Immortal Blood: Chronicles of the Immortal Blood, #1

By Blair M Thorne

Years ago, the Daughter of Creation and Destruction made a wager with Fate. If his Sight could best her, she would give him everything. Body, soul, and power. At last, their game has begun.

The Final World War fractured the human race and razed the earth. Hidden in the wasteland, Zero Naken’s only wish is for time to wash the blood from his hands. For his memory to fade. The Gods have other plans. Thrust in to the death matches of the Shadow Walker Tournament, Zero must return to his life as a killer or succumb to the onslaught of prize-winning combatants. He refuses to die here, the pawn of a jealous God. But he’ll do it on his own terms.

Arisa Greene would do anything to see her lady’s will come to pass. Even sacrifice the freedom of a man she’s never met. Zero has been chosen to become the Warrior—the champion who will slay the titan in Fate’s keeping. Yet without the power of her blood in his veins, he has no hope of defeating the beast before him.

The Gods have placed their bets. Will Fate fall?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fish in the Pen Publishing
• Release date: Sep 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9780692286203

Blair M Thorne

Part time writer and full time creative, Blair M. Thorne left behind a life of beakers and organics when she finally acknowledged she had fallen in love with the pen. She lives in Illinois with her husband and two sassy purr boxes. You can find her on: Twitter: @bthorne89 Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/blair.thorne.7

Book preview

Prologue

Eyan could feel it on the other side of the portal, taunting him. It thought it was safe in the keeping of the Daughter of Creation and Destruction. It thought it had beaten him.

The Tome of Ages.

Delusional old book.

As Eyan marched away from the entrance to the Maiden Goddess’s gilded cage, an icy finger traced his spine. He increased his pace, and the cold chased after him. Yet Eyan refused to run. He merely quick-stepped down the marble corridors of Xerynth, home of the Gods.

At this hour, all was still.

Most Gods were sequestered in their chambers. The servants had all retired for the day. All that remained in these resplendent hallways were Eyan and the chill of the outer realms where the darkest members of the Pantheon resided.

When he stood on the mural painted to represent the eighteen Gods of the Pantheon with the Source at the center, Eyan finally felt the cold dissipate.

He smiled.

Six hallways branched out behind him, leading to the Gods’ personal places of power. Before him stood a pair of great, wooden doors, carved to depict the last battle between humankind and the superior race that resided here.

Eyan stepped through these doors into the throne room, where the King of the Gods could be found when sleep eluded him.

Past the rows of carved chairs, up the steps of the dais, and seated upon his throne was Osythen. The God King waited until Eyan stood at the foot of the dais to speak, and it was a single word.

Eyan. Both question and acknowledgement.

I want to propose a wager between myself and the Tome of Ages, Eyan said.

Osythen’s depthless gaze never wavered. Enlighten me.

Destiny made a grave mistake when she chose the Immortal Blood King, Eyan said.

That’s self-evident, Osythen said. There was no heat in the words, but Eyan licked his lips.

Well…now she’s making moves to correct it, with the book’s help, Eyan said. I wager she’s made a mistake in choosing her Champion and The Tome is foolish to back her.

How do you intend to prove this?

By pitting her chosen warrior against mine. If I win, I get custody over them both for the good of the multiverse, Eyan said.

What if you fail? Osythen said. What is the Tome’s reward?

Cold ghosted over Eyan.

He hadn’t planned for such an event, and he hadn’t expected that Osythen would care.

Well…uh…I suppose…

I decree, Osythen said, his voice rumbling with power. If Destiny’s Champion should succeed, I will grant them a privilege.

That would mean… You would loosen their bindings?

Something that might have been a smile touched Osythen’s lips. If they can best your Sight, they will prove themselves capable of handling some freedom.

Chapter 1

Zero crouched on an outcrop of rock and peered through his binoculars at the horizon. Searching for signs of an approaching hover.

He spared a glance for the sun’s position. It wasn’t quite time yet, but it would not be long.

He rolled the bee bees around in his palm.

Wind caught the sand covering the hard-packed plain, and tossed it into a cloud, obscuring Zero’s vision.

Damn, he said. The hand holding the binoculars fell to his knee. The wind slapped his face with grit and the strands of his brown hair.

Zero closed his blue eyes and opened the quiet place inside him, the place where the dark lake lived. For the entirety of his life, the dark waters had lived inside him. The source of his power and his awareness of others like him. It stretched out as far as he could perceive, smooth as glass.

He opened his eyes.

There weren’t any of his kind around.

The wind was natural, if inconvenient.

Zero got to his feet, boots crunching on sand, and climbed onto the jagged metalwork jutting out from the rock face. Loose cables dangled from the criss-crossing lattices supporting the platform on which he stepped. The surface inclined gently into space, and he braced his feet against its heavy bolts. Several feet from the structure’s end, Zero came to the last metal plate and stopped.

It was a relic from the days before the Great War.

He didn’t know what its job had been, but now it made a perfect perch for a hungry Shift.

Zero brought the binoculars back to his face. A smile slid over his mouth, revealing the pointed eye teeth that marked him as something more—and less than—human.

On the horizon, was the dust cloud he’d been waiting to see.

Inside of that cloud was the armored cargo shuttle containing goods and provisions.

Zero threw himself off his metal perch, black coat unfurling like wings around his body. The bee bees dug into his palm. He hit the ground and rolled before coming to his feet to dispel the momentum of his fall. Then he ran, chasing his metal prey.

The silver hide of the cargo shuttle winked in the sunlight.

Zero threw open the door on the quiet place. Crimson light surged through the dark lake and flooded his irises with its color. He threw the bee bees into the air over his head and allowed his power to take them.

The tiny spheres of metal shot through the air as if ejected from a firearm. They shredded through the levitation panels allowing the craft to stay afloat.

The cargo shuttle hit the ground with a crunch like snapping bone. Metal whined as the momentum of the craft strained bolts and plating to the snapping point. Dust blew up from the shuttle’s impact.

Zero covered his head and turned away from the crash.

Debris flew around him, some pieces crashing into his back. He staggered forward, coming to one knee, under the force of the blows. When the shuttle settled with a final thump, Zero surged to his feet, scraping up a handful of sand as he turned to face his prey.

A hatch opened in the shuttle’s side.

Four armed operatives scrambled out, sunlight flashing off their smooth body armor. A silver shield, with the word Heaven inscribed in gold, decorated their sternums.

Zero’s power turned the sand to energy bullets.

Cracks exploded over the front of the operatives’ armor. Their armor was meant to dissipate energy. It couldn’t withstand much force. They stumbled back from the impact, spraying the dirt with automatic fire.

Steam hissed up from the wounds in the earth. Even the wasteland’s parched soil was colder than the superheated, laser rounds. Despite his inhumanity, Zero could still be put down by a well-aimed shot from such a weapon.

He snatched up more sand as he ducked around the shuttle’s nose.

Heavy footfalls followed.

Zero spun, releasing a cloud of homicidal sand when the first operative rounded the corner of the shuttle. The force of the energy projectiles slammed the operative squarely in the chest. Armor shattered, splintering the Heaven insignia and sprinkling the ground with polycarbonate.

The Heaven lackey hacked and sputtered.

Blood splattered the thirsty ground.

Zero shoved sand directly from the ground into the Heaven agent’s chest.

The operative went limp.

Zero’s power grabbed him.

Without the operative’s will to protect it from Zero’s power, the Heaven agent’s body made a wonderful battering ram. His teammates made perfect targets. The body’s weight meant it couldn’t travel as fast as the sand, but it was faster than the team could escape. The operatives landed in a heap of tangled limbs.

They didn’t get back up.

With an effort of will, Zero pushed the door to the quiet place closed, and his eyes bled back to blue.

Zero darted back around the shuttle and climbed inside through the gaping hatch. Cool air from the climate control licked along his skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. He stepped to his right, into the cockpit.

Instead of the controls he expected, Zero found a hulking, metal stone where the driver’s seat should have been. The bastards had learned his tactics. He wouldn’t be commandeering the whole shuttle this time. Wires protruded from the autopilot’s front into the console, where a warning light flashed. A signal to base that the shuttle had taken damage.

Zero ripped the wires free.

The light winked out.

A lever under the dash released the cargo hatch with a thunk and hiss.

As with most cargo shuttles, this one had an open-air truck meant for rationing the goods so none of the entitled villages received more than the penance of aid the wealthy cities felt they could spare. But thanks to a few decent souls, and the existence of bandits, anytime a shuttle was raided, a new shipment would go out.

Zero loaded the back of the truck and piled smaller goods into the seat beside him. The engine roared to life when he cranked the key.

The tires bounced from the end of the ramp and threw sand when Zero yanked the vehicle into gear and smashed the accelerator against the floorboard.

He let out a whoop of triumph, digging around in one of the bags beside him. His fingers curled around a hunk of cheese. It went down smooth, the first dairy he’d had in weeks.

Chapter 2

Arisa Greene stood in a dark office, eyes locked on a large screen. A brown-haired Shift, eyes glowing red with his power, threw a handful of sand. Even her eyes couldn’t track the particles once they left his palm. But they shattered armor well enough. She recognized the battle-glee etched into his features.

He’d seen the Great War.

The video froze.

He’s the one. A legend from The War, her employer said. He lounged behind a desk carved of stone, his face covered in a veil of shadow.

But Arisa could see him.

His dark hair was dusted with silver at one temple, a geneticist’s work half done. A tan born of blood, not sun, colored his stern jaw and the scar that slashed over the corner of his mouth and ended at his chin. The suit was as dark as the room. He wore an emerald tie tack on his crimson tie. The gem stone matched his cold eyes. A too white shirt was underneath.

Reno Naken.

Genetics connoisseur and head of the Nina Group, he was one of the wealthiest men alive. He wanted the Shift on the screen captured unharmed. A job he’d hired Arisa to do. Kidnapping was a task many of her clients requested.

Arisa tucked a few loose strands of her black hair behind her left ear. What makes him so special? she asked. Of all the powerful mutants left after the Final World War, Reno appeared eager to cage this one. Who was this young man to the tycoon? What was Reno’s game?

The scarred side of Reno’s mouth turned up, and he said, He and I have…history.

Evasive bastard.

They all were. So desperate to keep their power they cocooned themselves in castles forged of blood.

Reno’s agenda didn’t really matter. Unless it interfered with her own. Although she was taking orders from him—for now—Arisa’s real objective came from a source far higher than a mortal business mogul. Reno Naken’s desires were nothing more than a front to ward off humanity’s suspicious gaze.

You will have him within the week, Arisa said.

No. Registration for the games is in three days, Reno said. He was using the voice that expected to be obeyed. They all had some version of it. You have until then to bring him to me.

Darkness moved behind Arisa’s violet eyes. Anger stirred hot in her belly, creating an image of what Reno might look like with that desk sticking out of his chest. Her tongue slid over one of her fangs. Black lacquered nails dug into the pale flesh of her palms. The pain pulled her back to herself, reminding her of what was at stake.

Of course, sir, she said.

Don’t fail me.

She gave the words the contemptuous silence they deserved.

Arisa spun on her heel and made for the door. The sound of her hair whispering over the back of her leather jacket was all that broke the silence.

The steel on steel door glided open on smooth hinges. A holdover from the last days of The War, when assassinations were the norm.

Arisa stepped into the glare of a too-white corridor and blinked the pain from her eyes. The sharp heels of her boots snapped against tile. The leather creaked slightly. Denim caressed itself on each step.

At the end of the hall stood the man who had been there when she entered for her appointment. His hair was the color of a mahogany desk, rich and varied. With his back painfully straight he looked like he hadn’t moved since that time. Yet his coat seemed to shift around him on its own.

Arisa smelled a cold dampness drifting off his body. She doubted he was human, but he gave off no energy. Everything about him seemed stagnant.

His stern brown eyes tracked her movement down the hall.

Arisa met his gaze once before proceeding to ignore him. As odd as he was, he’d offered her no violence or resistance, and she had more important things to worry about.

Still, she pressed the elevator’s button harder than was necessary. Her reflection in the gleaming doors wore a neutral expression. She passed a hand over the front of her violet shirt, smoothing an invisible wrinkle.

A soft ding.

The doors slid open.

Once cocooned within the metal shell, she let a snarl slide over her lips. In a million years nothing had changed. Men of standing wanted everything, the rest of the populace be damned. They waved about meaningless tokens with the pretext of knowing strength. The masses groveled, certain no other measures of success existed.

Even witnessing the Earth torn open by war had changed nothing.

A growl rose up behind her teeth.

She placed a hand against the left side of her neck. The hidden tattoo flared black beneath her fingers. Its flowing, curved design crawled up the side of her face and dribbled down to her collarbone.

A mark of service cut into her skin by the power of her Mistress.

This is not for them, she whispered. I do this for our sake.

Arisa sighed out a breath and dropped her hand. By the time the ink had faded, she knew calm once more.

Chapter 3

Zero raced into Sheridan—one of the desert villages dotting the wasteland—with the truck’s horn blaring. People scattered out of the bare strip of soil meant to pass as a street. He heard angry shouts and waved to the villagers in his wake. At the village’s center, he yanked on the wheel, using his full body weight to avoid the lonely well nestled there.

With a stomp of the brakes, he stopped the vehicle in front of a building labeled Ham’s Trading Post. The sign’s paint had long been worn away by the beating sands. Only the raised lettering remained, though it was showing its age. A yellowed Open sign hung inside the large window. Showcasing half-empty shelves that had been bursting with goods just four weeks ago.

Ham had a deal with the people of Sheridan. He housed—and took the risk of protecting—their rations. In turn, they paid him in trade.

Zero climbed out of the truck. Hey, Ham, I’ve got some presents for you, he called and reached into the truck for a box.

A bell chimed when the old door creaked open.

Damn, that’s a haul. You’ve really left them in a pinch this time, Ham said.

Zero turned, box in hand, with a grin.

Geoffrey Curtis, called Ham by everyone who knew him, had been Zero’s height in his youth. But age had bent his spine and whittled strong limbs to twigs. Despite the gleaming patch of scalp gracing the top of his head, the ring of hair around his ears was still thick and dark. Age and sun had written wrinkles in the leather flesh around his dark eyes. A faded, tribal tattoo peeked out from under his white tank.

Same place as always? Zero asked, gesturing at the box with his chin.

Unless you’ve got a better place for it.

While Ham, and the gun slung around his waist, watched the merchandise, Zero carried boxes into the store room. Grit that had drifted through the wood slats of the walls crunched underfoot. The supplies thudded into place, but the noise didn’t disguise the sound of approaching footsteps.

Zero stood up from his unloading to see Ham’s daughter, Sonya, glaring at him from the stairway leading up to the apartment she shared with her father.

Her dark hair was cut just below her shoulders and held away from the back of her neck with a leather-and-wood barrette. Honey-brown eyes crackled with ire. Both arms, tanned from the desert sun, were crossed over her chest. She wore the same tank and jeans most of the village-dwellers wore.

The benevolent city folk didn’t think those living in the wastelands deserved to care much for fashion, so they provided the very basic in clothing.

Zero flashed Sonya a grin.

She curled her lip.

Is that any way to greet a man trying to help? Zero asked, just like he always did.

And Sonya gave her quintessential response in return. We don’t need help from the likes of you.

Ham seems to think I’m useful, Zero said.

She made a disgusted sound. My father’s forgotten what your kind did to our people. Homes and families destroyed for your twisted, little games. With her piece said, she stomped outside to help haul goods.

Zero didn’t argue with her. Sonya wasn’t the first person Zero had met who held this point of view. She wasn’t even the only villager who thought this way. The clashing powers that had made expensive weaponry a battle liability also tore apart the landscape. Weather no longer behaved in predictable patterns. The delicate balance of crop soil had shifted to barren-ness.

All thanks to powers that wouldn’t exist without the tinkering of humankind.

But no one remembered it was the perfectly human geneticists who made mutants exist. No one remembered it was the perfectly human government officials who sent their mutant soldiers to battle. No one remembered it was the perfectly human generals who’d decided where those mutants should do battle.

No one wanted to remember because that meant sharing the blame. Hatred was so much easier than responsibility.

Zero shook aside those thoughts and went back to his task.

Ham proved not everyone preferred ignorance.

When the final box Zero planned to donate was inside, Ham, who’d been silent for the duration, scratched his chin and said, I imagine my memory’s not what it used to be, so I’d rather hold tight to the good ones than be mired in the bad.

Sonya pulled a face and left.

Zero grinned and offered his hand. To the good times.

Ham took it. May they be plentiful.

Bells jingled.

Hello, a voice called from the entrance to the shop.

Two pairs of eyes shifted to find Macias Clinton standing just inside the door with a sack in hand. He was the newest member of the village and still wore the full length, black coat he’d worn into Sheridan the first day. The one that set everyone on edge because it twitched. Macias wore his usual smile, but it couldn’t find its way to his brown eyes. His wood-colored hair was pulled into a tail at the back of his skull.

Ham released Zero’s hand. What can I do for you? he asked.

Actually, I’m here to see Zero, Macias said.

Ham straightened and hooked a thumb in the pocket nearest his pistol. Many of Zero’s visitors arrived with violence on their mind.

Macias continued speaking as if he hadn’t noticed Ham’s threat. I’ve been thinking. Since you make certain the village has plenty of supplies, I thought I could offer you some help. Can your power use these? He pulled open the bag to reveal it was filled with small metal spheres.

Bee bees.

You don’t have to do this, Zero said.

And you don’t have to provide for Sheridan, Macias said, thrusting the bag into Zero’s hands.

Zero accepted it because it would have spilled metal all over the floor if he hadn’t. But he knew the look on his face wasn’t a happy one.

He didn’t have the words to explain his motivation to Macias. He provided for Sheridan because he couldn’t bear the thought of not doing so.

Every day he looked at the villagers breaking their backs for water, bartering one valuable item for another, and running through the baking sun trying to catch dinner.

They’d been separated from loved ones and torn from their homes. The countries their ancestors had sworn fealty to no longer existed.

Their situation was a cruel result of the War.

The chaos he and his kind had brought upon the earth.

Chapter 4

Osythen bit into an apple from the bowl his attendants had brought. His deep, black eyes stared down at the floor in front of his boots. The marble tile there was overlaid with the shimmering image of a black-haired babe cuddled into the arms of her mother. Destiny slept peacefully in the image, so unlike now.

And Tolbah…

Pain stabbed him through the chest.

The doors to the royal receiving hall opened, and Osythen tapped the image with the toe of his boot. It disappeared.

He turned his gaze to the person entering.

Jemyni, Queen and Goddess of Change, hurried across the gold rug toward the dais upon which their thrones were placed. Her pace made her white gown and black waves float about her body. Each step from her golden sandals made a muted tap in the rug. The wide smile on her face did nothing to warm the chill of her silver eyes. Or distract from the ridiculousness of her jewel-encrusted crown.

A glassy-eyed attendant trailed after her, clad only in billowing gold pants. His crimson hair was bound in a braid down his back.

Osythen didn’t care for ostentatious displays of his position as King of the Gods, embodiment of Creation. He kept his black hair long enough to touch his shoulder blades but rarely did more than run his fingers through the knots. The black shirt and jeans he wore peeved his wife as little else could. But none of the Pantheon needed him to dress the part to know who was in charge.

I just heard the fabulous news, Jemyni said as she took her seat beside him. Her pet curled up at her feet.

Osythen gave her a curious eyebrow.

The wager, she said.

Osythen grimaced. He’d hoped to keep the contest between The Tome of Ages and Eyan a secret until it was decided. The tide of this contest had the potential to change many things in the Pantheon.

Since Destiny’s birth, fate had been a force at odds with itself. Should Eyan succeed, it would become a united energy, more powerful than before. If Eyan failed, Destiny would be emboldened, perhaps to the point of rebellion, and there existed powerful Gods who would side with her.

Xerynth would know war once more.

All Eyan had to do to assure his victory was remember. If he couldn’t, perhaps it would be best that Destiny grew stronger.

Just think. Soon we will no longer have to worry about keeping Tolbah’s bastard in check, Jemyni said, absently petting the man at her feet.

Pain throbbed in Osythen’s chest, but he made no indication of it.

He’d never intended for Destiny to be born from his affair, but the Source had had other ideas. She was the perfect mix of Creation and Destruction, unlike any other Goddess before her. Osythen doubted even Destiny knew the extent of her power. And until he could be sure she wouldn’t fall to madness because of her mixed blood, Osythen couldn’t risk allowing her to be free. He hoped being bound to Eyan would prevent her from succumbing, yet his daughter wanted nothing to do with the God of Fate.

This is the only way.

He knew Jemyni didn’t want to hear any of that, and would probably pitch a fit if she suspected he cared about Destiny in any capacity that wasn’t damage control. For their marriage was childless, yet a single tryst outside it had given Osythen a daughter.

So he said, Yes. She will soon be Eyan’s problem.

Chapter 5

The dream vision came back