Obsidian's Amulet: Rashwa Book 2

By Karen Bailey

Grace is in a new world; her sister Jennifer is in her new home, claimed and cherished by the King of Rashwa.

Grace is offered a home, but she's unable to settle. She watches her sister, the new Queen of Rashwa, a strange and magical land at one time. A few years ago, Grace had her future set, her path was mapped, her brilliance praised, accepted at a young age to studying medicine—she wanted to help people, like her mother!

Now, she's a tagalong. She doesn't belong here; the children are home, and her purpose and her world doesn't exist. Grace is haunted by her past and the secrets she can't let go of. She plans her departure from Rashwa and vows revenge on her once-beloved father. Grace will do anything to keep her sister and her new family safe. Unable to stop him before, she will stop him now. She no longer cares about herself, because her father ruined any dreams she had. At least her beloved sister Jennifer will be happy.

Bernard watches Grace. He knows she has secrets and he's determined to know what they are. Bernard has waited his whole life for someone like Grace.

"Nevar's mate Jennifer's sister thinks she escapes my reach. I am the protector of the Realm of Rahswa, but also her protector, whether she wants it or not."
Content warning:
This book contains explicit sex and power exchange, violence and death. It's a long road to the HEA, but they will get there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228869757

Karen Bailey

Karen Bailey has been a successful business owner, CEO, and stylist for over 30 years, sharing her life with her greatest love – her family!She is so excited to share her debut novel with you, the first of her trilogy. She hopes you enjoy!

Book preview

Prologue

250 years ago . . .

Ramsey, behind you! Lavinia screams from the mountain doorway’s opening. She is protecting Rashwa—our realm hidden deep in the European Alps–from intruders, her long raven-black hair blowing in the wind. She brandishes her sword and the shing of its song travels through the silent air. The sharp blade glistens in the rising sun, warning those who have betrayed us. Her beautiful violet-blue eyes, usually kind, are now glowing red with fury and betrayal, knowing our son is through the mountain’s magical cover. A cool wind sweeps the hillside, the ground slick with blood and wet grass coated with the morning’s dew. I turn swiftly, amazed at my speed, my senses in tune with the blowing winds around me. None of my warriors are wearing armour—we were not expecting danger. I pull my hand over my lip, the cool touch of my fangs wet and tangy with pleasantly sapid fresh blood. The fairy-tale life we were living peacefully with the villagers of Hawthorn is now gone. My father’s warning, that we are predators by nature needing the world’s essence for survival: Ramsey, we cannot co-exist. Once the humans know how we survive they will turn on us. Trust me, son. My skin prickles with goosebumps. He was right, we—no, I—thought our natures were enough to protect us.

One farmer is heading my way, a pitchfork raised above his head, traces of blood criss-crossed on his disheveled apron. I laugh—his strength is like an infant’s compared to mine.

But Father, I’m sure they know. We’ve lived in these mountains side by side for centuries. Our people want to roam the world, and starting trade is a perfect way to introduce us into it, I told my father. I was so proud of my insights. I thought I was so smart.

I watch the village farmers and politicians running chaotically around us, trampling their gardens. The farm animals run to the forest, fed up with their shenanigans. Some are fighting with us, and those unfortunate enough to turn—well, those are the ones who witness the awakening protector of my people. They dare to push against us? Minutes before we were in peaceful negotiations, and now my instincts to fight, to protect my family, my friends, my people, have awoken a vampire the likes of which may have been told in stories amongst my fellow Rashwan’s, but no one has ever seen one.

Without thought, I grab the oncoming farmer and his pitchfork falls to the ground. His ruddy bearded profile seems familiar in the red haze enhancing my view. His jaw flexes; his pleas go unheard while his body shakes in my hold. A gust of air tickles my newly clawed arm and almost makes me stop to feel this new sensation before I lift his neck to my razor-sharp fangs.

I can hear the battle behind me. My mate roars at the intruders closing in on the cave entrance. I revel in my revenge, stopping the farmer from his attack, from that of the villagers. Ramsey, my father said, our species is having trouble procreating. Our nature is changing, and we will have to introduce the humans’ blood into our own. One day a chosen few will be able to integrate with our people, but the others . . . they will remain as they always have been: our prey. How they choose to accept this fact—well, time will tell.

Catching the farmer’s neck with my fangs, his roars of pain and the gurgling sound make me giddy. The vampire, provoked, has changed before their eyes. All I can think is, You were right, Father. You were right.

Linnie! I bellow, my voice echoing off the mountainside, fighting the winds. Beside you! She turns, and the approaching villagers hear the swoosh before they realize what has happened. Aren and Ekon slice the villagers as the approach my queen, Aren with his sword and Ekon with his claws, the bodies of the dead rolling down the hill into a pile. Lavinia paces back and forth, her vampire form mimicking Ekon’s panther body crouching in wait for his next victim, his tail twitching as he protects the blue hue that is shimmering from the obsidian-coated cave mouth.

My two best friends look at me. Aren lifts his sword, Ekon stands strong, his claws solid on the large rocks below his grasp. Tail twitching, he bares his fangs. A lazy smile graces Aren’s face. Aren, my friend, protector, and vampire brother, a competent warrior even though he prefers a peaceful approach. Ekon is my unlikely comrade, my werepanther brother, often quiet but nevertheless deadly. The three of us have been fighting together and protecting the realm since our youth. Beside my mate and my son, they are the only ones I have ever trusted or loved.

It takes a few seconds for me to realize the fighting has calmed. Looking around, I see a few familiar faces. The druids are walking around whispering their chants. Cathy, an ancient witch with significant magic. Alia, Cathy’s adopted sister a werewolf and nurse to my son Nevar. Gary, Cathy’s mate, a powerful druid, ruddy by nature—he looks like he should live in the bush, but his council is well respected in Rashwa. All elders listen to his advice. The two, mates for many years, both sitting as advisors in my father’s circle, are scavenging whatever they can to add to our arsenal for protection spells, taking coinage the villagers hold so dear, adding to our coffers. More warriors are making their way through the mountain’s door, killing those who still hold weapons. Gathering the villagers, the weapons fall to the ground. They weep uselessly in despair. Their captors will not listen. The witches and druids alike are scavenging the herbs and plants we were negotiating in trade. Now the trade is finished, and their treasure is Rashwa’s.

Pulling a deep breath, the cool morning air stings my lungs. I did not see the need for the warriors to accompany us; someone must have sent word. The pungent scent of fresh urine and feces makes my eyes water. Blood-soaked grasses glisten with the sun’s rays. A small group of horses comes running from the thick bush. They snort their displeasure as their tails fan behind them. The battlefield now lies quiet, the farmers’ chickens clucking and a few cows lowing from the forest the only sounds in an unsettling stillness. The ground is slick under my boots. Trampled apples and berries release a pleasant fruity aroma when I kick the remnants through the green growth. Drying hay crumples under my boots where there are no bodies. The utter waste of life is astonishing. I approach the man responsible, the one who always causes trouble on market day. He and his friends torment my people. Until today, we allowed him to think us powerless.

Call a halt, I say, pulling the crawling man back with my blood-covered boot. His face is broken. Aren and Ekon are moving down the hill, leaving Linnie to protect the entrance. The man pulls away from my foot with one good arm, making a slow path in the muck. Aren stops in front of him and kicks his battered body, making him roll.

Crouching on my haunches, I reach for his blood-soaked hair. One eye opens, and the grey orb stares at me, speaking volumes of anger and hate. I laugh at the defiance. He’s trying to speak, but I can only assume his jaw is broken because there is little movement, only a grunting sound. Pulling his hair tighter, I lean forward.

Was it worth it? We were friends, Erik. We lived in harmony. Our people profited from each other. I glance at the battlefield, a graveyard for the dead and dying. Ekon edges closer to my prey, moving in for the kill, circling, letting his presence be known. His green eyes are vibrant with the hunt, and his daughter Reece mimics his eyes and his features. Hers flicker silver when she hunts, the same as her mother’s. Ekon narrows his gaze, and, baring his fangs, the panther’s sweet vanilla aroma fills the air. The villagers, friend and enemy, scream in fear. I shake my head at his approach. Not this time, my brother.

Ekon pushes Aren back with his big panther body, tail twitching. He bares his own fangs, but his have the menace of the vampire. His eyes blood red, the same he has given his son Bernard, daring the villagers to approach. They are my brothers, and their vow to me and our people weighs heavily in the air. We must protect the realm at all costs. I am king, and they are my defenders. In the end they will do as I command. They pull back and I shake my enemy.

You . . . you’re an abomination. Erik says as he struggles. I . . . know that you feed . . . use us. He is speaking from the back of his throat. The words are hard to understand. Futilely, he grabs at my claw, his body jerking in agony while I apply pressure to his skull, the pressure building in his beaten head. My sons, they will fi-find you, he chokes in anguish. Belligerent noises can be heard echoing from the field behind me. Erik grins, blood dripping from his ears and mouth. They will find you . . . even your own kind have betrayed you. Do you really think I could do this? he gasps, the enmity reflecting in one grey eye. I can do nothing but focus on his words, needing to know more. I shake him. He chokes, drowning in his blood while I crack his skull in my hand. His blood-soaked form crumples and I throw him to the side. Erik’s words rattle in my head: Your own kind have betrayed you. I wonder who has struck against us. Those in my realm holding coldness in their hearts?

Rising to my feet, I bellow, Warriors, bring the villagers to me! Without hesitation, vampire and soldiers move, pulling villagers to a huddle.

Ramsey! a woman calls from the group. We was not all with ’em. You have ta know we was fightin’ with ya, she says, her fear palpable. I nod and walk towards her. I recognize her: the woman we have traded vegetables and herbs with many times over the past.

Yes, I realize this, I say, stopping in front of her. Her strawberry-blond hair is pulled back into a bun, her round face filthy and pale with concern. I place my hand on her shoulder, and she shudders violently under my palm. Don’t be afraid. lifting my clawed hand, I move a fallen tendril of hair. Reflexively, she shivers in my hold. I see the intense glow of my eyes reflected in her gaze. My head rises, locking eyes with my mate. Her beauty is without compare. Her long black hair blows wildly in the wind. She hasn’t moved from the cave entrance, protecting our son, Nevar. Ramsey, look behind you! Lavinia cries, but I wave her off, needing a moment with this woman. What’s your name? I ask the trembling form.

Anne.

OK, Anne, I mumble, turning her toward the hill leading to the cave entrance. Go now. Anne doesn’t move, and I push a little more. Go to my mate, now your queen. She will guide you through. My warriors are watching. Many faces from my youth, standing tall and, oddly, a few fidgets. Ambrose—a fellow vampire and warrior of Rashwa, fangs bared in menace, his plaited black hair pulled tight against his skull, his huge stature intimidating even to our kind—won’t meet my gaze. Move the villagers through! I instruct. He does not move.

We will nae go with ya! I will nae become yer food! a female voice yells, breaking away from the group. Shadow, leader of the werewolf pack and one of my warriors, jumps in front of her, snarling, baring his long fangs. His grey spotted tail is horizontal, holding its position, black hair standing erect on his back. She gasps. I have children waitin’ on me ta come home . . . ye canna take me from ’em, she cries, pushing to break free. But Shadow’s charcoal eyes won’t budge. More warriors gather, stopping the villagers’ efforts to run away. Fadri—a panther shifter, his eyes yellow and his markings light brown, unlike Ekon, whose markings are a rare black—nudges a small group of villagers with his wet nose. Small droplets of saliva fall from his bared fangs, persuading them to follow the slow line of movement.

Those who fought with us will have a place to live and can have a good life. This will depend on you and your actions, but as for your families still in the village . . . those who did not come to fight or bear witness for their own enjoyment will assume you perished in battle, Aren shouts from behind me. He’s partway up the hill, surveying the weary villagers. The lives of our people are just as important to us as yours are to you. So, you must leave with us. If you choose to stay, tell us now and we will have you join the pile at the bottom of the hill.

Lavinia calls to me again, her violet blue orbs still red with fury, and I’m shocked, realizing what she has been trying to tell me.

Those who fought against us . . . well, we will see what is to be done. Aren’s strong voice is resolute and calm, in contrast to the rage racing in my veins. I smile cynically at the group of Rashwan’s walking toward the village, breaking away from the battle. Aren’s threats torment the guilty. A few of the walking men fall to the ground and grab my ankles, pleading, but I kick them off, moving with such speed that Aren’s voice is dulled by the winds.

Stopping in front of me is Ambrose, his hand raised in a placating manner. His imposing height mimics my own, but his power does not outdo mine. His eyes, although red, are dulling and his fangs are retracting, Sire . . . Ramsey, he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. I narrow my gaze, noticing the many surrounding him. Many fidget with agitation; some are crying. Lavinia shouts something at Ekon from the mountain’s door, but I’m focused on the group in front of me.

Speak, I seethe. What the hell is going on? Ambrose looks around at the group. A small girl runs in front of him in a protecting pose. Screams and grunting echo from the hill.

Ambrose’s mate inches forward, pulling a small girl away from her father. She cries, begging me not to kill her daddy. Sire . . . He looks weary, but I don’t care.

Speak! I bellow. Tell me why you desert your home.

We have tried! a woman, one of the witches, shouts from the group. But you choose nay ta listen. I can feel the pulsing in my jaw, and my fangs edge longer. Ambrose steps back.

Ekon roars from the battlefield. What do you mean, traitor? I prompt. No one has come to me with any demands. Speak.

A white-haired man approaches, stopping beside Ambrose. Sire. I recognize him. His clean hair is cut straight at the shoulder; intelligent light-blue eyes and somewhat feminine pale features don’t match the usual ruddy appearance of the druid, but I have met him many times before. Sire, Malcolm repeats in a soft tone, we have tried to speak with the Circle, but our concerns have been pushed aside.

I have heard nothing from the Circle, I say, anger and confusion pushing through my veins. Unconsciously my tongue emerges, licking the dry fangs, tasting the remnants of my conquest. Did you arrange this . . . this massacre? I ask, throwing my clawed hand out, barely able to contain my fury.

Aren shouts, Take them! Let them stand with the others. Warriors shout instructions. Grab them . . . push them through the mountain.

Gary and Cathy approach me with various druids and witches, their looks of concern obvious. Sire, what is happening? Gary asks, scrutinizing the group.

Cathy clicks her tongue in disapproval. What the devil’s wrong with ya? Ya mongrels. Can ya no just have left good enough alone? she asks.

Malcom approaches Gary. We are tired of living a little existence, he says to Gary. I’m eyeing him, but his gaze doesn’t reach my face. We have asked the Circle many times for the permission to seek new territories and lands. The were shifters and vampire need new hunting grounds . . . new blood. Gary purses his lips and Cathy mumbles something under her breath. The magics, the fairies, pixies—we all need new grounds for our herbs and healings, he continues. Even some of the dwarves have started digging beyond their realm’s mountains. We really don’t know if they approached you. They converse, all in deep reflection.

You’ve spoken with the Circle, my council of the realms? I ask. Momentarily oblivious to the commotion around me, the focus on my people’s plea is disturbed by my mate’s scream. She screams with such fury that I pull a breath and turn, witnessing the mass confusion.

Aren and Ekon, my two oldest friends, are both roaring with fury. Villagers are running chaotically from the lines, attacking with small daggers. Both my friends are fighting with glory. Ekon grabs a small boy, stabbing his deadly claws into his chest. A few more men tackle Ekon, but with little reward.

Aren pulls two men off his back. Tearing them from neck to knees, their flesh hangs loose over their dead forms.

They look up from the carnage, smiling. Two small boys run from behind a large tree. Everyone ignores the small forms, but the hairs on my arms lift. Everything in me jolts, propelling me forward. My speed brings me to my friends, but too late.

The two boys lunge forward. One jumps on Ekon, grabbing him by the fur on his back and climbing. Before Ekon can get the boy, a long, sharp dagger is thrust through the thickness of Ekon’s throat.

Aren screams for Ekon, distracted, and the other boy rolls on the ground, tripping him. Aren falls on one knee and the boy scrambles quickly, pulling Aren’s long strands of hair. He straddles his shoulders and thrusts his dagger into Aren’s throat. Stop! I bellow, but it’s too late.

The bodies of my friends, my brothers, lie on the ground, daggers protruding from their necks. Lavinia screams angrily from her perch on the hill, still not leaving her post. The two boys, shockingly, try to flee, and I grab them, Their jaws ticking furiously, their beady little eyes narrow on me. My fury rises in all its glory, fuelled by their defiance. For those of you, I roar, lifting the two boys high above my head by their throats, who think to challenge me . . . I pull a deep breath into my lungs; the scent of blood fills me. The two boys squirm in my hold, grabbing at my arms uselessly, and the villagers fall quiet. "See what will happen to you if you defy me!’ My voice reverberates off the mountainside. Squeezing my claws together, I puncture one boy’s neck, ripping the flesh from the bone. I pull the other to my fangs, his choked scream useless, unleashing my rage on him. I revel in the warm liquid squirting down my throat when I impel my fangs through the flesh of his neck. After my fill, I rip /the young flesh from his convulsing body. The villagers closest to us scream with the sounds of flesh being torn, but I don’t care. I throw the youths at the villagers’ feet, their blood dripping from their fallen forms.

Lavinia yells for the warriors to move to the villagers and I fall to my knees beside my brothers. Gary examines their bodies, looking for life, but I know it’s too late. Their stares are blank. My brothers, whom I have loved all my life, have left me. I will have tapestries made, I vow to my fallen brothers. They will hang forever, telling your story. Tears fall freely, moistening the dried blood on my cheeks.

Ekon . . . I touch his black fur, laying my head on his. I will take Reece as my own. Her beauty outdoes yours. I smile at Ekon’s handsome face. Even as a panther he was dashing. We met as children, my old friend, when you came for a visit from the realm of were’s, but we became fast brothers and you stayed. Your daughter will want for nothing; her green stare and black fur will be my constant reminded of our bond. I will ensure she knows of her realm, and she will be loved. Wiping my face with the back of my arm, I lay my head on Akon’s. Sniffing, my chest tight with emotion. I will raise Bernard as my own. He will take your role, as he grows, as Nevar’s protector. We have grown together, and now you two bastards leave me alone. I stand, looking one last time at the fallen. I will miss you both, more than you will ever know. Sleep well, until I see you again.

Lavinia’s continued cries of agony echo my own internal battle. I could rip each of these villagers apart, but Anne’s words remind me: We was not all with ’em. Heartache gnaws in my chest, and an ache moves through me like I’ve never known before. Breathing the scent of my brothers’ blood once more, a scent I will never forget, I look for those who would desert me.

They’re gone, sire. Cathy has appeared beside me, her little hand holding my clawed arm. You can’t kill all the villagers . . . we need them.

I shake my head. For what? I ask incredulously. Every fibre of my being wants to rip the hearts out of their chests.

Gary approaches. Sire, I know now isn’t the time, but the defectors chose to use the villagers’ rebellion as an excuse to exit the realm of Rashwa. We have found papers on the dead villagers, maps . . . Cathy holds up folded brown papers. Not all the maps are current, mind. But some are, she says, shaking her head, eyeing the defectors escaping through the forest, choosing this time, the fall of my brothers, to make their exits. It looks like certain families of Rashwa have given the villagers maps to enter. I guess it was part of their plan.

Why? I ask, replaying the morning’s events in my head. Druids and witches walk around the dead. I’m curious if their mumbles are blessing or curses. Gary pushes me back. My confusion turns to a grin and a smile plays on Gary’s lips when a few chicks, yellow and fluffy, run past, followed by their mother squawking a furious reprimand at her wayward offspring. The animals no longer sense the danger.

We don’t know, only that this is what the papers indicate. And as I said, some of the maps are accurate, Cathy says, breaking into my thoughts.

Momentarily pulled from my grief, I shake my head. Gary, I say, rubbing my eyes. The events this morning have made me weary. They said they spoke with the Circle, The Circle is my council of the royals, the rulers, where each of the realms of Rashwa are represented, the were’s and shifters, the fairy, the dwarves, the vampire, pixie. The druid and the witches live among us all—their academic and political ways are useful, and they are our advisors. We follow the ways of our ancients, but the final rule is mine. If the Circle did not bring a concern to me, they had to have a reason. We have laws, and if the people wanted to leave to pursue lives elsewhere, they need permission from the Circle and then me, or they will not be able to return. I let out a heavy sigh. I’m wondering . . .

About what? Cathy asks, her face etched with concern.

Perhaps the rebels . . . I laugh, shaking my head. It can’t be possible. Perhaps the rebels, the ones my father banished . . .

Sire, they were banished by your father because they refused to obey the laws of Rashwa. They became the nightmare that the outside world still uses for their lore, Gary huffs.

The Circle, and my father, conducted a trial and when the rebels’ atrocities were brought forth. The rebels were banished. They never agreed with our ancestors’ ways. They insisted on hunting and tormenting the humans, taking their blood, keeping the humans as food and slaves, warring with each other. The druids and the witches’ coven suggested your father close the doors so the rebels could not cause havoc and massacre the masses. Is it possible that one of the new defectors found a small group of rebels? Their can’t be many still alive. The survivors—he shrugs—may be looking for a way back into Rashwa. Gary takes a breath and reflects. The two of us stand beside each other, looking at the scene around us.

Even with maps, there was some serious magic used just to allow the villagers to see the doorway. The chance of them getting through without us was little, but for the villagers to find us, trying to penetrate our barriers . . . Cathy’s face twists in disgust.

We have a small network set up, spies, if you wish, I say, shrugging. But now we will need to modernize our network, to keep our eyes on what’s happening. We can’t allow the rebels—well, you know, I say, my voice hoarse with fatigue. It has been years. The rebels have likely perished or are dying out by now. Our people rely on the obsidian mountains for protection, but also for energy and life force. The rebels have been without for over a hundred years. They can feed but little else. Without the obsidian’s protection, their power has weakened. They won’t be able to mate or heal, reproduce any offspring. Without the protection and the power of the obsidian, their time was limited from the day my father sent them out. Granted, after today we will close the entrance to Rashwa for a while, our own ability to reproduce could diminish slowly, as you know, but the villagers will keep our supplies strong for two or three generations. I blink, my eyes twitching. My heart aches with grief. We will have a lot of work to do so my son can reopen the doors and the realms of Rashwa can emerge anew.

Cathy clears her throat, breaking my thoughts. This is new, Cathy says. Blankly I look at her. The arm, she says, indicating my recent change. She moves forward a little, allowing for a small herd of cows to walk past. She smiles at the beasts. I take a moment to examine my new changed appendage: black leathery skin bleeding from my natural olive tone. Long, sharp, cruelly curved fingers narrow, and I flex, feeling the claw. I remember the boy, how easy it was to puncture my opponent and extract his throat in one single move. Cathy huffs in surprise when I flex the extended length. Lifting her brow skeptically, she says, And the fangs . . . She touches my chin, wiping drying blood. Pushing my tongue out, I lick with purpose, feeling the change of my fangs. The extension of length and razor-sharp edges were no contest for any of my prey. She examines me in astonishment.

Pointing at my fallen brothers with a sad grin, I say, My new form was not enough to save them.

Meaning?

Ramsey, Cathy soothes, following my gaze to Lavinia, my mate. She is eyeing a young man with a dagger in his hand, lunging for her. She pulls her sword from its scabbard, the shwang music to my ears, Lavinia lifts the hilt, knocking the villager over. Stunned, the young man uselessly scrounges for his dagger while Lavinia ruthlessly grabs his hair, pulling him back, and efficiently slices the throat of one who thought to overpower my beautiful queen. She sheathes her sword and throws the man down the hill. Cathy continues. This Erik has to have been influenced by the rebels, or the defectors. After all, our people have been trading for some time. Somewhere the seed about us was planted. He found someone with the villagers who were told about the Rashwan’s. Erik and the Hawthorn villagers were used to open the door. I’m sure they had the promise of riches.

Confusion strikes me. I state the obvious. I have killed Erik. Cathy looks at his crumpled form.

Yes, Ramsey, but he was found by someone with knowledge of Rashwa, and what my witches are convinced are rebels. Cathy takes a deep breath. If Erik was so determined to find us, to destroy or hurt us, he wouldn’t know how to find Rashwa, then we must assume that the rebels and or the defectors had approached the villagers. They used them, knowing the villagers would never survive but might possibly succeed in opening the doors back to Rashwa and in our—well, in their thoughts, allowing passage to the outer realms. The druids have discussed and the witches agree: we had little or no conflicts with the village of Hawthorn. Some of us even think they knew we fed on them. But what was Erik’s intention, so someone fed him lies or promised him something, putting this whole massacre into action. I watch the druids casting spells and the witches’ council whispering to the ground, saying prayers for our dead whose essence has now departed to the planes to walk with our ancestors. Vines and grasses grow before my eyes, wrapping my brothers, encasing them in their tombs.

Ramsey, whatever enticed the villagers, they were not strong enough to penetrate Rashwa, but the intent was laced with menace. It’s a game for the rebels. If we’re correct, they have found use of the dark arts, and are preying on the weak-minded. The seeds are planted now. Cathy takes her mate’s hand. Ramsey, where we lived in peace . . . Gary and I feel nature changing. Your physical change tonight—your inner magic is preparing you. The villagers’ attack . . . they know of us now, we are not safe. The druids and the witches’ council feel that you must protect Nevar and your children, our children, until they are older and coming into their own power.

I nod. Gary looks around. He’s thinking. Some of the druids and the witches have decided to break off into the world. We will meet with our spies, look for dangers, find out about this new threat. We will leave Rashwa and report to the Circle. With the new fairy queen, Lara, and her collectives, she’s proven to hold formidable magic. I know the dwarves will reinforce the barriers with the obsidian, and with the remaining witches and druids, barriers can be enforced and the magics will hold. He says.

Ramsey! Lavinia calls from the hill. They are all in. We must go.

Ramsey, she’s correct. Go. Scrutinize each villager. The magics from the witches and fairies will be no match for them. You must find out all they know, Gary says as he wraps his arm around Cathy. The villagers you have now will be enough to keep the vampire line alive for a while, but eventually we will need to regroup and bring in new blood. For now . . . well, it’s enough. He shrugs. I will check in, but Cathy and I leave immediately.

I agree. Take the coinage accumulated tonight. We have a few allies in the world that we trust. Use them and let me know about the communication network, so we can send our people to defend Rashwa when needed,