The Reaping (The Moondreamer Chronicles Book 2)

by Tamara Mataya

  Copyright © 2017 Tamara Mataya

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. References to real people, places, organizations, events, and products are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real.

  Cover art © 2017 Date Book Designs

  Additional cover art by Cait Greer

  Cover photo: Bigstockphoto/contributor/ Shmeljov

  and Bigstockphoto/contributor/ Chaoss

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  THE REAPING | Book Two | of | The Moondreamer Chronicles | By Tamara Mataya

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Acknowledgments

  Keep in touch!

  THE REAPING

  Book Two

  of

  The Moondreamer Chronicles

  By Tamara Mataya

  CHAPTER ONE

  Her face is a picture of perfect indifference as she violently stabs her palm with the small silver dagger. Blood trickles through her fingers and forms a small puddle on the table. With the tip of the blade, she traces a snowflake-like pattern in the blood, waves her injured hand over it, and whispers three words I can’t quite make out.

  Her hands seem to dance in the candlelight as she twists the knife into her wound. More blood drips down her arm, each drop hissing when it hits the table.

  The pattern shimmers, the blood running out from the center of the snowflake, becoming veins as the dirt morphs into the shape of a leaf.

  “He's with the Sprites.” Her raspy voice grates up my spine as she speaks, breath like hot milky tea, stale and sweet, practically sticking to my skin when it reaches me. I suppress a shudder. She’s young and beautiful...if you don't know how to look past the illusion and see the rot beneath the mask. Ashria—my mother—has been training me to see beyond glamours, but it's not yet second nature. I have to concentrate to see past them, and more than that, I want to see people the way they wish me to see them. Sometimes seeing the masks people choose to wear gives more insight than the true faces they’re trying to hide.

  The same goes for her surroundings. Cast iron pots hanging over the fireplace above a cheerful fire. Bundles of dried herbs hang from a rack, perfuming the room with their delicate scents. A patchwork quilt is snugly tucked over the foot of a small bed in the corner. Thick olive-green candles provide the only light—the grey sunlight seeping through the grimy window is too weak to hold back the post-sunset shadows creeping in. The room is deceptively simple and homey for a woman who’s savagely stabbed her own hand to perform blood magic on a table made of white willow.

  Ashria thinks this Witch can give us the information we need. Even if she can, nothing about this feels right. It’s too innocuous, too quaint. A week ago I was ambushed by a Witch, yet I have no choice but to trust Shalaea—for now. Ashria wouldn’t knowingly send me into a trap, but it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been ambushed by a supposed friend, or a shaky ally. There aren't many people I trust entirely anymore.

  Having seen the lies of her surroundings, I concentrate on seeing past the glamour she's cast, searching for what is true.

  The shadows spring to life, full of some kind of featureless beings that make no sound for all their fury. All tooth and claw, they snap at each other in silence, hungrily reaching for me, held back by the light and the Witch’s will. Glamour removed, the darkness she lives inside becomes visible—inky roiling blackness that sends shivers up my spine.

  There's a door to another room I couldn't see before. She's powerful to have hidden the true dimensions of her cottage from me, though I already knew she was powerful. It's why I'm here.

  Show me her true form.

  Dark veins stand out against sallow skin, stretched over a too-thin face and beaky nose. She’s barely more than a skeleton. There's some sort of dark green mold or fungus creeping from under her wispy hairline, trailing from her ears to her cheekbones. It's also between her fingers, staining them with rot.

  I let her glamour slide back for comparison. Thick red hair, luminous skin, and bright blue eyes show a stunning beauty in the prime of her life. Beauty is only skin-deep. Ugly goes right to the bone... “Can you see which Sprites he's with, Shalaea?”

  She trails a thin pinky finger through the leaf, dragging the stem out a couple of inches. She squints at the dirt. “Yes.”

  I wait for the answer that doesn't come. “Well?”

  Her eyes narrow, calculation entering the equation. “Yes, I can see who he's with. The price has gone up.”

  “I've already paid you the price we agreed upon—”

  “I've changed my mind. Something as dangerous as revealing the location of one of the High Council members requires a little more. Think of it as danger pay.”

  I try to cover my surprise. How does she know we’re looking for the High Council members? We've kept this as quiet as possible, even restricting communication to in-person contact only. The silence while people are out in the field is unbearable, but we're all doing what we can to ensure success. Has someone betrayed us?

  She arches her back and stretches like a cat. “Don't look so surprised. I have my ways.”

  So do I—and my patience is wearing thin. “We agreed on—”

  “That was before. Blood magic to find a member of the High Council? I don't know what you're into, exactly, but the price just went up.”

  Disappointment and anger curdle into a hard ball inside my stomach. Why am I surprised at her opportunism?

  In the past month I've learned that Fae exist and I'm one of them, joined a revolutionary faction, overthrown a corrupt council, found my soul mate, seen a friend killed, and learned I'm up against a Fae army hell-bent on taking over the world—and who will kill any Fae or human who stands in their way.

  Since then, I've begun rigorous training with Ashria to develop my powers—when I haven’t been traipsing all over the country, trying to track down the identities of the High Council members. They’re the real bad guys in charge of the Fae army I'm expected to beat. We’re hoping if we can identify and take out those four members then the war can be prevented.

  It’s crucial to all of our existences to keep going, and it takes a toll on us all. I haven't slept for three days, and if this Witch doesn't give me the information
I want fast, I'm going to officially lose my shit.

  I take a deep breath, not wanting to will something terrible upon this Witch out of frustration and anger; my powers have gotten a lot stronger since I began training. She has no idea who she's dealing with. Some days I have no idea what I'm dealing with. I can do a hell of a lot more than I thought possible.

  Some of it I wish wasn't possible.

  Deep, soothing breaths. In and out. My lip twitches when I attempt a smile. “Listen, I get it. Inflation is a bitch, but you and I don’t have to be. A deal's a deal.”

  She smirks. “Is it?”

  Her hand disappears beneath the table and the pressure in the room tangibly increases. My ears pop and something brushes against my mind, trying to force its way in.

  She sits back in her chair. “You’re going to give me whatever I want, little girl.”

  Enough.

  I shake my head and wave one hand across the room, completely stripping her illusion away. The little shadow creatures have gathered around me, pressing to get inside my head for who knows what purpose. Some of them bump up against the Witch’s shins with a hungry affection like house cats gone horribly wrong.

  She frowns as I smile and flick my index finger.

  The creatures are repelled away from me in an explosive burst of power. They hover at the edges of the cottage, nursing their wounds, staring at me. Their hunger fades as their curiosity grows. The Witch isn't the alpha bitch in this cabin anymore and they’re responding to it.

  She knows it too and shoots to her feet, knocking over the chair with a clatter.

  “Let's try this again.” I slowly stand. “Which Sprites is he with?”

  “How did you do that? Who are you really? What are you?”

  “My name is Syxx. And I'm a Moondreamer.”

  Her eyes widen.

  I GET THE INFORMATION I need with some hard persuasion. When I leave her cottage two hours later, I pray I haven't made another enemy but fear that I have.

  Shields up, I walk away, using every last ounce of power to hide the way exhaustion weights my legs, making my steps clumsy. If I wasn’t nearly tapped of energy I’d float, but I’d rather she watch me stroll as though I’m not worried about her, as though I have all the strength in the world to fend off anything she could throw at me.

  I remember thinking as I came upon it that her cottage deep in the woods was like something from a bad fairy tale. Not for the first time, I’ve stupidly underestimated a Witch’s power. She underestimated mine because she didn't know what I am.

  Moondreamers are powerful and extremely rare. We can grant wishes, will things into being, float—and tear your world apart if you cross us. That's not to say that we're at the top of the magical food chain. I've been defeated in battle and have had to be rescued on more than one occasion before I began training. Necessity’s forced me to learn quickly.

  Magic isn’t infinite and I just snapped the candle in half before lighting both ends. Lack of sleep and food have been nipping at my heels for some time, slowing my motions. My nerves are frayed at the edges, every sound of the dusky night rattling against my skin, and I keep seeing things from the corners of my eyes that aren't there. Without the energy to worry like I probably should, I push on, focusing on keeping my defensive shields up.

  I'm braced for retaliation from the Witch.

  It never comes.

  Out of sight, I pick up the pace.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Another day has come and gone by the time I walk into the safe house, headquarters for The Resistance since The Sowing. I had the idea to hide it between two existing buildings in plain sight, which everyone thought was a great idea, really ingenious. Guess they're not big fans of Harry Potter. With Ashria's magic, and the help of a trusted Witch, we’ve literally created our new home.

  I sure miss my old one I shared with my best friend.

  There are no shoes sitting by the entrance, no lights shining brightly to greet me as I close the door behind me. The air is still and cool, and for once, nobody’s home. Kicking off my boots, I brace myself against the wall as the bone-deep weariness catches up with me. The quiet wraps me up and soothes me. All I want to do is shower, eat, and fall into bed for a couple months’ worth of sleep.

  Maybe I'll skip the shower and eating. I flick on a light and walk down the hall, passing the open door to the kitchen, the motion in the corner of my eye not registering until it’s too late.

  Stupid. Secret building or not, I should have checked inside to make sure I was alone.

  Adrenaline stutters through my veins, giving me the last fumes of fuel I thought I’d already burned through. Someone steps into my personal space, but I don't have the time or the focus to shield myself, and my heart flutters wildly in my chest. Strong arms wrap around me and lips find my neck.

  Relief decimates my composure. I'd know that touch anywhere.

  I sag against the warm body pressed against my back and lift my arms to wrap them around his neck. His arms tighten to squeeze me gently, and he lifts me and walks us backwards into the kitchen.

  My Draven.

  The past few weeks have been hell on all of us. None of us have been tucked away safe and sound—we're all running dangerous missions and more than one ally in The Resistance has fallen. The High Council is not without allies of their own. People have gone missing, and we don't know if they're dead, captive, or in hiding, unable to communicate with us.

  Right now, we’re both safe and together.

  Turning in his embrace, I wrap my arms around him and snuggle into his chest, breathing him in, revelling in his touch. It's been too long.

  “Vi Tiri kaj mi tenas,” he says warmly.

  “La fajra danco subtenas nin.” A surge of power rushes through me as I finish the phrase only we know, burning away the exhaustion, soaking in his energy that perfectly complements mine, denied to us both for weeks. Pair-bonds—Fae soul mates—are made and strengthened by body, mind, soul, and phrase. If anyone heard us speak the words, they’d sound like gibberish—other pair-bonded couple's words are incomprehensible to us.

  Draven's part means, 'You pull and I'll hold.' Mine is, 'The fiery dance sustains us.' Since the beginning, I've been the fiery, feisty one. His love is steadfast and steady, holding me safe.

  I squeeze him hard, half to reassure myself that he's really here. He winces and I immediately drop my arms and step back.

  “What's wrong?” I quickly look him over, head to toe, checking for any obvious injury. His intense greenish-blue eyes are a bit tight with pain. Other than that, there's nothing obvious from a quick glance. His blond hair's a bit scruffier than usual and needs a cut. He's gotten thinner these past few weeks, rangier, muscles even more defined than they already were. It's sexy, but makes me want to go all domestic and feed him fattening home-cooked meals.

  He's not bleeding anywhere that I can see and he has no bruises, at least none that have formed yet, but he's favoring one side. A slight bend at the waist, and the way he's not putting his weight fully on both feet gives it away.

  “What happened?”

  He smiles, trying to downplay. “Tore a hamstring and I think a few ribs are cracked. Got in a fight with a Stone Elemental.”

  His tone is light, but fear surges through me, even though he clearly won the fight. If he hadn't, he wouldn't be here—still, hearing about the near miss doesn’t make me feel any better. I know first-hand how hard Stone Elementals fight. Hitting them is like punching a mountain, and the two I knew were about as smart as a pile of rocks as well before Sakarias and I killed them at The Sowing.

  Sakarias is one of the few people I trust with my life.

  He hasn't been seen in a couple of weeks either.

  My expression must say it all. Draven smiles. “Don't look so worried. I'm alright, Syxx.”

  “I know, but still. Something worse could have happened to you and I wouldn't have known until...later.”

  He tucks a lock of hair behind my
ear. “I've been more worried about you, travelling around by yourself. Shooting first and asking questions later.” He’s more worried about the toll the people I’ve been forced to kill—even though they were evil and it was in self-defence—has had on my conscience. “Have you had any more nightmares?”

  “I’ve been too exhausted to dream lately.” The things I’ve done are not in my nature—they’re not in his either, but he grew up in this world—I didn’t. “And I only went guns blazing when I thought they'd killed you. And you’re just trying to distract me from your injuries since you think I can’t heal them.”

  “I think you can’t?” He raises an eyebrow.

  I smile. He has no idea how far I've come with my training in the two weeks since we’ve seen each other. I focus more closely on his ribs. It's always better to heal from the worst point out. Once the worst injury is healed, the rest sort of clicks into place. In other words, heal the broken limb before you heal the scraped skin. “This might sting a little,” I warn him. Show me his wounds.

  Two of his ribs are cracked and a third is actually dislocated. I don't know how the hell he's not crying out in pain with every breath he takes, and pride at his strength surges through me despite the situation. Incubi are tough, but Draven is half-human as well. To heal him, I have to focus not on the rib, but on the wrongness of the injury. It's a stain in his body that shouldn't be there.

  Heal this imperfection, smooth it away.

  Draven hisses as the rib pops back into place and the cracks in the others are repaired.

  Dissolve the pain. I send waves of cool comfort through the area as soon as I’m able.

  Ashria can repair and soothe at the same time—I haven't been training long enough to develop the power or focus to do that yet.

  His breathing deepens and becomes easier. “That was amazing!”

  “I'm not done yet.” Energetically, I focus on his leg. It isn't just a torn hamstring; a deep bone bruise is forming and will ache for months if it isn't healed now.