Awen Rising Page 3

  “Go away!” she demanded, wishing her brain would obey.

  It wasn’t like Emily had any credit left to ruin. Not after losing her job and the resultant bankruptcy. She had a little cash from the sale of her stuff. But come Friday it was official—she would be out on the street with no job, no home, and nowhere to go.

  And now, in spite of all her many precautions, Emily’s stalker likely knew her whereabouts. She swiveled to search both ends of the boardwalk. No Shalane.

  But her relief was short lived. The deeper, primitive ache of destitution twisted Emily’s gut. She wrapped her arms around her scuffed knees and buried her face, willing the dam not to break. If it did, the tears might never stop.

  “Ahhh-wen.” At the edge of awareness, a musical voice crooned the name from Emily’s dreams.

  Her head jerked up, startling a gull that was picking through a metal waste can. On a shriek, it took flight and wheeled toward the sea. Shivers danced along the nape of Emily’s neck. Who else knew about Awen?

  The number of surfers and spectators was growing, but no likely culprits there. Maybe it was a snatch of song on the salt-laced breeze. Or was Emily hearing things, on top of everything else?

  “Stay in the moment,” she muttered with a calm she didn’t feel. “Now is all that matters. Those people are okay. That gull is okay. That homeless man is okay. Shalane didn’t see you, so you’re okay, too. Now quit the waterworks and stop freaking.”

  In defiance, her mind conjured the aqua clunker Emily had purchased after the bank repossessed her sexy little coupe. Tears blurred her vision and Emily rubbed her face briskly in her hands. The salt-eaten sedan had a large back seat. Which was good, considering her collision put the kibosh on her plan to seek refuge at the Venice Mission.

  Replaying the crash in her head, Emily had to grin. It’d felt good to deck that sadistic bitch, even if by accident. Only now she would have to get away from here, money or no money. And as Emily Mayhall, she didn’t know a soul. Not here or anywhere else.

  A long-forgotten scent jolted her awareness and was gone before Emily could give it a name.

  “Ahhh-wen.” More thought than sound, the druid moniker tickled her inner ear. Baffled, she stood to search the boardwalk, the beach, and the sea.

  A new and different foreboding crept upon her, more disturbing than Shalane or homelessness. Like molten metal, it trickled slowly down Emily’s spine and spread through her body, triggering her instinct to run.

  Water Dragon

  A t the end of Venice Pier, a dragon lurked in the deep water, tail anchored in the pylons. Draig Ooschu’s eyes broke the restless surface, watching the humans. With envy, she ogled their bright-colored raiment as they paddled boards from the rocky shore and battled to the calm beyond the breakers.

  Not one of the humans noticed Ooschu, whose scales and saucer-eyes reflected the ocean’s hues. She was invisible to all but the most discerning, and even they wouldn’t remember having seen her.

  Like all dragons, Ooschu carried a built-in forgetfulness curse. Any species who gazed upon her forgot right away. All but the dragon master, though it appeared Awen had fallen prey to the larger memory veil.

  As had Ooschu. Ooschu had no idea how long she had slumbered. Or what magic had lulled her to sleep. But she did remember that she answered to Awen.

  Ooschu also remembered the last Earth War, when the dragons were tasked with keeping the humans in AboveEarth and the reptilians in UnderEarth. The memory veil was instituted at that time to ensure the two opponents would forget one another.

  It had taken ten thousand years for the dragons to find and seal all the portals, after which they went into hibernation. All except the handful of Keepers assigned to watch the borders.

  Draig Ooschu was one. As a water dragon, her duty was to guard the sea portals. There were three others—an earth dragon, an air dragon, and a fire dragon. But as time went on, even the Keepers had succumbed to sleep.

  Since waking several years ago, Ooschu had crisscrossed the seven seas searching. She found Draig Talav asleep in a cave and managed to rouse the earth dragon. Together, they located Draigs a-Ur and Tienu. But something was wrong with the air and fire dragon. Both were transfixed. Neither could they stir.

  On the other side of the world, Talav stumbled upon the Awen’s energy signature. With naught but a certainty that another Earth War was imminent, the two Dragon Keepers had pursued her ever since. Now time was running out, but Ooschu was close to making contact.

  She poked her head above the waves to scan the shoreline and spied a blaze of gold-tipped crimson. The owner was bent double, face hidden from view.

  “Awen,” Ooschu called telepathically.

  The woman raised her head and looked around.

  “Awen,” the dragon tried again.

  The flaming head looked directly at Ooschu, but the gaze held no trace of recognition, nor flare of comprehension. Instead, Awen leapt from her perch and sprinted north, covering the tell-tale hair.

  Disappointed and confused, Ooschu struck out for deeper waters to avoid harming the humans. Treading lightly, she trailed the Awen until the woman turned inland and disappeared again.

  Ooschu paddled beneath a pod of dolphins and spied a harbor seal struggling against the tangle of a discarded net. Anger surged through her. The humans’ arrogance would kill them all. Diving, she used a razor-sharp claw to free the pinniped. With no thank you or acknowledgement, the seal swam away.

  Ooschu winced. After all this time, she should be used to the rude behavior. But dragons were sensitive, especially water dragons. And Ooschu was more sensitive than most.

  The forgetfulness curse allowed dragon-kind to survive, and with them, the Earth and her many species. But it made Ooschu’s life thankless, not to mention lonely. And infinitely boring.

  Of course, lonely and boring were preferable to the precipitous end they all faced. The reptilians were restless and seeking a way out of UnderEarth. It was up to the druids and the Dragon Keepers to stop them. But with their memories lost, AboveEarth was in danger. And only Ooschu and Talav had a clue.

  Underworld Encounter

  H er spirit guides woke Shalane in the middle of the night, which usually happened when they wanted to deliver a message. She would rather sleep than receive transmissions. But Divine never asked her opinion.

  She sat up and stacked pillows behind her, groaning with each motion. Her back and head, hell, her entire body ached from yesterday’s fall. Or from being tackled by a lunatic. One who’d dashed off without bothering to see if Shalane was hurt. Anger surged, hot and impotent.

  She took several deep breaths until it passed, then prepared for meditation. On the third out-breath, Shalane imagined sending energetic roots into the earth and rode them down. Slicing through the bedrock, she descended the tendrils to their endpoint.

  Once there, Shalane turned for the surface, but a flash of silver caught her eye. The size of a firefly without the blink, it shot toward her and stopped. Another light followed, joining the first to hover at eye level a few yards away.

  Were they studying her? Their behavior indicated sentience, but her probe encountered nothing familiar. Shalane hesitated, then gathered to her full energetic height, bowed deeply and straightened.

  “Greetings, beings. I am Shalane; sorceress, priest, shaman, and channel, beloved of Archangel Michael.”

  No sooner had the words exited her mouth than the lights vanished. Goosebumps crept up the back of Shalane’s neck. She could no longer see the entities, but she sensed them, along with something else.

  Nerves jolted, Shalane continued, “I reside above Earth, though my spirit travels where it will. Who are you, oh creatures of Earth’s inner realm?”

  No reply. No visible sign of the beings either. Time to leave. Shalane tried to ascend, but something held her in place. She couldn’t break free.

  Sick fear burgeoned. She was stuck in the Underworld. Shalane called on Archangel Michael, but her panicke
d pleas sounded garbled to her own ears.

  Casting about, Shalane searched for what had trapped her spirit. Shimmering beyond reach, an amorphous blob pulsed in alternating shades of quicksilver, charcoal, ebony, and slate.

  Was it fixed to the bedrock? Or translucent and hovering? It had locked onto Shalane’s energy body. Her leg disappeared into the rock in some kind of vacuum.

  She took a deep, centering breath and focused her powers on escape. The creature fell back, and her leg reappeared. But she was still stuck. Redoubling her efforts, she called again on Archangel Michael and felt a welcome surge of energy. The hold loosened and Shalane’s foot slid free.

  Shooting to the surface, she came to with a gasp in her own bed and opened grateful eyes to survey her surroundings. Everything was in its place and all was as it should be, though her body ached and she was trembling. From the room next door came Cecil’s rhythmic snores, the reason they no longer slept together.

  Shuddering, Shalane sank lower in the bed and drew the covers to her chin. Her failure to sense danger was worrisome. Those creatures had been intent on keeping her prisoner in the Underworld. Though her grandmother had warned her repeatedly over the years, Shalane had never encountered anything like this.

  Afraid to continue the meditation, she rose gingerly and wrapped a silk kimono around her girth. She resisted the urge to check her reflection in the mirror. The extra pounds gained since Thanksgiving were a mystery. She had taken the pills her doctor prescribed and neither ate nor drank more than before. She got plenty of exercise, thanks to Cecil and her various lovers. Yet still Shalane’s figure ballooned.

  Making her way to the wet bar, she poured several fingers of her favorite Glenlivet. Cecil had stockpiled cases of the single-malt scotch before it went scarce and prices skyrocketed.

  Sipping it like a liqueur, Shalane carried her glass to the expansive terrace overlooking the San Fernando Valley. The mansion’s upkeep was monstrous, but the panorama was worth every penny. She sank into a fancy cushioned chair and pulled her robe tight against the Santa Ana winds.

  Lights littered the valley before her. Traffic buzzed along the 101, speeding in and out of Los Angeles even at this hour. In the far distance, Shalane could just make out the light-trail that would be cars climbing the El Cajon pass, heading north out of the valley.

  Behind her, the Pacific Ocean glistened diamonds under the moon, but no headlights there. That particular section of iconic Highway 1 had been gobbled by the sea.

  Shalane rested her drink on the ledge of her protruding belly and thought of Ebby Panera, as she often did. The weight gain had started after the woman vanished. Was it coincidence or connected?

  She’d had plans for Ebby, though fat good it had done. The woman had dropped off the face of the earth. Shalane missed her spunk and her keen intellect. And the trail of gardenias that always followed in her wake.

  Gardenias. Wait. The scent still clung Shalane. Was the runner Ebby? Her thoughts flashed to the day before, to the whirlwind that had knocked her flat, giving her a slight concussion.

  The fuzzy details sharpened into focus. The hair was different—an almost startling shade of red—but the compact shapely figure and the enormous energy belonged to Ebby Panera. Elated, Shalane put her glass on the patio table and danced around the terrace. She had found Ebby!

  Or had she? It had happened so fast and Shalane never saw her face. But deep down she knew, and the certainty grew. Casting an imaginary circle, Shalane walked around it three times and stood in the middle, facing south toward Venice Beach.

  “It’s been too long, Ebby darling,” Shalane muttered aloud. “You won’t know this is from me, but you will wish for protection and that’s enough for now. You thought you could run away, but no one walks out on Shalane Carpenter. Not even you.”

  Reaching out to the energetic universe, Shalane gathered a ball of ether between her palms and poured her intention into creating an Elemental. She cackled and widened the distance between her hands as the throbbing orb grew.

  When the Elemental reached the size of a beach ball and threw off sparks the color of night, Shalane pictured Ebby on the boardwalk, crimson hair whipping in a gale. On a whispered curse, Shalane hurled the Elemental in Ebby’s direction.

  Satisfied, she reclaimed her drink and lifted it to the heavens in a toast. She took a long swig and welcomed the burn as the liquid raged down the back of her throat and blazed a trail to her stomach. Sweat beads erupted, and the faltering east winds cooled her brow.

  Turning a slow circle, Shalane soaked up the view. She would miss this place while away on tour. Twenty weeks was a long time to be gone.

  Nergal

  D eep within the Earth’s crust, Reptilian General Nergal watched the Fomorian writhe on the onyx bench. The creature had identified and tagged a human target, one that he hoped could be used to overthrow the humans.

  As the information downloaded from the Fomorian to the main server, Nergal’s anticipation grew. He tapped a clawed foot, picked meat out of his pointed teeth and checked the console again. The computer was taking a long time.

  Uncomfortable in the laboratory, Nergal inspected his digits and scraped away the dried flakes. He admired the ripple of the new olivine scales along his three long fingers and opposable thumb. Most Dracos’ claws were short and blunt. Deadly enough, but Nergal kept his meticulously sharpened.

  A glance at the console told him the data wasn’t ready. He sucked in his gut and ran his claws over his torso. The ventral plates covering his abs had peeled and shone a pale flax. He cocked a snakelike head and ran a foredigit up each of the bony ridges that flared from above his eyes to the back of his skull. He caressed the two top horns—reminders of his lofty status and the Elohim from which Nergal had descended.

  The computer pinged as Vice Major Ishkur swept into the lab and saluted. Nergal returned the gesture and joined his assistant at the monitor.

  Ishkur was shorter than most Dracos, though similar in appearance. He a larger head and vertically-slit black pupils rather than Draco red. Ishkur was a crossbreed, a scientist reared for its intellect, and an exception to Nergal’s half-breed rule.

  It was Ishkur who’d perfected Nergal’s idea to harness influential humans to overthrow AboveEarth. But the targets kept dying. Time to find out if this one was viable. Ishkur’s wide mouth stretched, his flat nose flared, and his eyes blinked rapidly as the target’s memories tumbled across the screen.

  “General, I believe we have our first success.”

  Nergal read through the scrolling data. It appeared the Fomorian had come through. Shalane Carpenter was an important human with a substantial following and a penchant for perversion. She was an evangelist, but also a sorceress proficient in both white and dark magic.

  According to the data, she was born in a witch’s colony in Northern California. Her parents were a well-known actor and actress who left the commune and abandoned the precocious child to her grandmother. She had risen through the ranks, stripping the leadership from older, wiser witches—apparently along with their clothes.

  Nergal noted the last with interest. “She is strong, this human,” he grunted.

  Noticing something else, he glared at Ishkur. The target was a mixed breed, one of the religious zealots spawned from the reptilian-human matings.

  It was part of the master plan to bend human light around Draconian darkness, but Nergal found the practice revolting. Admittedly, before the portals had been sealed, he had bed more than one human female in his youth. But his intention had always been recreation. Not procreation.

  To Nergal and the few remaining purebreds, humanity was a scourge. Yet the reptiloids had been relegated to UnderEarth with the “lesser” races. Now, ten thousand years later, the Dracos had thrown off the memory veil imposed by the Old Ones and plotted to gain control of the entire planet.

  They had almost succeeded a time or two, but one major obstacle stood in the way: the reptilians were as effectively sealed
inside the globe as the humans were bound to the top of it.

  Until now. By using influential leaders like Shalane Carpenter, they would manipulate the humans into destroying one another and opening the portals between the worlds.

  Soon, very soon, the reptiles would take control of AboveEarth, and with Nergal in command, rid its surface of both humans and mixed-breeds. Then Earth would belong to the Reptilian Nation, once and for all.

  News from Afar

  S ince Emily’s run-in with Shalane and hearing the eerie voice, the feeling of being watched was ever present. Something out there wanted her. Something, or someone, who knew about the dreams.

  The wind had changed overnight. It howled, shaking the shutters and interrupting Emily’s practice. She peered out the window, careful to stay hidden behind the closed blinds. Dawn crept over the seascape, revealing thunder clouds on the horizon. A storm was brewing, and it looked to be a bad one.

  She returned to her yoga routine, the last she would enjoy in this seaside apartment. But rather than relaxing, her mind was busy planning Emily’s future. She needed a home and a job. Disaster hound was out of the question; she would likely rabbit at the first sign of trouble. Plus, there was that blacklist thing.

  But surely someone needed a scientist. Even one with a doctored resume.

  By the time she made it to corpse pose, Emily was ready to make the call. She perched on the arm of the worn chair and entered the attorney’s number in her iBlast, then mumbled a quick prayer.

  By the second ring, a honeyed voice answered, announcing the law office of Mitchell Albom Wainwright the Third. Emily’s throat closed around a wad of fear. The voice repeated the salutation, louder this time, and with less of a Southern accent.

  Swallowing hard, Emily blurted, “Hello, this is Emily Mayhall. I received a letter from Mr. Wainwright. Could you please tell me what it regards?”

  “Emily Mayhall?” The voice went up two octaves. “Thank you for calling. Please hold the line for Mr. Wainwright.”