Blizzard (Black Ice Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Books by the author

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Auria Map 1868 PV

  Auria Map 1287

  From the Beginning’s End…

  Part I

  Chapter 1 - A Deal Struck

  Chapter 2 - Wanton Sacrifices

  Chapter 3 - Maturing Prospects

  Chapter 4 - Pulse

  Chapter 5 - Time

  Chapter 6 - Checking Out

  Chapter 7 - Vigilance

  Chapter 8 - To Break and Mend

  Chapter 9 - 14 Years War Waged

  Chapter 10 - Final Battle

  Chapter 11 - To Change the World

  Part II

  Chapter 12 - Tidal

  Chapter 13 - Lessons Learned

  Chapter 14 - Un-Filtered

  Chapter 15 - Ruin & Refuge

  Chapter 16 - The Long Road

  Chapter 17 - Forgiving Sins

  Chapter 18 - The Affront

  Chapter 19 - The Bonds That Tie

  Chapter 20 - To Pluck a Petal

  Chapter 21 - Bound by Faith

  About the author

  Books by Mikayla Elliot

  The Black Ice Trilogy

  Snow

  Blizzard

  Hail

  (Coming Soon)

  Blizzard

  by Mikayla Elliot

  Copyright © 2018 Mikayla Elliot

  All rights reserved

  First Edition

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, recording, or otherwise without the prior express permission of the author except as provided by USA Copyright Law. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment

  This book is a work of fiction and does not represent any individual, living or dead. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally.

  Edited by Karen Robinson

  Proofread by Jennifer Oberth

  Interior formatting by Gaynor Smith

  All of Indie Books Gone Wild

  Cover design by Fiona Jayde

  of Fiona Jayde Media

  Published in the United States of America

  Muffin, I’m on Book No. 2, where are you?

  To my Beta Readers, Diana, Frankie, and Shayla – you ladies are phenomenal, and your input and feedback was priceless in refining Blizzard! Thank you!

  THE PASSAGE OF time is not an easy course to follow, especially when the loop never seems to end. I have lived so many lives, though I do not appear old. You cannot see the multitude of births and deaths I have endured, nor the families I have raised and lost. My crown of wisdom will never carry through onto my head but will stay locked up inside my soul’s memory only to be unchained on occasion. Those occasions, such as the first visit I spent with Eliza, drive away others of my kind from me like a curse that reaches out across space and creeps into false security. It’s the hand you know as a child that surely waits to grab your ankle as you exit your too-high bed. It ensnares and refuses to release its hold, leaving an impression in hearts and minds while filling voids that had once purposefully been emptied. It is one of many reasons I left the sanctuary Eliza had provided for me in those early days. The one place I knew I would be safe to rest.

  However, nothing is ever meant to last. The truth abounds and hearts easily break, mine being no exception. It is the fatal flaw in the fabric of life that I had to contend with to reach the point where you now find me: the truth will always be brought to light.

  No matter how hard we fight it.

  Now is the time to expose the origins of how vampires came to be, during Pre-Vampire (P.V.) times. What a disservice I would commit not to reveal the intertwining fates that led to Kareese’s death, how the individuals who followed her would sacrifice their humanity to protect those they loved and did not know, and how I would come to face my greatest foes. All these things I have learned from direct sources as well as through my gifted curse.

  With Eliza detaining me at the sanctuary, she set into motion the most vigorous efforts to train my gift. The moment after dismissing Helsing and his party to begin their search, she led me to a chamber beneath the training room that I had yet to explore. The room was readily prepared for the utmost comfort to be found, with the colors awash in blues, teals, and tans to browns. Six single beds lined the walls, three to each side, with white sheets, comforters, and pillows waiting patiently for willing occupants. A smell gently invaded my senses, calming my agitated nerves to a state of unusual peace given the present circumstances, and I did not wish to fight off such an advance.

  Eliza appeared nervous, which I could not understand then. “Now, Neva, this session will be rather long and possibly dangerous.” Still, her words did not dissuade my nerves to rise above the calm that had happily planted itself deep inside my mind. Reviewing my stable expression, Eliza continued, “We must take this journey together.” Her eyes scanned Thedryk and Xavier as they nodded in assent. “So you understand how all you know now came into existence.” Four other vampires had filed into the room, dutifully escorting metal rods on rounded black wheels that carried bags of what I assumed to be blood. The color and smell within the faded white bags barely scratched the surface of the other scent I found so intoxicating I caught myself taking deep breaths to fill my lungs. The sight, however, kept my attention as long strings hung loosely about the silvered frames, seeming to shudder with the movements.

  I wondered at their use and application and at who the fresh faces were. I did not recognize them from the initial banquet where I had been introduced to the others. “What is all this?” My words slurred as they formed the question and drowsiness bore weight upon my eyes.

  “Safety measures, if you will.” Eliza had walked over to me, though her movements appeared jagged and out of sequence, coming in at strange angles.

  I felt arms wrap themselves behind my shoulders and under my legs, sweeping me up “Why aren’t you all the same?” My head fell back in the motions. I held no strength and no control to my muscles. The last image I saw was Xavier’s face, his warm, brown skin and those unnatural, amber eyes studying my reaction. He had picked me up, the leaded weight I felt my body had become.

  “All will become clearer very soon, Neva.” Eliza’s words were becoming a distant buzz in my ears.

  “She’s almost gone.” Thedryk voiced a concern. “Xavier…is…” Then came the rush of hot and cold over my skin, flashes and abrupt halts for subtle moments where I could feel my body stabilize once more before the visions came to me. Stark, bright images of somewhere familiar appeared before me as though there had been nothing the moment before, but the familiar place was so changed from what I had known just recently I felt somewhat shocked. I also discovered, to my great dismay, that I could not control where I looked nor could I control my body. What follows is the painful truth of sacrifices I would not otherwise have known in its unbearable entirety.

  May 4, 1868 (P.V.)

  JERISEN STOOD IN the alleyway of the bustling capital with his son waiting patiently ten paces further in as they watched for their target. The bells sounded from the chapel in the distance, identifying the time as a quarter to eleven. No clouds for cover from the full moon meant higher stakes, yet the buildings were set close together with rooftops overhanging just enough to cast shadows to hide within. Jerisen was poised and ready as the deadliest serpent fr
om his homeland. Said homeland, which lay beyond the seas of his current shores, harbored an assortment of people and monsters not yet familiar to the land which he had bound himself and his family.

  Back home Jerisen and his clan had been the most notorious assassins, trained from childhood as he trained his youngest son, Xavier. With skin as dark as a moonless night, lithe bodies built for quick and efficient movements without exposing their presence, it was rumored they held no other intended purpose in life. However, nothing was further from the truth. Jerisen, a member of the Heruvish Clan, knew their existence determined the course of the world’s power. Nothing was more valuable, more precious, than the oath each Clansman held with their Bondsman. Each swore to serve a set household in various lands, and those oaths were life-binding. As such, each man had the right to choose to whom they would swear their allegiance and for how long, making them a rare commodity. While many left to never return, there were those who, matured and experienced, would eventually make their way back to their homelands to teach the next generation. Jerisen had chosen a path rarely taken by bringing his growing family with him rather than returning and settling down.

  Having aligned with the Charan household, Jerisen had found an abundance of work to be done, always sharpening his skills and learning more to teach his remaining son. More knowledge to share with the other Heruvish clansmen, one day.

  Both father and son were dressed in skintight garb of black covering all but their eyes, encased in cloaks of brown hanging loosely about their frames. Charcoal had been used around their eyes to diminish any possibility of identifying the individual’s skin, yet Jerisen took one look behind him to see his son’s amber-colored eyes and knew an alternative would one day be needed. Xavier, at 14, was already an experienced assassin in his own right, but he differed from his father with much lighter skin and eyes. These traits he had inherited from his mother, those very eyes Jerisen had cherished, skin the color of the darkest cinnamon. Xavier had been the only child to inherit those traits, which were the biggest detriment to his future as an assassin. How can he ever work if he must kill all who see those eyes? Assassins they were, but not all their jobs required ending a life.

  A shuffling of feet brought Jerisen back to the task at hand. He had been sent to the capital city of this kingdom to gather intel and remove the imminent threats to his Bondsman, Effren Charan. One by one, Jerisen had been eliminating the identified threats. This one, the man he heard drunkenly shuffling his way unwittingly to his final steps, had proven to be the easiest of targets to locate and remove.

  “I…*hick-belch*…reh-fuuuhse to be treated as such! I…” The man was stumbling on more than just his words as he was caught by one of his personal guard; Jerisen had seen four men accompanying the bloated figure into, and out of, the tavern. “I am the king of surface!” Two of the four guards gave a slight chuckle as the other two worked, struggling to keep their irritated composures in check.

  “Wai…that’s no’ right…” The man worked to straighten himself up, concentrating hard to get his bearings on where he was and what he was saying as he tugged at his fine coat. “Hensen.” He patted the guard to his right on the cheek. “You know…” A HUP sound rose within the drunkard, and he clenched his mouth shut tight, beady eyes watering and his fat, rounded nose turning all the redder as he took a moment to swallow back down the vomit. “You know what I mean.” He completed the sentence, smiling as he mentally congratulated himself on containing the uprising.

  “Aye sir, you are in service to the king, as we all rightly know.” The man named Hensen was struggling not to let his irked state show through.

  “Shou…may’e jus’ one more drink…that lil’ redhead had quite…” HUP, the sound rose again, and this time the drunkard covered his mouth with his hand, but to no avail. Nothing could keep the man from regurgitating the alcohol and meal he had ingested within the previous two hours. Liquids and partially digested chunks of meat, potatoes, and bits of corn spewed from between the man’s fat and swollen fingers, dulling the golden rings that reflected his wealth, and partly catching Hensen’s far right arm and waist. The drunkard staggered forward and leaned against the corner wall closest to Jerisen. In sync, Jerisen retreated two steps back himself further into the shadows, throwing quick hand signals to Xavier who followed in obedience.

  Hensen began cursing, first a loud outburst of one or two words, then quickly dwindled down as his comrades had all gasped and gagged at the smell that had followed. Uttering a growl, Hensen slowly turned on the men, clearly their superior. “Take care of this…” Hensen waited a moment, holding his breath to stop himself from screaming before he spoke again. “Help return his lordship back to his home.” Hensen turned to head back into the very tavern they had just left.

  “Ey.” One of the two from the back who had found humor in the situation apparently found none in the moment. “We’re all supposed to escort his lordship back, Hensen.”

  “Shut it, Braison,” Hensen snapped back, his white-wisped sideburns making his reddening face appear to gleam around his cold, blue eyes, a visage causing the other man to straighten and bristle in response. “If you three are unable to handle returning this one man back safely, then what good are you? Besides,” Hensen spat the words out as he looked down at his sleeve and waistline, his dark coat and white sash about his waist coated in the brown puke, steam rolling off in the chill of the night. “I doubt you’ll want my presence in my current state to accompany any of you back.” Hensen looked back at the man still leaning against the wall, relieving himself after emptying his stomach from the path the contents had entered. “Get to it, before he causes anymore trouble.”

  “Yessir,” the remaining men resonated in lackluster response. None of the men seemed to be as alert as Jerisen had expected, and based on the smell the group carried, he surmised all had had their own drink over the two-hour course of entertainment. Each man stood with a longsword strapped about their waist, but that was their only weapon easily accessible. Jerisen knew each had a knife strapped within their left boot but nothing beyond that. Hensen went inside, the door shutting firmly behind him in his fitful state.

  “Come now, sir, time to head back home. The wife will be in a state if you aren’t home soon.” The man identified as Braison stepped forward, gently placing a hand on the man’s back.

  Now, Jerisen knew, was the time. He signaled to Xavier to create the diversion they had planned. Xavier wasted no time in his part by taking a bottle he had picked up from the alleyway and smashing it against the building’s wall; he then began mewling a light cry. The beauty of his youth was his voice hadn’t fully changed; manhood had not taken over this feature, so he sounded still a child. All three men became alert, eyes darting to the darkened alleyway.

  “Who’s there?” Braison called out but received only a louder cry that Xavier reduced to sobbing. “Come on out now, we won’t hurt ya!” Braison turned back to the two remaining men, motioning them forth.

  “This is on the order from the guards of his Lordship Hanvel, fourth advisor to the king!” The guard standing the furthest back hollered out before striding forward, brazen. He was young, brash, and inexperienced. Braison grasped after him, hissing his name to stop, but missed getting a good grasp, and the young man’s pace was faster than anticipated as he was already drawing his longsword.

  He stalked right into the alleyway out of view from his comrades and directly into Jerisen’s dual wielded poisoned daggers. They slipped cleanly into his throat and stomach, a gurgling sound the only indication something had gone wrong. Jerisen almost felt the tip of guilt as the young man’s face came into view. Shocked bright hazel eyes blinked once, twice, tears not even having the chance to build or unload, and plain brown hair rustled in a breeze that danced down the alley carrying the repugnant odor of the vomit from his main target. Jerisen could see the guard was much younger than originally estimated, probably about Jerisen’s middle son’s age of 18, but it was too late for regrets
. Life dimmed from the boy’s eyes. Jerisen knew the job was not complete.

  Swiftly he guided the dead young man down and removed his daggers as he heard the remaining two call out to the boy. “Edric?” Their voices were nervous, edged with the outlines of fear. Their unison voices identified both of the men had not moved from their position but held firm. These men were more experienced—where Edric had just entered, both knew they would not leave.

  Signaling to his son once more, Jerisen motioned it was time to complete the task, which meant direct combat. Whispering was being exchanged between the remaining two guards as the sound of a body thudded against the wall around the corner, a dragging sound issuing as the figure slid down. Swords rasped from their scabbards, and the two tried to summon courage from one another. “Come on out, you filthy coward!” Braison again, his voice bold and not giving way to the fear this time.

  Jerisen smiled; he could not help but appreciate a man who would so willingly welcome death. Xavier shot out from the alleyway to the one directly opposite their current position, the second distraction, drawing the two men to turn his way but still unwilling to leave their ward entirely unprotected. The figure that had darted across before the men had been a blur of darkness in the stark moonlight, obviously cloaked, not large by any means, but too fast to follow.

  “Lil’ whore…” the Lordship Hanvel muttered before expelling a snore.

  Braison ticked a disapproving sound before issuing a command between gritted teeth. “Morset, go get Hensen.” Morset did not respond. “Morset?” Braison turned his attention back to where Morset had been, only to find the man standing at an odd angle. A gasp hitched from his open mouth before his body dropped to the ground, blond hair covering the horrified expression. Another figure, taller than the five-foot, ten-inch Morset and cloaked, stood directly behind where Morset had been. Braison saw moonlight and firelight from the torches catch on two silvered blades, daggers, shining between the smears of blood before he felt a blade enter his side. Braison got out half a cry of pain before another entered his throat, cutting off his windpipe. Amber eyes angled from below was the last image Braison saw. He barely had time before his death to realize neither assailant had made a sound in their movements, let alone in their attacks, and all had transpired in what could only be estimated in two minutes, possibly less.