Bloodsworn: Bound By Magic

CHAPTER ONE
Earth, Northern California, Six Months Earlier

Panic sped through Avera St. John’s veins like a drug, making her heart race and her whole body tremble. She lay on her side, lungs burning for oxygen despite the air she sucked in through her nose and around the gag in her mouth. Her arms strained against the cord binding her wrists behind her back, muscles tense with the urge to fight, to break free.

Stay calm. Don’t let panic overrun your common sense. Panic will only get you killed.

The memory of her father’s commanding voice washed through her, dulling the sharp edge of fear enough to let her catch her breath. He was so right. From the moment she’d felt the knife at her throat she’d let panic make her a victim. She hadn’t used any of the moves her father had taught her. Hours of self-defense lessons gone to waste.

Stop whining and use your head, Avera. From the moment a Marine is captured he’s planning his escape. Don’t just lay there, think about what you can do to put the bastard down.

I’m not a Marine, she screamed in her head. I’m not one of your recruits. How am I supposed to do anything when I’m trussed up like somebody’s Sunday dinner?

Heavy footsteps drew near.

Avera bit back a groan as a hand grabbed her and rolled her roughly onto her back. With the blindfold on, she couldn’t see, but she could feel. Pain shot down her arms, from her shoulders all the way to her cramped hands pinned beneath her. The sour smell of old sweat filled her next breath. She didn’t think she’d ever forget that odor as long as she lived. Which might not be very long if she didn’t use her brain and think of something.

The man who’d attacked her as she was unlocking her apartment door came closer. She could feel him kneeling over her, a knee pressed to each side of her legs. He leaned forward and laid a hand on her chest, his breathing hard and fast.

She wanted so badly to struggle, to throw him off. Instead, she waited, trying not to feel the press of fingers against her neck or their slow drag down the middle of her chest. Bile rose in her throat. His roving hand moved back up her body and he leaned forward and squeezed her breast.

Something inside her snapped. Her knees shot up, one slightly higher than the other, and rammed into his crotch. She jerked her head and shoulders to the side as he fell forward, a stream of strangled words pouring from his lips. She wiggled hard, trying to get out from under him, straining against the cords wrapped around her wrists and ankles. The cords suddenly gave. She kicked her feet free and shook her wrists loose as she rolled to the side. She ripped off the blindfold and scrambled to her feet. Needles of pain almost took her down again as blood rushed back into her limbs. She staggered and caught herself. The man rushed her, a knife in his hand. She ducked and threw her arms up shielding her face and chest from the quick jabs and slashes. The knife fell again and again. Oh God, he was going to kill her. Cut her up into little bite sized pieces if she didn’t do something fast.

Don’t just stand there, run! Get to the gun in your nightstand!

Her father’s voice echoed in her head as the knife rose again. She dove under the man’s raised arm, twisting to avoid crashing into her coffee table. Fingers tangled in her hair just as a blast of cold, wintry air brushed across her back, making her shiver. Her attacker cursed. The fingers snapped open and she jerked away. Sprinting down the short hall, she wheeled into her bedroom and slammed the door shut.

No lock, but she’d take the few precious moments the closed door offered. She rolled across the bed, hit the wall, and scrambled on hands and knees to the nightstand. She jerked the drawer open and reached inside. The bedroom door flung open, banging against the wall. Snatching the small revolver out, she turned and fired.

His body jerked, but he didn’t stop coming for her. She squeezed the trigger again. The big man grunted and staggered back. He made a futile grab for the bedpost as he fell, grunting harder when he hit the floor. The knife—that oh, so sharp knife—flew out of his hand and skidded across the hardwood floor.

For a moment, all she could hear in the sudden quiet were her own ragged breaths. Desperate pants of fear and anger coming too quick and shallow. She gulped and tried to slow her breathing to keep from hyperventilating. She couldn’t pass out now.

Avera pushed up, back pressed against the wall. Her hands shook as she held the revolver, waiting for him to move, to come at her again. He just lay still, taking one shallow breath after another. Slowly, she slid along the wall to the window. She reached out a shaking hand and opened the blinds. Moonlight flowed in, bathing the patch of floor where the man lay. Her breath caught.

Something white glistened in his eyebrows, lashes, and scraggly mustache, fading slowly as she stared. She bent and pressed the barrel of the gun to his head before touching one cautious finger to the white stuff. Cold nipped her skin, melting away as quickly as the strange substance when she rubbed it between her fingers. Her gaze shot back to the man’s face in disbelief.

Ice. His face was covered in ice. Or more precisely, frost. How was that possible? Where had a blast of air come from in her apartment cold enough to frost a person’s face?

She remembered the brush of cold air against her back. Replaying the moment, she realized the cold, wintery air had smelled strongly of snow and fir trees. Her apartment was in the middle of a city and this was the middle of March. No snow or fir trees for miles.

She sniffed. A hint of evergreen still lingered in the air.

Her heart started pounding again. She stood, but had to quickly move to the bed to sit down. Her knees trembled. The rest of her body just felt numb. It didn’t take a medical degree to know she was going into shock.

Get help now, worry about freaky frost later.

She flicked the bedside lamp on, reached for the phone, and froze.

“My God,” she whispered, gazing in horror at her arm. Both arms, she realized, holding the other out in a macabre comparison.

Blood covered her from elbows to hands like a pair of long, fingerless gloves. She couldn’t tell how many times she’d been cut, or where. As she stared, fat red drops fell to the floor, slowly at first, but getting faster. Dime-sized splatters on the light-colored wood quickly grew to quarter-sized puddles. The sight made her stomach heave.

As if waiting for that moment of awareness, the pain hit. Not just the sharp stings from the wounds on her arms, but the throb on the side of her face where he’d hit her and the burn on her scalp where he’d torn her hair out by the roots during their struggle. She shuddered, feeling the pressure of tears behind her eyes. He’d been so strong. If she hadn’t been able to get to her gun…

Avera glanced again at the man on the floor. He still breathed, but hadn’t moved. She kept the weapon pointed in his direction as she reached again for the phone. She punched in nine-one-one and waited for the emergency operator.

A year ago, she would have called her father first.

“911 operator, what is your emergency?”

“I…I just shot someone.” Self-pity and hysteria hovered, just waiting for her to let her guard down. If, or rather when, it got loose, she was going to be a mess.

“Are you all right?” The operator’s voice sounded more focused.

A wave of vertigo made the room spin. “Yes. No.” She took a deep breath and tried very hard not to go to pieces. “My arms are cut. I’m bleeding.” Later, she promised herself…she’d go to pieces later. Right now, she had to get help.

“I have your address, ma’am. I’m sending an ambulance. The police are on their way. I want you to stay on the phone with me until they get there, okay? What’s your name? Is there someone I can call for you?”

“Avera St. John, and no, there’s no one to call.” No family, no close friends, no one who might care whether she lived or died tonight.

The bleak epiphany shook her, made her realize that after losing her father she’d literally cut herself off from the world and buried herself in her work.

Her dad would be so disappointed.

CHAPTER TWO
The Planet Avalyr, Realm Illian, Castle of the Tragar, The Present

“Are you ready to die?”

The unexpected question, uttered in a deep, gravelly voice, sent a shot of adrenalin surging through Devlin Tragar. His mind snapped a shield of magic around him before he could even jerk his head up to identify his attacker. A reaction the question’s speaker had probably hoped for, he realized, instantly recognizing the grinning warrior pointing a naked sword in his direction. The urge to wipe that amused expression off his friend’s face was tempting. Devlin settled for glaring instead.

“You’re early, Karess. I’m not scheduled to do any dying for at least another hour.”

Karess Si-Faderan relaxed his threatening pose and shrugged, lips stretching into a wide grin. “You know how grumpy your First Blade gets without his favorite victim. Fate is cutting through the ranks of your guard like a scythe. The ones he hasn’t challenged yet paid me to come fetch you so he’ll leave them alone. Mind you, if you’re worried about facing him, I’m willing to risk his wrath and let you try to kill me instead.” He executed a short series of training moves before freezing in another menacing pose, sword high over one shoulder. The pose might have worked if not for the laughter twinkling in his gray eyes. Karess was hardly ever serious.

Humor replaced irritation. Devlin leaned back in his chair and raised a disbelieving brow. “I didn’t realize you were in such a hurry to die.”

Karess brought the sword down, twirling it with a flourish. “I did say try to kill me. I doubt I’ll be in much danger considering your lack of practice lately. You’re probably so rusty you’ll squeak when you move.” He crossed the room, his sword slicing the air in restless arcs. It was apparent he’d already been sparring for several hours. His training leathers were stained dark with sweat and smudged here and there with the pale sand of the practice yard. More sweat darkened his blond hair and gleamed on his skin. A fresh bruise bloomed purple on his left forearm.

Envy flashed through Devlin. He’d spent his morning in meetings with his advisors and going over message scrolls needing his attention. As head of Clan Tragar and ruler of Realm Illian, his duties kept him busy to the point he was lucky to pick up a sword once a week. He wasn’t about to give in to Karess’ goading, however. “You are the one getting rusty, old friend, else you also think me out of practice at handling your insults. Which, I assure you, is not the case.”

The constant flick of the sword paused. “So, is that your way of saying you'll be ignoring your faithful Blades yet again just to sit here the rest of the day reading boring message scrolls?” Karess snagged one of the scrolls out of the stack on the desk with the point of his sword and flipped it end over end into the air. With a deft stab he caught the spinning scroll again, this time flicking it at Devlin. “Or are you going to come out and play?” he challenged, his expression unrepentant.

Devlin caught the small scroll against his chest and returned it to the pile on his desk. Boring or not, the messages needed to be read. And there was the treaty with Realm Mystia he had to go over before their delegation arrived tomorrow. And—

“Come, Devlin, be reasonable,” Karess said, his voice full of impatience. “Would you really rather I sic Fate on you?”

Devlin raised his brows at the dire threat. Fate An-Derrith, First Blade and Captain of Devlin’s personal guard, was far less easy going than Karess. The tall, dark-skinned Feyune male had a way of pressuring Devlin into doing things if he thought it was for his own good. “You would do such a thing to me? Your own Bloodsworn? Where is your loyalty, my Blade?”

Karess slapped a hand over his heart. “There is no question of my loyalty if you could but see it so, my Bloodsworn. As your Second Blade, I hold your safety and well-being dearer than my own.” He slipped into a fresh grin. “That’s why I am here first instead of old stone face. If you don’t decide to come with me peacefully, it will be his turn to convince you. And since we both know you’ve been neglecting your sword work, Fate is likely to drag you bodily through the palace halls to the practice yard whether you want to go or not. Not very dignified behavior for a Clan leader much less a Realm’s ruler. Imagine the gossip. Your image as an immovable force when it comes to negotiating would be ruined.”

“And let’s not forget my image as First Bloodsworn of Avalyr,” Devlin added with a feigned grimace. “If I cannot control my own Blades, how can I be expected to control the outcome of the prophecies? Luma would have me replaced before the sun set.”

His Second Blade sighed dramatically. “No Bloodsworn office, no Realm, and the Clan would banish you out of embarrassment. We will all be forced to take to the road to earn our living. Damn, Devlin, I’m too old to be a homeless waif.”

An image of Karess squeezed into childish clothes flashed into Devlin’s mind. He chuckled at the mental picture, feeling the tight muscles in his neck and shoulders relax noticeably. He’d needed this interruption.

“And this is your solution? To abduct me at sword-point from my own study?”

Karess’ face lit with mischievous glee. “Yes. Great idea isn’t it. You can tell anyone who asks, you were taken against your will.” He waved the sword in front of Devlin’s face for emphasis.

Devlin stared at the dulled practice blade and rubbed his chin. The prospect was tempting. But while he could put off his other duties, there was still the matter of the message he’d been stewing over when Karess had come in.

“My mother has returned early from the Oracle,” he stated baldly. He nudged the message scroll delivered to him a short while ago. “She brought the translation for the Seventh Prophecy.”

Karess’ grin faded. His whole body tensed, as if he’d spied an enemy. Devlin appreciated the reaction even knowing there was nothing Karess could do to help him with this battle. Not when the enemy was words on a piece of paper.

“She still thinks this Prophecy will name your bride, doesn’t she,” Karess said, his words more a statement than question. He continued, his tone cautious. “Would that be such a bad thing, Dev? I mean, you must marry and produce an heir soon anyway. Churian is good in a fight but you and I both know your brother doesn’t want to rule.”

Devlin’s teeth ground together but he managed to keep his mouth shut. Anger burning inside him, he launched himself to his feet and began pacing. “Damn Churian. If he’d just stayed home I could have....” He didn’t bother finishing the sentence. What was the use? Even if Churian accepted Devlin naming him as heir it would make no difference, not if the Seventh Prophecy demanded he wed some strange female. He would simply have to accept not only the responsibility but the consequences. Considering the last two prophecy marriages, those were consequences he would rather avoid.

“Maybe she’s wrong,” Karess offered. “This prophecy might be about our treaty with Mystia or Realm Suterra’s disputed succession. Or it could be about something we aren’t even aware of. Maybe you’re worrying for nothing.”

“Perhaps.” His pacing took him to one of the tall windows overlooking the practice yard. A break must have been called as the men were gathered in the corner near the well. He easily picked out his First Blade from the crowd. Fate stood to one side, talking to a young warrior who looked more boy than man. “How is Kedrick doing?”

The seventeen-year-old male had arrived at the palace gates two days ago, half dead and half way to mad. Like Karess and the rest of Devlin’s Blades, Kedrick Gu-Carine had contracted the blade-illness, a devastating sickness that stripped its victims of the ability to absorb the essence of Avalyr’s magic on their own. Without the help of a Bloodsworn—someone like Devlin who could take the magic essence and mentally feed it to others—Kedrick would have died.

“Why ask me? Why not query Kedrick yourself through your blood-link? You did say his mental path was a strong one.”

Have you forgotten how uncomfortable it made you to have me in your head those first few days? Devlin sent the question straight to Karess’ mind through the mental link they shared before switching back to verbal speech. “New Blades have a lot of changes to deal with. I’ve learned it’s best not to overwhelm them.”

Karess made a dismissing noise. “You give him too little credit. The boy is fine. He asked if you would be at today’s practice. I think he wants to thank his all-powerful Bloodsworn again.”

Devlin turned from the window, groaning and running a hand over his face. The only part of being a Bloodsworn that made him uncomfortable was the period of intense gratitude most new Blades went through. Sometimes the feelings even bordered on the worshipful. He had never been able to understand why. True, he saved their lives by linking with them, but he did so because fate had granted him that ability. As Bloodsworn, it was his duty to help any plague-stricken man who crawled to his door. The roles could easily have been reversed.

“Very well. Give me half an hour to clear my schedule and I’ll join you. Tell Kedrick I look forward to meeting him again. I assume if he is up to attending sword practice he’s recovered enough to lift one himself. Do you know if he has had any training?”

Karess flashed a grin and shrugged. “I haven’t asked him and Fate hasn’t even let him touch a sword yet. Guess we’ll both find out today.” He started toward the door but stopped before he reached it. He stood still for several heartbeats before turning around again. There was a strange look on his face, a mixture of apology and pleading. “Uh, Devlin, would you mind?” He waved a hand toward a corner of the room, wiggling his fingers. “I’d really rather not take the chance of running into your mother.”

Devlin arched one brow. Yes, his ability as a Bloodsworn allowed him to bend Avalyr’s magic to his will, to call forth magical gates between one place and another. The question was, would he? He hadn’t forgotten Karess’ teasing remark about being rusty and figured he owed his friend a little teasing in return. He stayed quiet, drawing out the moment.

“Devlin, please, we both know your mother will flay me alive with her tongue if she catches me inside the palace half-dressed and filthy. Do you really want my blood on your conscience?”

Another long moment of silence.

“Fine,” the warrior snapped, swinging around toward the door. “When you find my broken and bloody body in a hallway somewhere just remember you’ve only yourself to blame. Between your lady mother and your First Blade I’ll be lucky to survive the day.”

Devlin laughed. “All right, when you put it that way I suppose I have no choice. Can’t have you bloodying up the palace floors.” He waved a hand toward a corner of the room. A shimmering oval appeared, slightly taller and wider than a full-grown man. Beyond the golden edges of the gate lay a swath of the practice yard brilliantly lit by the afternoon sun and filled by pairs of men engaged in mock battle.

Karess’ exaggerated sigh of relief lightened Devlin’s mood almost as much as the prospect of sparring with his Blades. He chuckled and walked closer to the gate, intending to push Karess through. The faint sound of clashing swords seeped back through the magic.

For the second time in less than an hour Devlin was caught off guard. This time, it wasn’t trepidation that swept through him, making his heartbeat quicken, but anticipation. The warrior in him rose, pushing aside the diplomat and ruler until he could almost feel the sword in his hand and smell the dust hazing the warm air.

He met Karess’ questioning gaze and let the smile on his face stretch into a conspiratorial grin. Magic surged, changing his loose pants and shirt into supple training leathers. Karess’ eyes widened and then he grinned in return. For a moment the two of them were once more just a pair of young boys sneaking off in search of an afternoon of adventure. Before his sense of duty could call him to heel, Devlin took three long strides and slipped through the gate, Karess hot on his heels.

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