his two open palms. He offered it to me, with his eyes downcast. “Let me explain before you choose to kill me,” he said, with absolutely no fear in his voice.

  Roland stared at Henri in utter shock, so imagine how I felt.

  Without replying, I took the blade from his hands and backed up a few steps to reassess the situation, still panting from my prematurely-ended fight. One thing was certain.

  Even if the rules had just changed…

  I wasn’t finished playing yet.

  Chapter 58

  Henri slowly climbed to his feet but made no threatening gesture whatsoever.

  I blinked at him warily, realizing that I’d been right from the beginning. Even though I didn’t know how he’d pulled it off, Henri was no Renfield. He was not a broken vampire. His face was still a scarred ruin, but he didn’t seem affected by it. And he stood to his full height.

  Henri had tricked Roland, using him to…

  I avoided looking at the crimson portal behind him.

  Dracula’s Castle was just beyond it. I knew it for a fact.

  And Henri wanted to step through it. I could practically taste his desire to do so.

  So…as the seconds stretched on, I wondered why he made no attempt. Hell, why hadn’t he hopped through while the master and student were duking it out?

  Roland was sprawled on the ground, leaning against the wall, clutching his horribly wounded chest as he stared at Henri in utter disbelief.

  Henri finally turned to face me, and I realized the reason for his silence had been to give me the time to catch my breath. Because he’d turned to look at me the moment that I’d told myself I had recovered enough from my fight to go another round. He smiled at me—not a sinister, evil overlord smile, but a soul-deep smile of…approval.

  Which was always worse. About a million fears sprang to mind, but I silenced them all.

  Henri closed his eyes, and tendrils of silver and black smoke began to slowly swirl up around him. They spun faster with each passing second until I could no longer see Henri at all.

  Then they puffed out and a second man was suddenly standing behind Henri. He was only a few inches shorter at most, and stockier with broad, wide shoulders. He commanded the room with his presence. Henri, on the other hand, collapsed, and I knew without looking that he was dead.

  This new man’s long, dark hair hung past his shoulders and his face was…beautiful.

  Roland cursed, struggling weakly to climb to his feet, but he hissed and groaned, falling back down. Even though vampires healed fairly fast, that crucifix brand didn’t look to be getting any better.

  Which was why I had thought to try it—a memory from the Doors.

  When I’d seen that stained-glass window with a man and a young child staring at a burning cross…

  Even with the necklace hanging around his neck—the one that let him step inside churches, touch holy objects, and use the Lord’s name—his powers could do nothing about the crucifix branded into his very flesh, from neck to navel, and nipple to nipple.

  Just like the one marking my chest.

  I was far enough away to notice all this about Roland without ever taking my eyes off of Henri’s dead body and this second man. He didn’t look familiar, but I suddenly realized my boots were tingling and that they had been ever since he appeared. I gasped, lifting my sword.

  “Samael,” I breathed, wondering how the hell my boots had failed to warn me any of the other times I’d been near Henri.

  Roland, recognizing the name, tried the whole fish on dry land routine again to similar effect. He wheezed as he leaned against the wall, his eyes furious.

  Samael lifted a hand casually. “Hear me out before you do anything drastic. Please.”

  “Give me one good reason, Samael,” I snarled, wondering how any of this was possible. There were no demons in Kansas City. Everyone had said it.

  He shrugged, tucking both hands behind his back. “Because Roland is innocent, Callie.” He paused for a moment. “Well, at least of all major crimes,” he admitted.

  I blinked, pointing my sword at Roland. “Many have died at his hands.”

  Samael shook his head. “Indirectly.”

  “I said give me one good reason, not a pile of lies,” I growled at his ridiculous answer. Even Roland looked baffled by it.

  “The truth?” he asked, sounding tired and uneasy.

  I nodded. “It will feel good to get off your chest before I send you back home,” I said, brandishing the Seal of Solomon on my finger.

  He sighed, letting out a breath. “I’m your Godfather. Your mother’s request.”

  I laughed loudly. “Right. You. Samael…my Godfather.” I laughed harder, even turning to Roland to shake my head instinctively. He had started to smile back before lowering his eyes in shame. I lowered mine for a different reason. Disappointment.

  Samael cleared his throat gently. “Check for yourself. I’m sure you learned all about your blood mix…” he said slowly, the words catching my attention. “Maybe you can focus and check our blood bond for yourself. Maybe you already bonded me in an alley…”

  I dropped my sword, gasping as the room suddenly flashed with light—not an actual external light, but an internal one—my mind suddenly replaying that moment I had first stepped back into Kansas City. This same man, Samael, had approached me. That much was true. I shook my head, refusing to believe the memory. But Cain had been so sure of himself. That it had been Le Bone.

  “Why would I have believed a single word from your mouth? We were
expecting an attack. I wouldn’t have approached a stranger,” I argued, glaring at him. “And I definitely would not have disguised myself at your word, let alone wiped my own memory of it all.”

  Samael nodded with infinite patience. “I approached you and stopped at a distance, announcing my name and that I would submit to you, but I asked that you do one thing for me,” Samael said. I tapped my foot, waiting. Roland was watching the two of us as if the candelabras had come to life and were debating the space-time continuum.

  “And I suppose I liked your smile so much that I agreed?” I asked sarcastically.

  Samael smirked. “Well, it is a pretty smile,” he said. Sensing I was not amused, he dipped his head—the motion from such a commanding presence was…bizarre. “I asked you to check our blood bond for yourself.”

  I did that now, taking a second to factually dispute at least one of his ridiculous claims and…

  I took an instinctive step back, shaking my head in disbelief, feeling as if I was on the verge of a mental break. Because I saw a black and silver cord of power even thicker than the blood bond that I shared with Claire or Cain…

  Whatever was going on, he truly was bonded to me. Meant me no harm.

  Samael waited patiently for me to look up at him. “I’ll admit that it wasn’t that strong in the alley. You doubted me, for obvious reasons. You required further proof. Made me shake your hand, exchanging our blood in a new blood bond,” he explained, circling back to his original claim.

  And my memory confirmed it, replaying our conversation almost word-for-word.

  He nodded satisfactorily. “Maybe a certain tortoise and dragon talked to you…”

  “What?” I whispered.

  “An unholy trinity, you could say,” he explained. “Your mother’s idea. Her test.”

  Roland gasped, and I spun to see Xuanwu step forward from beside the front of the church, as if he’d been leaning there for the last hour. As did Qinglong, leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the door from his brother. “He speaks the truth,” Xuanwu grumbled.

  If Xuanwu’s advice, his ninjas, his sanctuary, and his personal involvement outside hadn’t helped me so much, I would have killed him on the spot. I remembered him telling me Samael had left Kansas City when I first disappeared, and I scowled. It hadn’t been a lie.