Authors: Sydney Bristow
Tags: #Romance, #Paranormal, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Magical Realism, #Paranormal & Urban, #Sword & Sorcery, #Witches & Wizards, #Metaphysical & Visionary
Silverthorn
Silverthorn
Sydney Bristow
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Laura Kingsley
Cover Design by Damonza
Contents
The crowd pumped their fists in the air and nodded their heads to the heavy beat of Brandon’s pounding drums and Kendall’s thumping bass. As the lead singer of our band, I couldn’t have hoped for a more enthusiastic response from the audience. Then my gaze passed over a handful of extremely pale men in their mid-20s, and I wondered if they weren’t quite…human.
Had I seen correctly? With canned fluorescent lights shooting down on me and various other colored lights flashing throughout the hall, I had a difficult time seeing anyone clearly. The stacks of amplifiers behind me put out a wall of sound, and while I wore high-fidelity earplugs, I could still hear the crowd shouting their approval.
It was our first gig since we met our new guitarist, Nolan Hart, last week. We were so jacked up by how well we clicked on stage, I feared I’d misidentified the group of men who glared at us from the cramped four corners of the Concord Music Hall in Chicago.
We were a last minute replacement for the opening band (all of whom had gotten food poisoning the previous night) for the renowned classic rock band, Rattlesnake, whose tour manager contacted the manager of the venue and inquired whether any local bands could fill the spot. Such luck didn’t come often, and we were determined to win them over in hopes they would anoint us worthy of playing on the same bill as them. Gaining their endorsement might build momentum for the album we soon hoped to begin writing.
Still, these men didn’t look the least bit interested in our music. They might have been huge Rattlesnake fans that regarded any other band as unworthy of their time. But they milled through the crowd and approached the stage with sleek yet purposeful strides. If they disliked our band, they might have gone to the restroom or sought out the beer vendor to get out of earshot of our music. But rather than scurry away, these men headed toward us with resolute expressions, as though dedicated to carry out a mission.
Rather than chastise myself for not a spotting the five mysterious men earlier, I glanced at my best friend, Kendall, and cocked my head toward the creature about twenty feet from the stage. He had dark circles around his eyes, as though he’d been unable to sleep for days. Despite a massive chest and hunched over shoulders, he moved into pockets of space as though he’d spent years in the ballet. The other men looked very similar: massive torsos, lips bent into permanent sneers, and eyes that would settle on dispensing the same torment that Kathy Bates’ character fulfilled in the movie,
Misery
, as an appetizer before multiplying that intensity by one hundred by the time they reached their main course.
Kendall gawked at the man I’d pointed out. Her eyes went wide and she continually licked her lips as though fear had robbed all the saliva in her mouth. Sensing that she’d slackened the pace with which she picked at the strings on her bass guitar, she increased her speed before the audience noticed any difference in her performance. She turned back to me and mouthed one word:
vampire?
I nodded. My stomach dropped at the thought of vampires attacking us on stage.
Kendall gulped. She began breathing heavy with fright.
That wasn’t quite the stroke of confidence I hoped to see, but who could blame her? All three of us found out a couple days ago that witches, vampires, shapeshifters, werewolves, and demons existed, although every other person on the planet remained ignorant of that fact.
At the same time, I discovered I had a family I never knew I had. Until that moment, Grams had raised me and never told me I had a mother and an identical twin sister, who had been raped at eight years of age, only to somehow get pregnant and actually deliver a daughter named Celestina. Just as incomprehensible as that fact, I discovered that every member of my family were witches and could only deliver baby girls, not boys. Grams, my mother, Delphine, my sister, Alexis, and my niece, Celestina were all firstborn witches.
Since Alexis was born before me, I commanded only one-third of the power she could access, but each of us wielded three different supernatural abilities at birth, although I’d only learned about two: harnessing and manipulating energy into pyrotechnics and the ability to astral project – or projecting my spirit to great distances while asleep. My sister had the ability to freeze molecules into sleet, ice, or snow and could cancel out my flame throwing abilities with ease. She actually froze me to death…until Celestina revived me.
Nevertheless, all of our powers could only extend to a distance equal to that of three times our individual height. Those decrees, along with every other proclamation regarding our line, was crafted by the first witch in our line, a sorceress named Zephora, who created every type of supernatural creature and their abilities, as well as their strengths and weaknesses.
Since burning at the stake during the Salem Witch Trials, Zephora had returned to this dimension three times. In each incarnation, she planned to gain control of all supernatural creatures and rule the world. In one way or another, those in our line had always defeated her.
Upon death, any witch in our line could retire beyond the veil by visiting Heaven or Hell with all of their power, or they could leave behind one-third of their magical ability. Some witches bestowed their additional power to their loved ones, or they used that energy to communicate with those in our dimension from beyond the grave. Zephora had always chosen the latter.
A couple days ago, Zephora had taken advantage of Grams, who had long suffered from the debilitating decline of Alzheimer’s, by actually pushing aside Grams’s soul and squeezing her own soul inside Grams’s body. While I don’t know how she managed this feat, Grams appeared to me in spectral form and demanded I end her life in order to trap Zephora inside her body. While I reluctantly did as requested, which made living without her incredibly difficult, Zephora had sprung free. I later learned that only a small, charmed wooden box could detain her soul. Soon enough, however, I’d inadvertently punctured my mother’s heart with the Soul Sword, an enchanted blade that had the ability to kill any supernatural creature. A moment before my mother perished, Zephora crept into her body. When my niece, Celestina, used one of her three magical abilities to reincarnate Delphine while mending her heart, Zephora remained in full control of my mother’s body, while Delphine slipped beyond the veil. In killing my mother, I’d broken a curse that bound the first-born daughters of three consecutive generations of witches to hold the line that separated our world from the dimension that held all of the creatures that had died.
Two consequences sprang from these actions: first, because Delphine had been momentarily ejected from her body, some creatures had slipped into our dimension before Zephora claimed my mother’s body as her own. That closed the line, which prevented supernatural entities from visiting Earth. The second result of canceling the curse meant that neither Alexis, nor Celestina, or I would give birth to a witch, meaning we were the last witches on the planet. Not only are we an endangered species, every supernatural creature in the U.S. (we’re uncertain if others exist outside of this country) would do everything possible to exterminate my sister and my niece because a curse ties their existence to them. They could not leave Chicago…unless Alexis and Celestina do so first.
Zephora, obsessed with patterns that came in threes, had obviously cursed countless others, who coincidentally, passed on their altered DNA to their offspring, yet it lay dormant until the fissure in our family line activated the biological mutation. And because she had created every monster, these creatures were powerless to resist any orders she set forth.
Unlike Kendall, who had no supernatural talents, Brandon had the ability to steal one paranormal gift from any given supernatural creature by just one touch for up to three hours at a time. Unfortunately, Brandon hadn’t recently encountered a supernatural creature. If he had, he could have protected himself against the vampires now approaching the stage.
Our guitarist, however, was a human-demon hybrid. As a trillium, Nolan had inhuman strength and speed, but he hadn’t yet discovered what other paranormal skills he could access. So he might turn into a valuable ally against the vamps…if his demon-side didn’t overtake the strong but gentle man I had just met.
As for me, the dozen years I spent training in martial arts would come in handy. But while my friends and Nolan, who might be more than
just
a friend, knew about all of the supernatural goings-on, they probably didn’t think the bloodsuckers would confront us at any given moment. After all, why would they make their supernatural presence known in a public place? Even if they didn’t care whether or not others knew about their existence, they were surrounded in a crowded building. If someone called the police, how would these paranormal creatures talk their way out of it? Or would they simply kill the cops and fight their way out of the facility?
A couple days earlier, a three-hundred-year old vampire named Darius Coyne, who was also Zephora’s soulmate, had been the only vampire in the country. I had to assume that he’d turned those who now approached into vampires. He must have sent them to kill me, since I hoped to end Zephora’s life in order to prevent her from leading an army of paranormal creatures to take over the world. Because Zephora had created every monster, these creatures were powerless to resist any orders she set forth, so regardless of what they wanted, they would end up following her orders.
I spun around toward Brandon, who sat on a stool behind the drum kit, swinging his arms left, right, and center, pounding away at the drums and cymbals, and bobbing his head to the beat. At any given moment during a show, Brandon had so much energy coursing through him that even while seated, he’d often kick the cymbals, or he’d have a drum stick in either hand, often flipping them in his hands or tossing them up in the air and catching them. He did all this without ever missing a beat. Brandon twirled a stick in his fingers, indicating he’d take pleasure in impaling the vamp.
I doubted he’d be prepared to do that, since he currently had no paranormal ability to back up his confidence, but I certainly appreciated his loyalty. Like Kendall, a less than honorable friend would have bolted a second after seeing a vampire looking their way. After all, vampires had incredible strength and speed, as well as the ability to entrance others and compel them to follow any instructions that vampire set forth. They had fast recuperative powers, which made it imperative to decapitate them, drive a wooden stake (or similar pointy wooden object) into their heart, or set them on fire. Direct sunlight would also end their life, but since they were so light on their feet, they would more likely than not find shade or enter a building to cheat death. Many other pop culture theories about vampires were unfounded, such as the debilitating effect of holy water and garlic, not to mention that mirrors certainly do reflect their image.
I slinked across the stage in a tight shirt and skimpy black jeans, doing my best to hit all the right notes from the songs our band had created over the past week or so. While the two- hundred-plus people in the venue seemed enthusiastic, I had a difficult time concentrating. Spotting a handful of vampires among the crowd had that effect.
I looked at Nolan who had already noticed the threat we faced. He scowled at the two vampires walking down the steps on either side of the bar about a hundred feet away. He hit the final power chord of our song.
I motioned toward another pale man wearing a black T-shirt tight against his muscular frame, this one off to the other side of the stage. I hurried over to the other end of the stage, plucked the acoustic from a guitar stand, and hurried back to the microphone. I needed the six-string to play the intro of our next song, and thankfully, I could also use it to protect myself against the vamps...since I could use the guitar as a weapon. “There’s nothing better than playing our hometown.” That remark elicited clapping and whistling. “Especially when it’s the greatest city in the world!”
The crowd screamed, raised their fists, and flashed the devil horns, a familiar sight among the heavy metal community, whereby a person lifted their fists but raising their index and pinky fingers. Many assumed the symbol espoused Satanism, but it was actually conceived to ward off evil spirits, although no evidence existed to prove its effectiveness. Now it was just a cool ritual metal fans use to support the music they love. Though it ticked me off that so many people consider metal fans as devil worshipers, I sought to change that perception by crafting lyrics with universal themes to show that most metal musicians are thoughtful people who just enjoy loud, intense music.
The crowd’s response helped me block out the vampires that had appeared. After all, they would no doubt wait until after the show ended to attack me.
“Here’s a new song that Kendall and I wrote,” I said into the microphone, surprised to see her shift the curtain of black bangs from her eyes. During any given show, Kendall would bounce side-to-side, as though storing energy for the moment she couldn’t restrain the adrenaline inside her anymore. At that point, she’d throw up her arms to pump up the crowd and encourage them to clap and scream. We’d nearly completed our set, and she’d contained herself up until now, but I suspected that wouldn’t last long.
“We just finished it a few hours ago,” I said into the mic, “so it’s still a little rough. It’s called ‘Dirty Looks.’” I started into the opening chords on my acoustic, hoping that the song, about the bullying that took place in American schools, would resonate with most of the audience, considering that many metal fans felt like misfits. A few moments later, Nolan repeated those chords on his electric guitar, and the band kicked into a heavy groove.