Venators, page 1
© 2018 Devri Walls
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Venators: Magic Unleashed
Brown Books Publishing Group
16250 Knoll Trail Drive, Suite 205
Dallas, Texas 75248
www.BrownBooks.com
(972) 381-0009
A New Era in Publishing®
Names: Walls, Devri.
Title: Venators : magic unleashed / Devri Walls.
Description: Dallas, Texas : Brown Books Publishing Group, [2018] | Series: The Venators series ; book 1
Identifiers: ISBN 9781612549873
Subjects: LCSH: Supernatural--Fiction. | Good and evil--Fiction. | Kidnapping--Fiction. | Imaginary places--Fiction. | Transgenic organisms--Fiction. | LCGFT: Fantasy fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3623.A4452 V46 2018 | DDC 813/.6--dc23
ISBN 978-1-61254-9-873
LCCN 2017964360
Printed in the United States
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For more information or to contact the author,
please go to www.DevriWalls.com.
For my love, who has turned his life upside
down to support me in mine.
Contents
1 The Other Side
2 The Itch
3 Controlled
4 Goblins
5 Turning Point
6 Through the Arch
7 Revelations
8 History Past
9 Kit
10 Introductions
11 Wolves
12 Ebony
13 Race to the Council
14 Bloodlines
15 Tashara
16 The Gift
17 Ready for Battle
18 Nixie Bubbles
19 Stand Up and Fight
20 Maegon’s Prison
21 Hell’s Jaws
22 Free Fall
23 Strategy and Sacrifice
24 Soul Scars
25 The Unexpected Ally
26 Cat and Mouse
27 Unpredictable
Venators: Promises Forged
Chapter 1
Acknowledgments
Devri Walls
The Other Side
Rain dripped from Tate’s nose and trickled into his ears. The clouds had threatened this downpour all day but in true form had waited until the temperature plummeted with the setting of the sun.
An unwelcome shiver ran from neck to knee. He scowled and scanned the area. Back and forth, then back again. The branches of heavy pines sloped down like the thick arms of giants dragging against the ground. Even larger, a spattering of mammoth oaks stretched for the sky, dwarfing everything beneath wide umbrellas. And then a break in the forest gave way to a meadow. It spread out in a carpet of green, interspersed by clumps of grass with razor-sharp edges that stood over six feet. They waved back and forth in the wind and seemed to be whispering, but the words were lost in the breeze.
After days of searching for the enemy, he knew how many steps were between each tree and the precise angle of the broken limb on the pine to the east. He knew where the meadow rats burrowed—because he’d almost put a bolt through one that set a patch of dead pine needles wiggling. He knew where a thick pocket of berry bushes had been hiding—they were just empty twigs now; he’d picked the last of the fruit yesterday. The days of extended hypervigilance had taken their toll, chafing his nerves raw and setting them afire.
He was missing something. He knew it. But knowing hadn’t done the least bit of good.
It simply wasn’t possible that Zio remained unaware of what was about to happen. Arwin had alerted him four days ago to the magical frequency that preceded a portal opening. The vibrations the old wizard had picked up would continue to pulse until the gate actually opened. By now it would’ve alerted everyone listening . . . and probably those who weren’t. He’d been here, in this spot, waiting and watching. Despite his diligence, he hadn’t seen a single one of Zio’s soldiers. That had ceased to be surprising two days ago. Now, it reeked of suspicion.
Leaning against the trunk of a tree, he pressed his back into the uneven bark and twisted to work out the knots in his muscles. His back began to unwind, but he still needed more relief. He lowered to sitting, grimacing as stiff muscles rippled and stretched.
Better.
But now a branch obscured his view. It twisted in the breeze, dipping beneath water droplets in a joyous dance. He glowered at the leaves, then kicked the branch into the mud, clearing a vantage point.
Something flashed, but then it was gone. Tate peered through the darkness, blinking water from his eyelashes. There it was again! And now gone. He snarled under his breath.
Staring at the same empty space for days must have been driving him mad. The longer he looked, the more the drizzles began to act like strange hallucinations—bending and waving like the start of something magnificent, teasing him with what he desired instead of leaving reality as it was.
The minutes ticked by, turning into hours. A deep heaviness pulled at his eyelids and added weight to his head until it seemed his neck wouldn’t be able to hold it. Tate rubbed at bleary eyes.
He couldn’t sleep. Not now. The gate could open at any second.
Still, a body was not meant to be awake for so long. His mind fluttered strangely under the exhaustion, peeling open memories he’d rather not relive.
A flash of a sword, the metallic taste of blood, the fear of death permeating every room and every arena like a living, breathing thing. Gladiator. A throat opened, spurting blood, sliced by his sword. And then, mercy—the smile that belonged to his light in the darkness—beautiful hazel eyes looking at him in a way that none ever had before.
He jerked to standing and slammed a fist into the tree. The bark cut his knuckles. The pain served its purpose, offering a passageway back to reality as the rain quickly sluiced away the blood.
That was quite enough memories for the night.
The bad recollections always came sharply, as if he were reliving them, and left a bad taste in the back of his mouth—metallic. The good ones were in the past now and therefore equally painful. It’d been years since he’d seen his wife and son, and thinking of them nearly cleaved his heart in two.
Tate rolled his neck, stretching his sore body. Everything he’d done since leaving was all for them; he had to remember that. There was no place for guilt or grief, two dangerous emotions that only served to cloud the senses. No. Staying alive required a clear head—he couldn’t return to his family from the grave.
Offering commentary on his choices, the rain increased to a downpour. The water ran in a stream from the bottom hem of his trench coat down his black pants and seeped into tightly laced boots.
There was a small flash. He wrote it off as another illusion, but it grew brighter, starting as a pinpoint and enlarging to a free-hanging, glowing orb three times as tall and wide as him. It was the largest portal he’d ever seen.
The curse was growing weaker.
He launched forward, but within four steps, Zio’s henchmen materialized ahead of him from the center of an oak tree that peeled apart like a beetle splitting its skin. It took only a moment for Tate to realize what he’d missed—the largest oak in the area was really Zio’s shifter, sent to hide the goblins. They’d been here from the beginning. One turned as it ran and grinned at him around grotesque tusks.
He swore and raced ahead, leaning into the rain, pumping as hard as he could. His crossbow bounced against his back.
But the goblins held a generous lead. Even running on their short, stubby legs, the greasy beasts made it to the gate before him and leapt through.
Tate dove through the opening, having no idea where the gate would drop him on the other side. But he’d found the Venators once—he could find them again. No matter where he landed.
The Itch
Rune stood in the doorway and watched her brother from across the room. He was staring at an advertisement on television. Clenching the arm of the secondhand blue couch with one hand, he crushed the controller with the other. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and his nostrils flared, releasing rapid breaths.
The commercial was for a car dealership that had chosen a werewolf for their mascot, because people would get a howling good deal. The wolf-man jumped on the hood of a cherry-red mustang and howled at the moon. The concept was ridiculous, and their costuming even worse. Still, she was drawn to it in a way she couldn’t explain . . . in the way Ryker was. Blood pounded in her ears, and her fingers twitched.
Stop it. Now.
Rune tore her eyes from the screen and stared at the matted brown carpet that desperately needed to be vacuumed. Crumbs, dirt, and paper scraps were wrapped in the fingerlike fibers. A tiny flurry of movement caught her attention. It appeared the ants had found the smorgasbord.
College boys and their unsanitary habits. Disgusting.
Her heartbeat gradually returned to normal. Back under control, she cleared her throat. “Hey.”
Ryker jerked as if he’d been caught in a crime. Upon seeing his sister he relaxed slightly, fumbling with the remote to shut off the TV. “Stupid commercial,” he muttered.
“I know. Who’d pick a werewolf mascot for a car dealership?”
Ryker visibly flinched at the word werewolf, a nd she forced a laugh as if she hadn’t noticed.
She pulled a soda out of the small refrigerator near the door, trying not to gag at the unearthly odor that escaped. “You should try cleaning. Maybe you wouldn’t lose your appetite when you open the fridge.”
“Volunteering?”
“Uh, no.” She popped the top and took a swig. “So, where’s your roommate?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “We’re going out tonight, though. I’ll pick you up around seven.”
He didn’t ask if she wanted to go out. It was just assumed. She clenched the soda can. “Really?”
Ryker glanced over his shoulder. “Too early? I could push it back to eight thirty.”
He didn’t notice the irritated tone in her voice, but that was normal—boys were so clueless. “No,” she said tightly, swallowing her lecture. “Seven’s fine.” She plopped down on the sofa next to him.
Ryker’s eyes, haunted and unseeing, were still glued to the blank TV. She nudged him with an elbow. “Everything all right?”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just tired. I was up late last night studying for my chem test.”
“I don’t know how you take those classes.” She shuddered. Her basic math class had about done her in. She excelled on the field and the court. In school she pulled As, but that was only because of her rigid work ethic—every subject aside from history and English felt like she was forcing her brain to do tasks it wasn’t designed for. “How’d you do?”
“Failed it.”
She nearly snorted soda out her nose. Coughing, she laughed and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Mom’s going to kill you.”
“I know. But all she can do is yell at me over the phone.” He grinned and stretched out, draping one arm over the back of the couch. “I don’t even have to see the classic ‘disappointed in you’ face.”
“Well, there you go.” She lifted her soda in a mock toast. “College is good for something, right?”
He finally seemed to shake the trancelike state he’d been in when she’d arrived, and he turned to look at her. Ryker was built like an ox—broad shoulders, wide chest, heavily wrapped in a thick layer of muscle. That, along with his light-brown hair and hazel eyes, was a combination girls seemed to find irresistible.
It was insanely annoying.
“Are you kidding? College is good for a lot of things! Parties and freedom and—” He winked. “Parties.”
There was a gleam in his eye Rune recognized. She moaned. “You’re getting drunk tonight, aren’t you?”
She hated when Ryker got drunk. He was never happy with a good buzz, always getting completely hammered. That meant too loud, too crass, and too mean. Then he’d pass out and leave her to make sure his sorry ass made it back to the dorm. She’d contemplated leaving him on several occasions. But if her parents ever found out . . . She couldn’t bear it. Even from the other end of a phone line.
“Rune, it’s Friday. Yeah, I’m getting drunk.”
She looked down, fingering the pop tab on her can. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
He snorted. “I wish you would. Come on! We finally have some freedom, and you act like she’s still standing over you, approving every move you make.”
Rune bit her tongue. She wanted to scream at him: Every move I make? Every move we make. We’re twins—we’re supposed to be a team. When Mom lost you to whatever the hell is eating you alive from the inside out, she threw it all on me.
Every expectation, every hope, had landed on Rune’s shoulders. All while her mother expected her to keep her wayward brother out of trouble.
But instead of yelling, Rune bit her tongue like she always did. Because if she were to snap, Ryker would get drunk without her, and how could she keep him from his own stupidity then? She gave a weak smile. “Just . . . don’t puke on me this time, OK?”
“I can’t make any promises. However, I will point out that if you were drunk, it would be less noticeable if I did.”
Rune rolled her eyes. “Ya think?”
There was no response. Ryker had turned to the empty gray screen of the TV. She knew what he saw, because she could see the same thing. The imprint of the “howling good time” running across the screen. Confirmation of her suspicion came as Ryker’s hand slowly tightened into a fist.
She reached over and gently touched his leg. “I’m going to go get ready. Pick me up at the library.”
He jolted again, cheeks flushing with shame at being caught. “Yeah, um . . . sure.”
The computer lab was warmer than the rest of the library by a few degrees. Rows of bright screens poured off heat that the air conditioning system had not been built to handle. Sweat trickled down the back of Rune’s neck. She fished an elastic from her pocket and pulled her hair into a ponytail, waiting for the lagging hard drive to pull the file from Dropbox.
The lab was almost empty, as it usually was Friday nights. She glanced up at the clock: 6:45. Only fifteen minutes until the paper was due.
“Cutting it a little close, Jenkins,” she muttered.
Clicking on her homework assignment, she attached it to the email. It wasn’t her best work. She’d been so distracted lately—worse than normal. But hopefully it would pull a B. Her other grades were high enough to absorb the lower score. The email flew off to her professor. On the way out she walked by a kid with unruly hair and thick glasses, frantically clicking through files while whispering, “No, no, no!”
She offered a look of pity. He was too frenzied to notice.
As she turned the corner out of the lab, a familiar silhouette appeared in her peripheral vision, and her steps slowed.
A tall figure wearing a trench coat sat at a round table, hunched over a wide spread of textbooks. Chin-length black hair fell forward, hiding his features. Although he appeared to be a walking stereotype, the ones who only play at being outcasts for attention, Rune knew better.
Grey really didn’t want to be noticed by anyone.
She didn’t understand it, but that was Grey. She didn’t understand that coat either, but that was also Grey.
They’d been in the same classes since junior high, worked on the occasional project together, and somehow landed at the same college, and in all that time, that trench coat had been a permanent accessory. No matter the weather, no matter the jokes and taunting, that coat did not leave his body.
She smiled, looking at him now, remembering him sitting at a desk with his new coat—the shoulder seams nearly to his elbow, the bottom pooling around his ratty shoes, and the sleeves rolled up so many times it looked like he had a doughnut around each wrist.
Year by year he’d grown into it. The color faded from dark black to almost gray, and the telltale signs of poorly done repairs and fraying threads became evident. But whenever she’d asked about his unnatural attachment to it, Grey would just shrug and duck his head.
Despite his quirks, there was something about him that gave her a certain feeling of affection. She considered swinging over to say hi. It had been a little while since they’d talked . . . and she still felt bad about the monstrous prank Ryker had pulled on him—although not as bad as she did about the fact that he’d then uploaded it to the internet—but Grey looked to be knee deep in whatever he was working on.
She glanced again at the clock—her brother was probably waiting in the parking lot by now—and turned toward the elevator. On her way out, an advertisement for the university’s next production of Dracula caught her eye, and she froze.
She’d been able to control herself at Ryker’s, but now the pointed canines and red eyes triggered an internal reaction that immediately spiraled out of control. A roar built behind her eardrums, while a painful tightness lodged in her heart, stuttering the beats in an odd syncopation. A snarl tugged at the outer corner of her lip, animalistic in its illogical hatred. She wanted to rip the thing from the wall and tear it into a hundred pieces.
This is crazy, insane. It’s just a picture. It’s paper! She forced the thoughts that usually stopped the reactions. Stop it, Rune. Let it go. Look away.
It wasn’t working. The inability to avert her eyes was maddening. Her arms shook, and she wanted to bawl and scream and punch something all at the same time . . . after she destroyed the poster.
Stop it! Stop it. Look at the floor, the ceiling, anything!
It wasn’t just Ryker that went into this . . . fury. The severity of the attacks varied, but they happened anytime something supernatural came into view. It was like a pull deep inside that she couldn’t understand, let alone articulate. It rose from her gut and trickled out to the tips of her fingers and the soles of her feet. A burning desire to do something.
