Crowned by Fire Read online

  CROWNED BY FIRE

  by

  NENIA CAMPBELL

  Nenia Campbell

  Copyright © 2014 Nenia Campbell

  All rights reserved.

  The Shadow Thane series

  Black Beast

  Touched with Sight

  Crowned by Fire

  The IMA series

  Cloak and Dagger

  Armed and Dangerous

  Locked and Loaded

  The Horrorscape series

  Fearscape

  Horrorscape

  Terrorscape

  The Blood Bonds series

  Bleeds My Desire

  The Bound series

  Bound to Accept

  Also by Nenia Campbell:

  Tantalized

  Endgame

  Wishing Stars: Space Opera Faerie Tales

  Nonfiction

  How to Write Good: A Guide for the Aspiring Independent Author

  Dedicated to:

  My aficionenias

  Chapter One

  Catherine Pierce had always known that she was going to have to leave her family eventually. It was an inevitability of life, outgrowing one's parents and moving out into the world alone. She had just never imagined that it would happen so soon, or so tragically.

  But now she was on the run at seventeen, forced to drop everything she held dear because the Slayers had discovered her family—and her secret. She was not an ordinary shape-shifter. She could do things ordinary shape-shifters weren't supposed to do.

  Her kind was supposed to settle into one animal at puberty, but she never had. And her body, she had been told, reacted to black magic like a witch's. She didn't understand why, didn't even want to think about what it meant—that her family tree had been muddled by some deviant witch like Phineas Riordan—but she had an idea of what the Slayers would do to her to find out the answers they sought. Images of sharp metal tools flashed into her mind's eye with a vengeance and she flinched.

  She briefly took her eyes off the road to hazard a glance at the witch beside her. Phineas was a ruthless inquisitor and hunter of her kind. He hated shape-shifters with a singular passion, although she was learning that this loathing stemmed from his own personal inadequacies, and a taboo desire to fuck anything that could grow a tail.

  It was he who had first called her a “black beast,” the pejorative term for the offspring of a witch and a shape-shifter. They were not supposed to exist. Fraternization between the two races was forbidden by the Council.

  Usually, the disgust witches and shifters felt for one another was such a successful deterrent that it all but rendered the Rule redundant.

  Usually, but not always.

  Someone in her family had borne a witch's illicit progeny, and now Catherine was forced to serve out the consequences of their mistake. Her jaw tightened.

  Phineas seemed immune to it, as well.

  “Where are we going?” She didn't bother to keep the resentment out of her voice as she barked her question at the witch. Why should she? This was all his fault.

  “Just drive,” said the witch. “I'll tell you when to stop.”

  She didn't like that answer. He was trying to assert his dominance over her again. “How many miles?”

  He waved his hand dismissively and leaned back to take a nap. How he could sleep at a time like this was beyond her. The car was getting stuffy and smelled quite strongly of cat. The witch's familiar was a small calico kitten named Graymalkin. She was in the back, asleep, as well.

  Once, she'd kept that kitten as if it had been her very own pet, not knowing that the witch had sent his familiar out to spy on her. Now she hated them both equally. Almost. She would always have a special place of loathing in her heart for the witch who had wrecked her life.

  Catherine cranked down the window. Chilly air gusted through the car, earning her a dirty look from the witch. She pretended ignorance. The breeze was wonderful if she breathed through her mouth, and paid no attention to the reek of petrol from the road.

  “Rather cold, isn't it?”

  “Like a witch's tit?” she suggested nastily.

  “I don't know about mine,” he said, letting his eyes drop to her chest, “but yours look as if they could cut glass.”

  Catherine had nothing to say to that, but after a few miles she rolled up the window; she felt she had made her point.

  Driving was a very human activity, and once she got over the initial wave of paranoia, convinced that every flash of chrome in the rear view mirror was a sign they were being followed, the repetitive motions helped to soothe her frayed nerves.

  They passed a burger place, and the scent of cooking meat made her stomach growl. Catherine wondered how long she had been driving. It hadn't occurred to her to look at the clock—which, she remembered suddenly, was broken, anyway.

  Probably an hour at least, she thought, although one hour spent in the witch's company could just as easily seem like five.

  There wasn't much to see, except for some dingy rest stops and broken neon sign made hazy by vapor. The fields were silent, chillingly so, with rows of twisted fruit trees reaching for the stars like tortured supplicants. She saw no signs of life. Most animals had by now learned to steer clear of the road. It left Catherine feeling oddly lonely.

  She let her sense of smell take over. From the dewy scent of the grassy fields, it was well past midnight and there were probably mere hours until daybreak. That was good, it meant that they had bought some extra time and put space between themselves and the Slayers pursuing them—and they were less likely to make a scene in the light.

  Had her family been as lucky? Or had they been captured?

  She swallowed hard, and her stomach let out a rumble as ominous as thunder, followed by a chaser of dizziness so intense she almost hit the brakes.

  “We need to stop,” she said, when it had passed. “I have to eat.”

  “You can wait.”

  “No, I can't.” Shape-shifters had fast metabolisms. Their superior strength and speed, honed senses, and shape-changing abilities burned through incredible amounts of raw energy. She was hungry all the time, especially for meat. “We're stopping now.”

  Catherine pulled into one of the lots, braking so abruptly that they lurched forward, saved from hitting the windshield only by the safety harnesses strapped over their chests. That was a shame. Having his brains dashed out all over her car window would be a definite improvement.

  While the witch was swearing, Catherine yanked down the parking brake and stormed out of the car. She nearly slammed the door, too, for good measure, but caught herself just in time. This was the only vehicle she had at her disposal and she wasn't going to take out her anger towards the witch on her car, much as she'd like to.

  Bastard, she thought, punching the automatic “lock” button on her key.

  Graymalkin spilled out of the car, rubbing herself against the still-warm tire. She seemed happy to be outside. Or maybe, given the sheer abruptness of the last stop, she was just pleased that they were all still alive.

  But looking at Graymalkin made her even more upset, because it reminded her of all the lengths the witch had gone to betray her so far, and how little she could trust him.

  She glanced around, looking for him, and saw that the witch had recovered his wits and was grimly setting out after her in a way that was alarmingly predatory. “Stay near the car,” he snapped at his familiar, who blinked at him.

  “Really, Phineas—”

  The witch cut her off, looking at Catherine with his piercing eyes. “As for you, give me your keys. I'm driving on the way back.”

  “No.” Catherine turned around. “You're a shit driver. You'll wreck my car.”

  “You could do with some
rest,” Graymalkin said haltingly.

  “No,” Catherine repeated. “It's my fucking car and I say who drives. Stay out of this.”

  She looked up at the neon lights of the convenience store nearby. It was called Quick Mart. The 'k' in Quick had fizzled out on the sign, which was plain hardwood behind the glowing pink tubes. Through the sliding glass doors she could make out cardboard displays and the shadowy form of the cashier. Not very welcoming.

  Maybe I should have waited for a McDonald's.

  Her stomach cramped again, removing all doubt.

  The witch headed towards the store and Catherine double checked that her parents' car was locked. Or her car, she supposed, since her parents weren't going to be around to reclaim it. A couple weeks ago, Catherine would have been thrilled to have her very own car, tired of the fights and constant arguing with her parents for a chance to borrow the gently-used Honda. Would she have wished for her own car quite so hard if she had known that this was the price she would have to pay to attain it?

  The witch was already inside the Quick Mart, leaving her lost in her own thoughts in the middle of the empty parking lot. Catherine raced to catch up and the automatic doors parted as her feet hit the black rubber mat, hitting her with a blast of stale air.

  Catherine immediately took stock of her surroundings. The register was on her right. There was only one, and the man behind it was wearing a stained wifebeater with several tattoos that seemed to denote gang membership of some kind. What kind, she wasn't sure. She didn't look at him too closely and took care to avoid his eyes, knowing any interest she paid would only make her memorable.

  She couldn't see the witch from her current position, which annoyed her. She didn't like not knowing where he was. Phineas was not someone she felt comfortable having at her back. Avoiding the shark-like gaze of the cashier, she wandered the aisles, keeping an eye out for the witch as she examined the food on the shelves.

  The cans were coated in a fine layer of dust with brands on the labels that she'd never heard of, and as she continued browsing, she became excruciatingly aware of the fact that she and the witch were the only customers in the store. The black, unseeing eye of a security camera leered down at her from the ceiling.

  Catherine bit her lip and turned partially away, grabbing a red plastic shopping basket from a stack beside the door. She began filling it with the poor man's dietary staples—Slim Jims, packets of shrimp and chicken ramen with best-before dates that had expired two months ago, cans of spam, a box of cereal bars promising a three-hour energy boost.

  “There you are.”

  A hand clamped down on her shoulder, and if she hadn't already registered the witch's presence crackling behind her, she would have screamed. She almost did anyway.

  “We need to leave,” he said. “Now.”

  “After I pay.” She spoke curtly, to hide the shakiness in her voice. “It'll look weird if I put all this stuff back.”

  The witch nodded tightly. “Act normally, then. But don't make eye contact and don't let him get a clear glimpse of your face. Pay in exact change if you can.”

  Something was wrong, then. She felt a surge of grim satisfaction that her instinct to avoid the man's gaze had paid off. Chalk one up to evolution. In the wild, animals generally didn't make eye contact unless they intended to fight. She looked away from the witch's intense gaze, feeling newly shaken. Or fuck.

  Her heart hammered in her chest as the cashier silently rang up her purchases. The distance from the register to the automatic doors seemed terribly long. The beast inside her was set on edge by the feeling of exposure.

  The witch, too, seemed far cooler than usual. She could almost imagine frost forming on his skin, his expression was so cold. He stood a little off to the side, glancing at the doors, affecting impatience. Hiding his face.

  The total was nineteen-something. Catherine tossed a twenty at him, and shakily told him to keep the change, to which he said nothing. Didn't even crack a smile.

  They made it to the parking lot without confrontation. Probably, the cashier thought they were just two lost and frightened college students, terrified of being mugged. Hopefully. She thought she'd seen him pick up the phone as they left. He could have been calling in the big guns.

  The witch yanked the keys from her hands, and she growled a warning at him. “Don't start,” he said, pressing the “unlock” button. “Just get in the car.”

  Catherine slammed the passenger's door closed. She supposed it didn't make much difference who got to drive as long as the end result was hightailing it out of this place. She ripped the lid of a tin of spam with a loud crack.

  “Slayer?”

  “Probably not,” said the witch. “A sympathizer, maybe. There was a lot of graffiti in the bathroom stall, and none of it was pro-Other.”

  She was startled. “When did you go to the bathroom?”

  “You mean you couldn't track when I was gone?” he mocked.

  She closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep breath. The scent of the pickled ham was comforting. I won't rise to the bait.

  “But he was human, right?” She sipped the salty, oily liquid from the tin. “Right?”

  The witch glanced at her with disgust. “We're in Los Rios. There's a lot of Slayer activity in Los Rios. The pseudo-religious aspects of Slayer covens fit in neatly with their predominantly christian beliefs. And times are tough. They need a scapegoat. That's disgusting, by the way.”

  She made sure to slurp extra loudly. “So why are we here then?” Now that the danger had passed, her fear had ceded to anger. “If the Slayers are hunting for us, this seems like the last place we should be.”

  “You made the decision to stop, if you recall.”

  “That doesn't explain why we were on the road in the first place.”

  “We're going to see my half-sister. This happens to be the the quickest route.”

  Half-sister? She had never thought of the witch as having a family. A female version of the witch popped into her head, dressed in the preppy, expensive attire that she had seen Karen in so many times. Great. “Another witch?”

  “She is a seer,” he said. “We only share half our blood.”

  The tightness in his voice made her wonder. “Which half?”

  His hands tightened on the wheel. “She's a bastard of my mother's. She takes after her side of the family, which makes her tolerable—and she happens to owe me a favor.” He glanced her way. “I intend to take her up on it.”

  “Is she expecting us?”

  The witch shrugged. “She is a seer.”

  So basically, what he was saying was that he had looked down upon this half-sister of his forever because she shared only half of his noble blood. Now he was about to impose upon her because of some long-ago favor he had probably done by complete accident anyway. And to top all this off, she didn't even know they were coming.

  Catherine growled. “You're a huge dick, you know that?”

  “You're too kind,” said the witch. “I didn't think you'd noticed.”

  “You are the most frustrating person I've ever met.” Catherine put the empty tin of Spam in the plastic grocery bag. “I have half a mind to rip your face off.”

  “We both know you won't.”

  “If you hadn't cursed me, you'd be dead.”

  The witch laughed. “And if you were not so useful, my treasonous little shape-shifter, you would spend the rest of your life cuffed and collared in silver, with all your beasts locked away.” His smile disappeared. “I'd make you wish you were dead.”

  “Such an esteemed member of the Council,” she said, “hiding behind your threats. Without your magic, you'd be nothing but a glorified human.”

  She was pleased to see his lips tighten.

  “A weak, sniveling human,” she continued, ruthlessly. “Pathetic and inferior in all ways. I'd bet microns wouldn't be small enough to measure your limp little dick.”

  “Open your mouth,” he said. “I'll stop the car. Le
t's find out.”

  “Fuck you.” She slashed him with her fingers. She had just enough time to see the blood trail down his alabaster cheek before the blood curse took hold and she collapsed back against the window as pain exploded behind her eyes, rippling down her face as if it was melting off like hot wax.

  The fucking curse. She had lost a duel with him, and this was the price she'd been forced to pay. It was a bond of indenture, one that could not be broken except by death. Any physical harm he sustained at her hand was returned to her twofold.

  “You little beast,” she heard him saying over her moans. “You bitch. You—”

  “Phineas!” Graymalkin howled, “Car!”

  The witch floored the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt. The tires of the Honda spun out, so they were stopped perpendicular to the double yellow lines of the otherwise deserted freeway, leaving them in the perfect position to be T-boned by incoming traffic. Catherine rubbed at her throbbing forehead, still cursing.

  In front of them was two-toned Studebaker, burnt sienna on the bottom, and a weather-worn salmon on top. The backing lights came on, glowing like eyes, as it slowly approached Catherine's car. The bumper sticker read simply, “Psalm: 12:16.”

  “Psalm twelve-sixteen?” Catherine read aloud, glancing at the witch. Her eyes were blurry from pain. She suspected it was from the bible, but was drawing a mental blank.

  The witch didn't take his eyes from the Studebaker as he recited, “'The words of the Lord are pure words: as silver tried in a furnace of earth, purified seven times.'”

  Mr. Bordello had spoken those very words earlier that evening right before he attempted to sacrifice a young witch on an altar of bogwood with an iron dagger. Shit.

  The doors of the car opened. A man and a woman got out of the vehicle. The woman was blonde, hair pushed back bandana. She was wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket, and cowboy boots with a thick rubber heel.

  The man looked Latino. He was dressed almost identically to his female companion, except the boots were more masculine, less expensive-looking, and he had a shotgun strapped across his back.