Fury of Affliction (Dragonfury 2.0)

Chapter 2

2

T he moments before Westvane woke were perilous. For him, sure. But mostly, for anyone unfortunate enough to share his space.

Being half-asleep set him on edge. The thin thread separating conscious thought from unconscious action felt endless, making the monster he kept caged inside him itchy. Impatient. Savage. Void of voice and conscience. Before he took control, violent urges seethed beneath his surface, in deep, uncharted places, tantalizing him with an intriguing array of possibilities.

Would he break bones upon waking?

Would he crack skulls and slice open skin?

Would he bathe in his enemy’s cries for mercy? Or hear him beg for forgiveness?

The questions plagued him in the dark. They always did. Tonight, though, was turning out to be more torturous than most. Vengeance fueled him. Rage lived in him. The need for justice drove him, slicing deep as the familiar cycle of inner turmoil continued.

Hanging upside down, ankles strapped to a bar bolted to the ceiling, he flexed his wings. Muscles along his spine rippled. His skin tingled as his senses woke. Black feathers rustled as imagination bloomed and he wondered what the night might bring. Restlessness closed around him like a fist. His volatile nature threatened, yearning, wanting, needing. The bloodshed. The righting of wrongs. The brutal punishment of those who’d committed crimes against him. Against his sire and mother.

He craved it all.

The smell of blood and taint of terror. The guttural grunts and high-pitched screams as bones snapped and guts spilled. Payback delivered by his hand.

Start strong. Finish strong.

Words to live by.

The last his mother spoke to him. Advice written in her blood. History salted with the tears she’d refused to shed while he looked on, a boy helpless in the face of her horror.

Body fully extended, spine arched and head thrown back, he stretched. He swayed like a pendulum in the gloom. The hinges gripping his ankles groaned. As sound echoed through the room, he opened his eyes. Moon-glow poured through window glass, reaching around drawn curtains, creating bright seams as the beast inside him growled. His temples throbbed with the contact. Pain flowed out to pierce his skin. He allowed it to fill him. To fuel him as he went over his plan.

One hundred and three steps to the landing.

Fifty-five stairs down.

A wide, central corridor to navigate to reach the cellar door.

After three days of trying to pry it open, he now knew the way through. Truly had tried to hide it from him, but he wasn’t easily fooled. He’d accessed the Door Master’s ancient Grimoire while she slept, lifting the incantation he needed to break through the spell binding the dungeon door. Underhanded maybe, but…no matter. Being a Slayer came with some perks, one being he didn’t own a conscience.

Guilt held no place in his world, though, he would prefer Truly be in on the game. Problem was, she didn’t agree with his plan. He kept trying to convince her. She held the line, telling him tearing Priestly’s head off would prove unproductive. Her words, not his under the circumstances. Especially since he smelled the Electi.

The bastard’s scent was everywhere. Seeping up from down below, infecting the air he breathed every day. Every night while he slept. So, no time like the present. With the Grimoire’s key in his hands, he possessed the power to crack the code and uncover the secret passageway that led into the bowels of the old Victorian Truly called home, then…

Payback would begin.

Excitement skittered through him. Gods. He could hardly wait to get his hands on Priestly. The longer he went without satisfaction, the more restless he became. It was an itch Truly refused to let him scratch. But enough was enough. He couldn’t go another night without bloodying his knuckles. With the pressure inside him growing, it was only a matter of time before he exploded—and hurt someone he didn’t want to. Pleasing Truly was a pleasant idea, but…

It wasn’t working.

Denying himself only made things worse. And the fact remained, he needed answers before he left Earth Realm, crossed the Ecotone , and went home. Back to where it all started, to the place Westvane knew it would end.

Ridiculous when he thought about it too long.

Azlandia had never been kind to him. Those who belonged to the Mirror Kingdom had been brutal, blaming him for the circumstances of his birth. Born of an Assenta warrior and an Electi royal prince, his conception went against social norms, but also broke the law. Azlandians had never gotten over it— shunning him for his mixed blood, fearing his volatility, terrified of his viciousness—the monstrous Slayer he’d grown to embrace.

Years of the Azlandian people’s cruelty had started him on the path.

Isolation had done the rest, cementing the road he walked every day.

Breathing deep, he exhaled slow, realigning the magic in his veins. Always close to the surface, the need to wreak destruction coursed through him. Westvane grabbed the caustic power by the tail, wrestling his tendencies back under control. Air displaced. The silent shockwave made his bedroom walls shudder. A breeze blew in to surround him and soothe the space. Fresh air rushed in next, ruffling gauzy curtains tied to the four posts rising from a bed he never slept in, causing his feathers to flutter.

He paused a moment to enjoy the soft brush of black plumes against his bare skin, then whispered his wishes. The padded clamps holding him suspended released. As the soft click sounded, he tucked his knees and, with a sharp exhale, revolved into a somersault. Magic slithered like a serpent, uncoiling with fangs bared as his bare feet touched down without making a sound. The thick area rug greeted him with a softness that still, after two weeks spent walking on it, surprised him.

He wasn’t accustomed to softness. Gentleness either, though Truly treated him to it often.

A strange turn of events.

Without meaning to, he’d found a place in a world that had never had much use for him. Or perhaps that wasn’t it. Maybe he’d softened enough to make one for himself by agreeing to become the newly minted Door Master’s partner in her quest to kill the queen.

An unlikely turn of events, but he was, as Truly would say, “All in. One hundred percent on board.”

Balanced in a low crouch with his wings curled around him, he scanned the empty room. Standing wide open, the heavy, wooden door lay flat against his bedroom wall. Just the way he always left it. He didn’t like being shut in. Had spent too much time that way, first as a child on Eckzibad island where his mother had been imprisoned, then as youngling in the Parkland, a magic-bound wildlife preserve designed to keep him in and others out.

Making sure he recalled the words, Westvane recited the incantation under his breath and pushed to his feet. His feet moved him toward the exit. His mind returned to his mother. To the dank conditions inside a prison built to contain the most violent offenders in Azlandia. Old memories pushed the spell out of his head, forcing him to remember that awful day and her last words. Even after years spent trying to forget, he heard each one. Loud. Clear. Insistent. Magic bubbled through his veins. Black flames rose on his skin to flicker down his spine, combing through his wings, heating the air around him as her voice gripped him—her harried message delivered in hushed tones.

A plea to his better angels.

A warning to his beast.

A call to action, providing a mission with only one of two ends…

Freedom for all Azlandians. Or death for him.

His parents had given their lives for the cause. His mother, however, had been made an example of, which made her advice even more important. Not only for the lesson, but for the way she delivered it—in the moments before her death. In the instant before the executioner’s axe fell. A life ended. A loving mother lost. Murdered by a faithless witch and her cult of obsessed followers.

The memory of that dark day haunted him. Images followed him around like goblins, voracious, forever unsatisfied, forcing him to relive her death before the sun rose each day. Before he opened his eyes and sleep released its grip. In the twisted depths of his dreams, he was always that boy. Back there on that day. Restrained by the order of the queen, suffering in silence as he watched his mother, head held high, walk up the steps.

With little conjuring, he smelled the crowd, heard the cheering roar of onlookers, saw her kneel and the wicked curve of the blade gleam in the sunlight as it fell.

He visited that day like others did a loved one’s tomb—with reverence. Tending to the memory, the abject horror, with care and pride. Refusing to wipe away the vileness before the activity of the day settled around him.

Just as he would tonight.

And tomorrow.

Along with every day after, until he drew his last breath.

So much intolerance. Too much mistreatment. All without reason. It could’ve been different. Not perfect, but better. For everyone in Azlandia, regardless of their standing in society—whether Cropper, Assenta or Electi. But then, the idea of branding “different” as “other” always bred an us versus them mentality.

Westvane should know.

He was as other as they came.

Born of the illegal union between Electi royalty and Assenta warrior, he’d been labeled an abomination at the moment of his conception. No one in the Mirror Kingdoms knew what to make of him. Some thought him a curiosity. The majority feared him, continuing to lobby for his execution.

The queen kept denying the petitions. Not out of the kindness of her heart. Oh, no, never that. Lyonesse enjoyed monsters. She relished the power. Liked the idea she could make the creatures others labeled aberrations of nature dance to her tune. Given that, his continued good health made sense.

Unable to resist temptation, she’d wanted to see what Westvane might become. Ignoring the will of the people, she’d kept him alive, force-feeding him denial along with a lifetime of servitude. Total isolation when he refused to play by her rules came next. For that alone, Lyonesse would die. The chance to help Truly build her coalition, and dismantle a system rooted in abuse, simply added the extra spice needed for him to delay gratification a while longer.

Priestly, however, was another matter.

Whatever good Truly believed the warrior possessed, she’d been misled.

The Electi prince represented everything wrong with Azlandian society. Intolerant. Elitist. Discriminatory. Stuck in the past and the status quo, defending a power structure that benefited few and hurt many.

Truly was right. Time to force a change. A major one that would see the powermongers dethroned and a more democratic system of government implemented.

Folding his wings, Westvane stuffed the flames and dipped his head beneath the lintel. As he stepped into the hall, darkness thickened. His night vision sparked. The wood-paneled walls and hand carved banister came into sharp focus.

Curtains drawn tight across a bank of windows standing tall in front of a sitting area caught his attention. A favorite spot of Truly’s. She often sat cross-legged on the couch, across from a pair of wide-back armchairs, looking out over overgrown gardens, Grimoire in her lap, trying to access her magic. Sometimes he sat with her. Most of the time, he left her alone, bothered by her struggle, and the fact he couldn’t help her.

Not again.

Not anymore.

She’d moved past his scope of knowledge about Door Masters. Not surprising given the limited education given to him by his mother before her death. He knew about magic from her, but having been born of an Assenta female, never expected to command any of his own. His sire’s bloodline proved dominant, however—melding his genes, breaking through, forcing him to hide the abilities handed down by his paternal line.

A wise decision in the end.

If Azlandians understood the extent of his power—that he possessed the predatory skills of an Assenta hunter combined with Electi magic—the lobbying for his execution would stop and the hunting would begin.

Bounties would be posted.

Warriors on both sides of the Ecotone would want his head.

A problem for him, sure. More of one for Truly given her mission. Add in the fact, his magic was in its infancy, too, and they made quite a pair. A strange one, though, she was learning fast. His understanding was coming slower. In stops and starts. One day, he’d understand the full extent of his power and how to control it. Until then, he and Truly muddled along, walking diverging tracks while breaking through barriers, discovering different yet complementary skillsets.

Bare feet brushing over hardwood floors, he strode past the couch toward the top of stairs. Flanked by thick posts topped by lion heads, the staircase fed into the main corridor down below. A hop-skip-and-jump away from the entrance into the dungeon. Once there, he’d do what Truly didn’t want him to and?—

“Westvane.”

The voice sounded inside his head.

Surprise jolted through him. Westvane stopped short. Floorboards creaked beneath his bulk. The air in the house cooled. He glanced over his shoulder. Had he really heard that? Had he?—

The whisper came again. “Westvane—this way.”

With a quick pivot, he turned away from the stairs and moved back toward his room. As he crossed the threshold, blue sparkles bobbed like fireflies. The gauzy curtains tied to his bed blew outwards. He drifted toward it, waiting, wondering, getting closer to it than he had since making himself at home in Truly’s house. Useless thing, his bed. A total waste of furniture. He never slept in it—and probably never would.

He didn’t have a woman. Didn’t want one either.

His nature didn’t allow for closeness. He was a monster disguised as a warrior. A Slayer who, according to the queen, couldn’t be trusted to treat a female well, never mind be invited into one’s bed.

A bitter pill to swallow.

He swallowed it anyway, battling shame, and the knowledge he’d never know true intimacy. Never know the love of another, or forge a lasting connection in the way his sire and mother had in the end.

It shouldn’t matter.

He shouldn’t care what Azlandians—or anyone else—thought of him. Needing another was dangerous. He was better off alone, and yet, even as he tried to convince himself, Westvane didn’t believe it. He cared more than he should.

The shift in perception and behavior was Truly’s fault. Everything changed the instant he met her. Now he didn’t know how to proceed. A big problem given uncertainty didn’t suit him. Neither did ceding to another’s wishes, but like it or not, the Door Master’s opinion of him mattered. How she saw him mattered. What she believed about him mattered. Which continued to be…

Inconvenient.

Idiotic.

So baffling he wanted to punch something.

Priestly was his first choice. And also happened to be within reach, so…later. He’d untangle the mystery of needing to impress Truly later. When he had a spare moment, and perhaps, the inclination to deal with stupidity.

But never mind that now.

Tonight was for action, not melancholy.

The whisper came again, guiding him.

“Eyes open, Eastbrook,” he murmured to his raven.

A constant companion, Eastbrook slept against his skin at night, shifting from real bird to detailed tattoo. A sting bit as his friend woke, slithering over his shoulder to settle his feathered head against the side of his throat. The raven blinked and stretched. One of his wings moved from ink to real feathers, then folded into the tattoo once again to lay flat against his skin.

Relishing the needling sting of inky plumes, Westvane changed course, walking away from the bed, toward a long length of wall. No furniture against it. No picture frames, either. Nothing but floor-to-ceiling paneling painted black. Blue shimmer drifted around, then past him. He waited, watching the light-filled blobs organize into a shape and bump into the wall. A shimmering doorway formed. A second later, it tunneled inward, moving from sparkling gateway to solid portal.

His mouth curved.

Bless Truly. She was inviting him in. Finally allowing him access to the thing he needed most in the world—the chance to get his hands on Priestly.

“Behave,” the invisible force said, morphing from indistinct whisper into the Door Master’s voice.

“No promises.” Wings tucked in tight, he dipped his head beneath the archway and crossed the threshold.

“Westvane…”

He grunted, acknowledging the warning.

“Give him a chance,” she said, an entreaty in her tone.

He ignored it, and searching the darkness below, started down the steps. Into the bowels of the house. Following the magical path Truly provided toward the Electi sycophant. Toward a male he’d once called friend, but now couldn’t wait to crush.