Fury of Affliction (Dragonfury 2.0)

Chapter 1

1

MIDNIGHT—ISADORE STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA

A fter days filled with chaos, the descending silence was eerie.

Sitting cross-legged in an armchair across from a row of prison cells, Truly Turnbolt adjusted the leather-bond tome laying open on her lap. Colorful graphics graced paper stained by time and heavy use. Calligraphy written by a steady hand crawled toward warped edges, lines of a fire spell organized like poetry. Nearly fifteen hundred pages filled with magic that promised mayhem.

Not that she’d seen any of either recently. Or understood how to make any of the spells work.

A setback. A major one that should’ve stopped her cold.

She wanted to throw up her hands up and exit the situation, but refused to admit defeat. What she was doing mattered. So much so she couldn’t allow setbacks to slow her down. Do or die. Literally. If she couldn’t access her magic, death waited around the corner. Or on her doorstep. Whatever. The analogy didn’t matter. Success, no matter how small, needed to come to her rescue. The inevitability of failure loomed instead as hours passed without progress and evidence of her ineptitude grew.

Frustration rolled through her. Unbelievable. She’d thought she was past this. Or at the very least, off the starting blocks. Each attempt, though, slammed face-first into failure. No matter what she tried, nothing worked. Her magic refused to answer the call. Rage-inducing. Worrisome. More than just a bitter pill to swallow.

Westvane was counting on her. Montrose expected her to deliver. And Earl? He wanted smooth sailing. For things to return to normal. Something beyond her capabilities at the moment.

Much like her magic, the world she now inhabited refused to cooperate.

As the last remaining Door Master, she’d been supplied a list of duties. She had magical creatures to corral and keep in check. The Mirror Kingdoms to stabilize despite the tyrannical queen occupying the other side. And a bridge to build across the Ecotone that connected two parallel worlds. A challenge for a fully weaponized Door Master—nearly impossible for one who couldn’t access her magic at all.

More than just a challenge, then. Label it a huge concern. An about-to-be a fatal one given the Slayer three floors up, currently waking inside the second bedroom on the right with murder on his mind.

Exhaling some of her tension, Truly shifted the Grimoire in her lap. She read another line. The words ran together, blurring into a long line of characters that no longer made sense.

She sighed.

Taking a break would be smart. Forcing things wasn’t working. The more she tried, the less her magic responded. She’d been at it too long. For hours as she waited for her prisoner to break and start talking. No luck there. Another failure. The winged Electi warrior trapped in the magic-bound cell across from her refused to give way. Which meant her stomach had been growling almost as long as her aggravation. Pain kept pace, pounding on her temples so hard her cheekbones hurt.

Gritting her teeth, she refocused on the words, muttering the lines under her breath as Priestly paced behind bars while glaring at her. So much frost in his hazel-gold eyes. Almost electric. Absolutely arctic. With a low snarl, he pivoted and began another circuit around his cell. Wing-tips swishing over the concrete floor. Tawny-colored feathers rustling. Hands flexing into fists only to release and clench again.

Good.

Progress.

He looked as frustrated as she felt watching him.

Baring overlong canines at her, he rounded into another turn.

Truly ignored his aggressive stance and went back to practicing. She reached deep, concentrated hard, and finally sank into the sensation. A tingle swept her skin as she asked the magic to come to her, to cooperate in the last place the book of spells belonged—the dungeon buried beneath a house owned by the former Door Master.

Her mother, if the legend was true.

Truly had claimed the title two weeks ago. A hasty decision. A mistake, for sure. Especially since she didn’t know what the hell she was doing…or how to meet the expectations of others when the magic she possessed refused to answer her call.

Gnawing on her thumbnail, she reread the page open in front of her. She saw the precise penmanship, registered the artistic swirls, each colorful stroke bringing depth and dimension to ancient words written in a foreign language. A secret one spoken by every Door Master in history, but…

Not by her.

Her legacy disappeared the day she was born. No one had survived to teach her how to be a Door Master.

Until a couple of weeks ago, she hadn’t known her family history, or the heritage left by those in her bloodline. Not surprising given her mother had been murdered by the Azlandian queen mere hours after Truly’s birth.

Pages flapping, she flipped back to the beginning. The Grimoire’s leather spine creaked. Thick paper rustled. Dust motes twinkled, dancing above the pages. With a wave, she brushed the sparks aside, then ran her fingers over the script like a blind person over braille. Heat flowed between the page and her hand. The text sang a silent song against her skin. Notes moved from the paper into her fingertips, helping her learn the proper pronunciation.

With a nod, she caught the beat and re-read the spell. First inside her head, then out-loud. Softly. So softly. Reverence in each murmured syllable. One attempt rolled into another until the words came more naturally. Tension and stress fell away. Her voice smoothed out, becoming a lyrical, blending melody with cadence.

As each verse drifted, her mind did the same, traveling elsewhere, peeling apart the layers of quiet inside the dungeon. A cursory examination that turned into devotion as she listened to the pages whisper and energy flow from where she sat to splash against chiseled stone walls. Complete stillness captured by absolute power. Alive. Quiet. Deep. A silence so pure she sensed power slither through its depths.

Magic sparked between the webs of her fingers.

The monster shifted inside his cage.

She smiled as her fingertips taught her the words. The language barrier fell away, bringing insight and understanding. She huffed. Monster . A bit of a misnomer. An exaggeration, perhaps, but not by much. Priestly might look like an angel with his chiseled features, glossy feathers and dark blond hair, but no one who valued their life would mistake him for tame.

Hence the magic-bound cell keeping him contained.

His enemies on her side of the Ecotone (the slice of space that acted as a barrier between Earth Realm and the Mirror Kingdom of Azlandia) called him a harbinger. A killer of human and Magickind alike. An apex predator, as beautiful and charismatic as he was deadly. The title he held in his world, though, opened understanding while speaking volumes. An Electi warrior who ruled the Royal House of Rakkamore, he was not only a powerful magic-wielder but also sat at the High Table at the Queen’s Court in Azlandia.

Rapacious appetites.

Razor-sharp intellect.

Violent tendencies.

To be discounted at one’s own peril, though…

Priestly wasn’t all he seemed. He was a wildcard. One with a chilly demeanor who did his duty to the High Table, pretending to dance to Queen Lyonesse’s tune while he went his own way. Oh, he gave excellent service, fanning the flames of the queen’s conceit, but it was a mirage. An illusion that fed a means to an end. Misdirection at its most skilled, which meant Truly couldn’t kill him. At least, not yet.

Taking him for granted would be a mistake. Priestly was a big fish. An influential one that now wriggled on the end of her hook. Westvane, her friend—a Slayer from Azlandia who frightened everyone (including Priestly)—wanted her to throw him back. Or rather, hand Priestly over to him to execute. Swift justice for crimes committed against the Azlandian people. No mercy, as was Westvane’s way.

Might be the best course of action, but…

She pursed her lips. Feeding Priestly to Westvane before she understood the Electi’s aim wasn’t smart. Or part of the plan. She wanted to understand why Priestly had followed her out of Azlandia, stalked her across the Ecotone and entered her world. A place he held no advantages. Particularly with Westvane at her back.

Priestly’s actions made no sense, which left her sitting on the fence. To kill him, or not to kill him? That was the question. One she’d been asking herself for three days. Since the moment Westvane beat the snot out of Priestly and locked him down inside her house.

Which put her here. Right now. In a stand-off with an Electi prince, who looked like he wanted to split her skull open.

Until tonight, he’d remained unmoving and silent, gaze rapt on her from his side of the bars. Watching. Waiting. Pitting his will against hers in the hopes of…her eyes narrowed…what exactly? Without moving, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Yes. Definitely. Waiting and watching. For one of two things—for her to break the silence and speak first. Or for her to allow Westvane into the dungeon.

Tempting. Oh, so tempting, but again…not yet.

As much as she wanted Westvane present for her conversation with Priestly, she couldn’t trust him not to kill him. He wasn’t called a Slayer for nothing. A warrior-mage of immense power and stamina, Westvane was unmatched by most. His only weakness—impatience. He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. And Priestly, for reasons unknown, had been on her friend’s hit list from the get-go.

Shared history, maybe.

Bad blood, for sure.

Which left her with few options and little time.

Westvane wouldn’t stay on the sidelines much longer. His respect for her kept him leashed. Eventually, though, he’d break into the dungeon and the situation would spin out of control. Like it always seemed to with Westvane in the mix.

Something she’d taken pains to block in order to achieve her own ends. At least, tonight. Who knew what would happen tomorrow, but as the last remaining Door Master, it was up to her to keep the peace. She stood in the breach between worlds, safeguarding her own, policing Westvane and Priestly’s so the magic in theirs didn’t spill in and damage those living in hers.

She wanted to give Priestly more time to become comfortable with her, but knew she couldn’t. Day Three was rounding into Day Four. Even from her position three stories underground, she sensed the quickening. The brutal intensity. The impatience too. Westvane was awake now. Violence, so much a part of him, electrified the air. She sensed the shift in attitude—the lazy animal turning to lethal predator. Restless. Hungry. Beginning to roam as he struggled to give her the time she needed to figure out Priestly’s game.

Soon, though, his nature would take over. His patience had already worn thin, so…she must make his enemy talk, and fast. Otherwise, she’d lose what she stood to gain when Westvane decided he’d had enough, succumbed to battle rage and pushed his way into the dungeon.

Truly suppressed another sigh. Dealing with a Slayer came with complications. Not the least of which included a serious amount of volatility.

Running the fingertip over the gold leaf on the corner of the page, she murmured the spell again. Blue light sparked in the center of her palm. Heat snaked up to swirl against her fingertips. The burn tantalized her. Delight did the rest, helping her relax as tiny blue flames rose at the ends of her fingers. She blew on the tips, then flexed her hand. Fire arched, swimming like tadpoles through the lowlight before diving with a slash back into the palm of her?—

“Fire magic,” a deep voice rumbled. “Impressive.”

Her gaze cut to Priestly. The corner of her mouth curved up. At last. Movement. Progress. Victory. “Would be better if it was less flashlight and more flamethrower.”

“Planning on roasting me?”

“Maybe, but…” she paused for effect, pleased her patience had born fruit, and he’d broken the stalemate. “Not yet.”

“Waiting on Westvane.”

“He’ll arrive soon enough. I’m more interested in you right now.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’ve got questions, Priestly.”

“I bet.”

“You game to answer any?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether I want you to have the answer.”

“Stubborn.”

“Westvane and I are alike in that way.”

“Terrific,” she grumbled, giving away her frustration.

Priestly smiled, treating her to another flash of sharp canines.

She raised a brow. “What’s your game?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Liar,” she said, watching him watch her. Gauge her reactions. Looking for weaknesses. “You’re all about games.”

“I like to win, little Truly.”

“I haven’t missed that, but…why are you here?” Tilting her head, she studied him. Looked at him straight on, in a way she’d avoided since putting him behind bars. At first, her aversion had been about being polite. Then about not giving him the satisfaction of direct contact. Being ignored bothered Priestly. Vanity was a bitch like that, and he possessed just enough of it to dislike being discounted. “Why did you follow me through the portal?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

She kept at him. “Not smart. Especially with Westvane at my back.”

“Traitor,” Priestly growled.

“No. He isn’t. He wants what’s best for the Azlandian people. And you know what else?”

He grunted.

“I think you agree with him. You want Lyonesse gone just as much as he does.” Magic quiet, but still ghosting through her, intuition sparked. And with it, she read him. So much churned beneath his surface—conflict and conviction, hope and despair. Lots of desperation too. “It’s harder for you, though, isn’t it? Deeply dangerous. Trickier. Despite his noble father, Westvane is abhorred by your kind. The Electi elite rejected him at birth. He started with nothing. You’re a prince with privilege, influence, and status. You have more to lose…everything, in fact.”

“I never rejected him,” Priestly murmured.

“You were friends once.”

“Yes. Long ago, which is why I know I can trust him.” Hazel-gold eyes fixed on her, he wrapped both hands around the bars and leaned in. “You, on the other hand…”

He left the accusation hang.

She allowed it too, welcoming the silence.

With a curse, he pushed away from the bars. Before he could turn away and start pacing again, Truly stopped him. “Priestly?”

Rolling his shoulders, he looked at her over the top of his wing. “I can’t talk to you.”

“Yes, you can,” she said. “To trust Westvane is to trust me.”

“How can that be?” Confusion in his eyes, Priestly shook his head. “Westvane hates everyone.”

“Not me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but he and I have become friends. We’re partners, committed to ending Lyonesse’s reign. The caste system is abusive. It hurts many, elevating some, subjugating others with violence and fear. A coalition is needed, agreement from all factions—Electi, Assenta, Cropper and The House of Scholars—to abolish it. Westvane and I are building one.”

“Freedom?”

“To choose…for all Azlandians.”

“You’re talking revolution. Equality under the law.”

“That’s the plan.”

He frowned. “Could take years.”

She raised a brow. “You going anywhere?”

Priestly drew a deep breath…and realization struck. He was nervous. Concealing something. Information so important he struggled to keep it hidden behind the weave of his magic.

“Shit,” she muttered. “You’ve already got skin in the game. What have you done, Priestly?”

He shook his head. “Nowhere near ready to share that with you.”

“Listen—”

“You want me on board?”

“Absolutely,” she said, refusing to hide that having Priestly on the inside, feeding them information about Lyonesse and the council, changed the plan in major ways. It gave the coalition a greater chance of success, and she and Westvane the upper hand in ways neither of them could anticipate…or discount.

“And if Westvane won’t allow it?” A frown creasing his brow, he flexed his hands. “Could go sideways in a hurry.”

“He may not,” she said, wielding honesty like a whip. Priestly needed to understand. She might not want him dead, but wouldn’t stand between him and Westvane. Good. Bad. Or indifferent. Given the history, Westvane owned the right to decide for himself. “I can’t guarantee anything, Priestly. I don’t control him. Our relationship doesn’t work that way, but?—”

“Bugger it.” With a flick of his wings, he resettled his tawny feathers. “Unseal the door to the dungeon, Truly.”

“Priestly—”

“Let him in, Door Master. You can’t fight this battle for me…or him,” he said, widening his stance, getting ready. “In a minute or two, I’ll either be dead or alive, and you’ll have your answer.”

Gaze drilling into his, Truly hesitated. Allowing Westvane free rein without first talking to him amounted to a bad idea. Then again, Priestly was right.

Trust came at a cost.

One Westvane must exact in order to see past his rage and give Priestly a chance. Ignoring the history, along with the pain, would never work. She owed Westvane the chance to right the wrong. To even the score, too. Now, all she needed to do was pray the Electi prince ended up bloody (maybe a little bent) instead of dead as she murmured a command, opening the door to let the Slayer in.