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  Vane

  Teshelle Combs

  Teshelle Combs Books

  This book is purely fictional. All characters, names, places, events,

  traditions, and other material written by author is used fictitiously, even if such material exists in the real world.

  Copyright © 2014 by Teshelle Combs

  All rights reserved, including the rights of reproduction in print or online in any whole or partial form.

  Book design, layout, and other artwork by Nate Combs Media.

  Multiple brushes used in the design may be from brusheezy.com.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  ISBN-10: 150252954

  ***

  To the one who steals my blanket every night. The one who’s looking

  over at me, while I’m typing this, and smiling for no reason. The one

  who explains all the RPG combos even though he knows I won’t ever

  get that blasted special attack right. The Go to my Ku. The light to my dark. The beat to my heart.

  I choose you, Nate. Every time. I choose you.

  ***

  Praise for Teshelle Combs’ series

  The System

  “Combs writes bravely…With characters that steal your heart, a plot that keeps you guessing, and a romance that leaves you screaming.”

  “Nothing is ever clean or easy. People die. People kill. And people learn to survive.”

  “Her writing delves so completely into her characters that when you finish her books there’s an ache because you feel like you’re saying goodbye to real people.”

  “Dark but witty, devastating and yet full of hope, The System leaves an unforgettable impression on the reader.”

  “Exciting, intriguing plot and awesome characters, with lots of fun twists and surprises. The System would make an awesome TV series. Hope someone is listening. Time richly spent.”

  All reviews from you, the real fans

  Vane

  Prologue

  Knock

  The sweet crackle of a flame. Karma lit the candle in the middle of the table. She had purchased the centerpiece herself—twisting vines of bronze that nested the cream candle, metallic grapes that gleamed beneath the shadowy light. The house was spotless, impeccably clean, the freshness only outdone by the thick scent of roasted meat.

  Rory sat, his brown eyes on the cloth napkin as he folded and unfolded it.

  “Don’t fidget,” his mother said, so smooth she was almost icy.

  Rory didn’t bother looking at her. He dropped the linen and put his hands in his lap, leaning back in his chair with a sigh.

  “This is the stupidest thing we’ve ever tried to do,” he said, messing with his jeans since the napkin was off limits. “Why can’t we just eat by ourselves?”

  Karma adjusted the silverware for the tenth time, walking circles around the table to make sure it was all perfect. It had to be perfect.

  “You’ve eaten alone enough.” Her careful eyes, deep blue and penetrating, took in her handiwork. She glanced up at her eldest son. She could tell that despite his slouching, his muscles were tensed, his mouth a tight frown. “Besides, today is not about you.”

  “God forbid something be about anyone else.”

  The groaning of the stairs, the scraping of his chair as he pulled it out and sat down. He looked over the table, his brown eyes catching on the candle for a second. “Everything looks perfect, Karma. Thank you.”

  Someone who looked closely might have seen the hint of frustration in the knit of her eyebrows. Looks perfect.

  “Well…happy birthday.”

  Mac nodded, looking too large for his seat. He gave a distracted smile. “Another year older.”

  “Can we eat?” Rory interjected.

  Karma narrowed her eyes at her eldest son. “Rory….”

  Rory sighed again. “Happy birthday, Dad.”

  Mac met Rory’s gaze, his eyes clouded despite the slanted smile he still wore. “You don’t have to eat down here—”

  And before he could finish his sentence, Rory reached into the meat, grabbed a fistful of roast, and took the stairs three at a time.

  Mac and Karma stared at their dinner table’s three empty chairs for a long time. Finally, Karma cleared her throat. “It’s getting cold.”

  Mac knew she’d tried. She’d even done her dark hair how he liked it—loose with big waves about her shoulders. But the things he’d done were the reason they were together alone.

  “Did you try calling?” Mac asked.

  “I told you, I can’t reach Cameron. There is no way to contact him at the monastery.”

  “And…?”

  Karma looked into her husband’s eyes and saw a myriad of emotion. “Cale won’t take my calls, Mac. You know that.”

  Mac swallowed a piece of meat and nodded. “I know.”

  The knock on the door took it off its hinges.

  Mac ran forward, responding without thinking as he shoved Karma behind him. He unsheathed his dragon blade, ready to defend his nest as every red dragon should be, retired or not.

  In the doorway was a boy, blonde hair hanging in his eyes, his cheeks ruddy, his arms scrawny. With a frown on his little face, he scrambled to pick up the door he hadn’t meant to destroy. Behind him, a tall woman, dark skin stark against her white dress, cheekbones high and head shaved.

  “Forgive my fool for damaging your property.” The woman’s accent was rich and Irish. “I believe we have the right nest. Anders?”

  Mac lowered his weapon and straightened up. “Emaline?”

  She flashed a white-toothed smile. “Ah, you remember. Yes, we met once. Or twice. When we were much younger. At the ranking games.” Emaline smirked. “Those were different times.”

  Karma noticed the glimmer in the woman’s eyes as she looked Mac over because Karma noticed everything. She wanted to ask a thousand questions about Maurice, the little boy who was trying and failing to lean the door back in its frame, but the flash of recognition between Emaline and Mac made her cheeks tinge blue.

  Mac pointed behind him. “My wife, Karma. Karma, this is Emaline, chief of all reds.”

  Emaline nodded in Karma’s direction. “Good, good.” Her brown eyes flitted around the room. “Your wife is lovely. I am not here to chat, though. The rothai? And your son? They don’t seem to be home.”

  Mac blinked, his face flushing a bit as he thought of the answer.

  Maurice dusted off his hands and elbowed Emaline. “I told you,” he hissed. “The Exile.”

  Emaline turned a stern face down to her fellow councilman. “Nonsense. Surely he is not still banished, Maurice. Not after all he’s done for our village. I’m certain peace has been made in the Anders nest.” She faced Mac, standing as tall as he stood. “They must be out. Hunting maybe. Or flying. When do you expect them back?”

  Rory bounded down the stairs, his eyes wide at the sight of the strangers. His sandy hair—so much like his fathers—was disheveled from the post-dinner nap he was about to take. “Who are these people?”

  “Emaline, chief of the reds, and Maurice, councilman of the reds,” Maurice announced in his most official voice. “And who are you?”

  “Uhh…Rory.”

  “Ah, the brother,” Emaline nodded her head out of respect. “I am trying to find the rothai, but your father seems only able to stare at me when I ask for her.”

  “That’s because Cale and Ava don’t live here, your…chiefliness.”

  Emaline frowned. “Exiled still? How can this be?”

  “You owe me a drink, Emaline,” Maurice said, crossing skinny little arms over his chest. He tugged at the collar of his shirt as if he hated being clothed. “I told you.”

  Emaline glared already intimidating eyes at Mac. “Forg
ive me for speaking into private affairs, but what has Cale done that would have him banned from his nest? Everything I know paints him as a good and noble dragon.”

  “He is a good and noble dragon,” Maurice clarified. “And his rothai…” Maurice paused and closed his eyes again, put a hand to his chest. “I am jealous of their bond.”

  Rory scowled at the back of his father’s head. “You aren’t the only ones.” He grabbed his keys from the bowl on the counter. “Let my parents have their dinner. I’ll drive you to Cale’s place. I can’t go in, but I know where it is.”

  And with nods and chatter, the three of them left. Mac watched as the unhinged door wobbled against the post. He didn’t try to fix it. Just sat down in his chair and put a piece of lukewarm roast in his mouth.

  “It really is delicious,” he told his wife.

  Karma, who still stood next to the staircase, said nothing.

  One

  Kill

  The December heat was thick. The night was all quiet and rest, except for the smack of soles on pavement. The woman, in her plain slacks and buttoned shirt, with her beige purse thudding against her side, pumped her arms as she ran. She might have looked ordinary if her face wasn’t contorted in terror, her mouth wide as she gasped for more air. Her eyes were wide, as though she was trying to find a way out. But it was too dark for anyone to see her, too late for a passerby to hear her winded cry for help, to see her desperate lunge for salvation.

  She stumbled. Her palms grated against the bits of gravel and broken glass that had been discarded by the many who used that street during the daytime. Tears would have come if she had time to understand who was chasing her, time to process. But she held out one bleeding, shaking hand, her purse still dangling off her shoulder, her blond bob slicked to her skin with perspiration.

  “Please,” she tried to say. But only her lips moved, and sound failed her.

  The two who had followed the woman loomed before her. Smoky shadows slinked along their feet, twisting up their ankles and thighs, swimming in and out of their clothing. The eels were a hissing darkness that carried cold with them. Their hosts stood tall and gaunt, pale and morose as they swayed in the breezeless night. With dark pits for eyes and black rags for clothes, they gazed at their prey, sorrow filling up the places where hearts used to lie.

  And then, in perfect unison, their mouths opened. From the black chasm of the nightfolk came a soulless, seeping song. The melody shone like silver, floated like dust to the woman. And she lowered her hand, slowed her breathing. Stillness overcame her, and for the first time that night—the first time in her life—she welcomed it, she wanted it. She wanted it to be over.

  A wrenching shriek as one of the nightfolk fell to its knees, its shadow eel scrambling between its ankles. The siren’s fangs, like six-inch needles, sprung from its gaping mouth and turned around in time for the dark dragonblade to pierce its heart.

  With a strong tug, Ava pulled the blade free, spun it over head and sliced it through the nightfolk’s neck. She stepped away as the gush of purple blood splattered her clothes and pooled beneath her sneakers. She shoved back a few curls that had broken free of her braid, and glanced over to her right. Cale was already wiping smudges of blood from his own blade onto his jeans. He pressed the red gem on the handle so that his weapon retracted into itself.

  He grinned at Ava, his golden eyes slivers of excitement. He always looked awake right after a kill, as if it brought the animal out of him. And the more he and Ava flew together when he changed forms, the more beast she saw in him. It was in the quick flash of his white smile, in the way his muscles bulged with adrenaline. He didn’t need to be in second form for her to see it.

  “Two in one,” he said in a half growl. “Good night.”

  She nodded, trying to hide her grimace. The nightfolk had been pairing up more and more often. Their population was increasing too fast for their hunting needs. They became insatiable, attacking humans out in the open. But for red dragons who killed them to make a living, the influx made their jobs easier.

  Ava knelt and picked up the crests both sirens had been wearing. Ancient, crude blue dragon crests that hung from a simple leather strap. She pocketed them, trying not to think of the blue dragon she’d met in the forests of Ireland just a few months before. Every time she started to figure him out, she ended up lost in thought. And thought had no place while they worked.

  “The human,” Cale said, nodding his head towards the middle-aged woman who sat trembling in the middle of the street.

  Ava watched as Cale calmed himself down, back into the Cale who could hold a conversation instead of spurting out only a couple words at a time. She chewed the inside of her mouth as she retracted her blade. This was the worst part of being a rider. And even though she was hopeless, Cale always insisted she practice.

  With a sigh, she turned to the woman. She tried to touch her shoulder in a soothing way, but she couldn’t relax her arm enough to make it seem natural. “You okay, lady?” She moved forward to try and help her up, but the woman covered her eyes and whimpered.

  Ava frowned. Her job was to calm victims, get them to take her hand so she could help them forget. Cale could do it just fine. Dragons who killed sirens had to learn when they were kids. But Ava? She had learned to do just the opposite. She spent her entire childhood with not one friend, not one confidant. How am I supposed to make someone trust me in just a few seconds?

  Then Ava felt a hand on her shoulder. Cale stepped in, knelt down so he was on the same level as the victim.

  “You must be terrified,” he began. He spoke so sweetly, as if he was telling a bedtime story. “But we’re not going to hurt you. How about I help you up?”

  The woman peeked, and found a handsome, well-mannered eighteen-year-old holding out his hand to her. She took it, and he helped her up to wobbly knees.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her. He gave a warm, concerned smile. “Maybe we can call you a cab.”

  She sniffled. “Heather,” she said. “Should—shouldn’t we call the police?”

  Cale shook his head. “I think we’ve got it handled. But here, why don’t you hold onto my friend’s hand and we’ll get you home, Heather.”

  At least I can do this part. She held the stranger’s hand and whispered the words Cale taught her, red tongue words that willed her to forget. It was literally the only red tongue Ava knew how to speak. It wasn’t natural. She spoke it from memorizing the syllables Cale taught her. She didn’t even know what the words meant. Five minutes later, a bedraggled and befuddled Heather was clutching her beige handbag in the back of a cab, headed far away from the world that had nearly taken her life.

  Ava hoped Cale wouldn’t bring up how awful she was at dealing with people. He didn’t. Instead, he looked at her sideways, and put his hands behind his head, trying to be casual.

  Ava decided to concentrate on rubbing the speckles of siren blood off her knuckles so she didn’t have to look at him. They peeked out of the leather wrist wraps she wore to keep steady as she wielded her blade and rode her dragon.

  “We don’t have to fly tonight,” he said, still relaxed, watching Ava with those Cale eyes. Like he was trying to figure her out—what she wanted, what she was feeling—without letting her know.

  “I hate when you do that,” she said, flashing amber and jade eyes up at him for a moment.

  “Do what?”

  She narrowed her glare. “When you do that.”

  He tilted his head at her, lowered his arms. “Intervene?”

  “No, that was just plain necessary. I’m the worst with victims. We both know that.” She jutted her chin out at him. “I hate when you do that other thing.”

  He frowned a little. “You mean…when I care about you?”

  Ava pointed an accusatory finger in his direction. “Yes. That. I hate it.” She found the backpack she’d left on the sidewalk and walked off, leaving Cale to follow. “I said we’d fly after our hunt, so we’ll fly,” she
said. “You don’t have to cater to me just because I screwed up. I’m not a baby.”

  “I never said you were.” He sped up so he walked beside her. “I just figured you’d beat yourself up about it. And I hate flying when you’re mad.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  Cale said nothing. He wanted to call her a liar. But he’d been trying to refrain from the term since dragons and sirens alike had started calling her ‘The Deceiver.’ And even though, secretly, he still really wanted to fly, Cale led the way to the trader on foot.

  Guests crowded into the cramped building on 9th Street, passing baskets of the renowned fried steak strips overhead, anyone and everyone grabbing some for themselves until the empty container was tossed back to one of the quick-handed bus boys. It was the craziest eatery in downtown Miami, and the first to implement the free-for-all dining experience. There were no waiters, no dinner napkins, no forks. Just communal buckets and baskets of the most popular orders floating around a crowd of grunting, starving maniacs.

  Pay your way in, eat your way out. That was Reggie’s motto.

  Cale’s belly grumbled and Ava’s heaved as they stepped into the misted scent of savory meat. They shoved their way through the shouting, stomping fans of whatever game was on the television and almost had to hold on to the counter to keep from being knocked to the ground and trampled.

  “Reggie,” Cale shouted in red tongue, pounding his fist against the wooden counter top. “Order up.”

  Ava still couldn’t speak the language, not unless a red dragon meant for her to hear it or Cale cheated and had her memorize it. She didn’t mind though. Reds hardly ever said anything she truly cared about. Especially not reds like Reggie.

  The kitchen door swung open and Regina Mila walked through, a tiny ball of piercings and tattoos, her eyebrows plucked so thin they were barely visible. She smiled when she saw Cale, a towel in her hand as she dried a metal breading bowl that was almost larger than her.