Reckoning of the Beast: Paladin Cycle: Paladin Cycle

By Max Redford

Welcome back to Buckeye, Texas, ya'll! 

This used to be sweet, sweet home . . . but look around now! Place is going straight down the crapper! Might could say the place is goin' to Hell.

Amy's getting released from the hospital, but the strange gemstone in her chest still remains pulsing and vibrant. 

Atticus is behind bars, soon to be brought up on felony charges of impersonating an officer, and several counts of manslaughter . . . but he's about to gain a beautiful and sassy partner in crime before going on the run from the long arm of the law. 

Meanwhile, Elder Rayden Cai is stirring up trouble of his own in the Order of Abel compound -- too much gypsy brandy perhaps.

The special forces of the Paladins - The Aconites - have arrived at the Order of Abel, under Prefect Cauldrick's executive request. But is he sending these elite warriors to their death on a mission that prophecy says only the Twin Warriors can lay victory to? 

And that crazy Cajun Abe . . . he seems to know more than he's lettin' on. Why exactly does he wander the Sacred Oaks woods at all hours of the night? 

Poor, poor Scooter is about to learn the true identity of his one and only friend Zack, and their bonds will be tighter than ever. 

THE WAR OF THE COSMOS is about to begin . . . 

And some new out-of-this-world characters are about to join the fray . . . 

So don't miss RECKONING OF THE BEAST (PALADIN CYCLE #2)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aconite Visions
• Release date: Apr 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524247003

Book preview

Prologue

About 4 years ago . . .

Amy pinned the paper mache spider to the living room ceiling. Impaled through a toothy skull was a pumpkin spice candle that flung capering shadows across the breakfast bar; a strand of spindly black spiders crawled up the front door frame; a pair of pewter four-foot tall gargoyles with ruby eyes, holding hollowed skulls full of gummy eyeballs and wax vampire teeth guarded the bathroom door.

Shane and Amy lived in the middle of nowhere and wouldn’t have one trick-or-treater, but Amy always prepared as if hoards would traverse their bumpy dirt drive. Because Halloween was her favorite holiday.

Amy's phone lit up, cackling like an old witch. She checked the message:

Hey babe. Only 88 in Baghdad today. Prob hot as fuck there, huh? Be home in a few days. Can’t wait to see you and Scooter.

It had been a year since Shane had been sent to Iraq.

She received his first letter about a month after he left. His words sounded content but homesick. Amy had wrote back telling him about Scooter's schooling, Alamo's latest mishap with the polecat living under the shed, Carmen's most recent costumes, and she even told him about the visit she'd made to her Aunt Carol at the Fort Worth psychiatric hospital.

Vicki invited herself into Amy’s head several years after her way-too-premature death at only ten years old. Amy was fifteen the first time she heard Vicki in her head. They had frequent conversations, mostly about Vicki’s brother and his downward slant into Trouble with a capital T.

After two years of listening to Amy talk to seemingly nobody, Amy’s mother had her committed. Vicki felt terrible and stopped visiting Amy. Being in the crazy house was bad enough but to top it off her best friend had left Amy to weather the insanity all on her own. Amy understood though. Vicki blamed herself that Amy was locked up so she kept her distance, hoping if Amy stopped talking to herself, she might be released.

At eighteen, Amy was released, but she had nowhere to go. Living with her mother was not going to happen. Amy couldn’t take the chance that she’d try to have her recommitted. So she moved in with Boone, a patient she’d met while in the crazy house. He’d seem nice enough at first, but then he went off his meds.

Life got scary.

But she dealt the best she could, keeping her presence hidden . . . head down and mouth shut.

Because . . . lack of options.

Living with Boone was like living with Carrie’s mother or Norman Bates, depending on which of his personalities stepped out of bed in the morning. Of course, she should’ve known better than to room with someone she’d met in a psychiatric ward. Not the brightest decision she’d ever made.

Mostly, she kept to herself behind a locked bedroom door, only venturing out to go to work, or forage for food like a field mouse. Often times, she’d bring home a slice of pecan pie and pork chop, or some meatloaf from Roxy’s, but she always ate in her car. Because the one time she'd brought home leftovers, Boone took it from her before scoffing it down like a wild dog.

A few months later she heard Vicki’s voice and being that Amy’s life was a living hell right then, Vicki’s presence was a welcome reprieve. Amy knew better than to speak to her aloud, for fear of being locked up again. So she spoke to Vicki silently, in her head. It was great having her friend back. But Vicki didn’t rekindle their friendship to talk girl stuff or catch up on old times. Vicki had a mission.

Amy was to save Shane’s ass from a drunken brawl, a fight he picked with a dozen or two beefy, burly and drunk men at a local dive bar just outside town.

Amy had drove the twenty-minutes to Runwich, one town over from Buckeye. If Buckeye was a hole-in-the-wall town then Runwich was a chip in the paint of that same wall. A person would have a hard time finding a STOP sign in Runwich that wasn’t riddled with silvery bullet holes.

Because of Vicki, Amy had found a safe place to live and Shane had found someone to watch his brother while he went off to war in the Middle East.

But sometimes Amy wondered if Vicki—from beyond the grave—was playing matchmaker. The first time Amy went to Vicki’s house Amy was only twelve; Vicki was ten. They had met at school and immediately hit it off. Vicki and Amy were both outsiders, shunned by the other kids, though at the time, neither knew why.

Looking back on it, Amy could admit Vicki and her were a bit off. They were both superstitious as heck. Both preferred figurines modeled after wizards, elves and warriors, as opposed to dolls or stuffed animals.

They were best friends, as corny as that sounded. Vicki got Amy. She really got her.

Which was why Vicki knew the moment Amy laid eyes on Shane, Amy was infatuated. But Shane had never felt the same. Amy was always the little girl that played with his kid sister.

Her spark that burned for Shane dimmed over the years, but never extinguished. Amy dated other guys, sure, but nothing ever took.

Now, here she was nineteen years old living in Shane’s house. They weren’t the romantic couple she’d always hoped for but they were friends. And that was almost as good.

Almost.

Four months into his tour, she’d gotten a call at three in the morning. His voice was hoarse and faded in and out.

Shane!

Hey babe. God your voice sounds good. Can’t talk for . . .

You there? She scooted her back up the headboard, Shane’s T-shirt—she oftentimes wore as a nightie—rode up her legs. She waited but the line went dead.

Her arm dropped, hanging over the side of the bed. The phone slipped from her limp fingers. A mournful thud echoed in the dark and lonely room.

With the heels of her hands, she covered her sleep-weary eyes.

She said to the empty bedroom, Be safe.

Then she’d scrambled out of bed, making her way to the kitchen. She flicked on the light overlooking the small dining table.

Amy slid a chair out and sat. Immediately she began penning a letter.

You just called and we got disconnected. I sit here in an oversized shirt of yours. I hope you don’t mind that I raided your bureau. It’s just sometimes I get depressed. Scooter’s great and all but he’s not always home, either at school or at a friend’s, and sometimes I can’t help but feel lonely.

Pathetic, I know. Sorry.

And wearing your shirt, smelling you on the soft worn fabric, makes the loneliness not so unbearable. Hope that doesn’t creep you out.

Anyway . . .

It’s 3 in the morning. I can’t sleep. I know you’re ok. I don’t know how I know, but I know. At the same time, I can’t help worrying.

I want to tell you again how grateful I am to be living here . . . with Scooter. We’re getting along famously. He’s a great kid. And he’s super bright, too.

Can I send you anything? Reminders of home? I’m including a copy of Scooter’s science paper on how to make batteries from fruits and vegetables. I’m sure you’ll find it riveting. Hee.

I’m also including baby wipes, sunglass goggles, playing cards, socks and underwear. Hope you like boxers. That’s what my daddy always wore.

Speaking of Daddy, I saw him last night. I was burning some acacia oil and suddenly the candle flame turned blue then blew out. So of course, I knew a spirit was nearby. After checking the house and finding nothing, I checked the yard. It was just a dark shadow hovering near that big weeping willow, but I know it was him. I’m so glad he found me here. I haven’t seen him since before I was admitted to the psych ward.

I’m rambling. Sorry. Not sure what to say here. Probably shouldn’t talk about seeing my dead father. Now you’ll think I’m creepy and crazy.

Guess I just want you to know the real me.

I’m thinking of you and praying for a speedy and safe return.

~Amy

Three weeks later, she got a letter.

Hey babe,

Boxers are great! Scooter’s science paper was good too, but got to say I didn’t actually read it.

And you wearing my clothes is not creepy. It’s sexy as hell. Glad my scent helps with the loneliness. For whatever it’s worth, I’d kill for a whiff of your scent. Definitely help with my loneliness.

Tough day. One of the fellas got a letter from his woman. The bitch is leaving him for somebody else. But that’s not what made the day shitty. The shitty part was how he reacted. He went nuts. Let’s just say it took four of us to restrain him.

Felt almost wrong, getting your letter and goodies, after what Dennis had got. A swift kick in the nuts by the lying, skank bitch he was crazy for.

Sorry.

Like I said, tough day.

Keep writing!

Tell me about you and Scooter. It’s what I want to hear. Give me some normal in this hell hole. Make me remember what I’m fighting for.

So, yes, I want to hear about how you’d rather vacation in the mountains than at the beach; that the color green sometimes makes you sneeze; and how you can’t seem to find a brand of fire ant killer that actually works.

Tell me everything.

Everything.

Please.

Even the so-called crazy parts. But I want you to know something, babe. I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re . . . eccentric and wild and very pretty. But not crazy.

Glad you saw your dad. I know you loved him a bunch. You must miss him.

I’ll tell you one thing . . . I miss you . . . a lot.

~Shane

With her next letter, Amy sent one of her tank tops, making sure it was covered in her Allure perfume. Sweet but not to where it made one nauseated . . . she hoped.

Shane had said he loved her sweet smelling tank. Carmen gave her crap, saying Amy should’ve sent a pair of her panties, but Carmen had misunderstood. Amy and Shane were just friends.

Yes, he flirted in his letters, but that was just his way. Shane flirted with everybody. At least everybody who was female. Over the years—before she was admitted to the crazy house—she’d cried herself to sleep way too many times and all because she'd run into him at the grocery store. He'd proceed to flirt with her like crazy and she’d get her hopes up. Maybe he liked her. Like a guy was supposed to like a gal. But after some small talk, he'd mention his girlfriend slash current fuck buddy. Sometimes he had several girlfriends slash fuck buddies. Never again would she misinterpret Shane's flirting.

Never again.

They were friends and that’s all they’d ever be.

More letters followed. And now a year later Shane would finally be home from the desert. Just a few more days.

A knock on the door.

Strange.

She wasn’t expecting anyone. Carmen, her best friend, was at the Raising Hell Party at the Rising Bull, their small town’s rendition of a night club. Scooter was at his friend Zack’s house over on Goethe Rd.

Was it possible that a real-life trick-or-treater had come to the trailer this year?

Just feet from the front door, Amy reached for the handle, but before she made contact the knob turned. And the door squeaked open.

A dry October breeze raked across her neck and bare arms. A figure filled the threshold. Tattered jeans, red flannel shirt reeking of motor oil, black scuffed-up combat boots. To complete the Mr. Psycho ensemble the person donned a cheesy zombie mask. A large plastic pumpkin was gripped in a rawhide-gloved hand, the gloves stained with dark splotches. Only a large butcher knife jutted from the jack-o-lantern’s opening, blade pointing up, splattered in . . . blood? The figure lifted a hand and waggled his fingers in a hello gesture.

What a creep!

A lit- little old to be . . . to be trick-or-treating, huh? she said, a significant tremble in her voice.

Mr. Psycho said nothing, just lifted his pumpkin, jiggled it. The knife rattled in the hollowed plastic container. The rubber zombie mask showcased a permanent visceral scowl but Amy suspected that beneath it the person sported a big ol’ ear-to-rotten-ear Texas grin.

This was probably just some frat guy from the Muskkicken campus over in Sawgore who thought it’d be a hoot to give a good scare . . . to a girl . . . all alone . . . in the sticks.

Just . . . just one second . . . moment. She turned and hurried into the kitchen, looking to get this frat-zombie or whoever-the-hell-he-was his candy and get him off her doorstep.

He was probably silently having a good laugh at her expense, on the one day of the year when frightening the living wasn’t a deviant act committed solely by the criminally insane.

She couldn’t stop trembling, shaking like a damn moth on an anthill.

Was that a real knife? It sure didn’t look like a plastic prop. And the way it had clanked around in that bucket . . .

What if he wasn’t some frat guy? The thought made her knees buckle. What if he was drunk . . . or high?

Had he escaped from Eden Gate Sanitarium? A ridiculously frightening thought. Eden Gate didn’t house people afflicted with depression, anxiety or even those who had attempted suicide. Eden Gate housed only the most serious crazies; people that were not just dangerous to themselves, but lethal to any they encounter.

She’d read a story in the Buckeye Leader where Eden Gate had put one of their patients on a bus headed for Fort Worth, but the patient had gotten off prematurely at an ice cream parlor. He brutally attacked a young mother and her preteen child.

She knew she wasn’t overreacting . . . crazy things like that did happen and she wasn’t about to forget that this was Buckeye, where crazy things from all over came to hide in the woods, ponds, attics; and to lurk the back roads, like those chainsaw-wielding maniacs from the old movies. That’s to say nothing of escapee patients from Eden Gate.

Everyone still remembered the Valles farm murders from the ‘80s.

Focus! She used one hand to form a basket with the slack of her tank and the other hand to scoop candy into it. One second, she called. Milky Ways. Butterfingers. A large skull-shaped jawbreaker that she hoped he’d choke on.

How had this jerk found her anyhow? The trailer was eight miles from the nearest city street light. The closest neighbor was a half mile away and that was Abe. No way he’d pull a stunt like this.

The front door slammed. She froze, heart catching in her throat. All the candy bundled in her tank spilled onto the floor.

She whirled to find the large zombie shambling toward her. He held the orange bucket in front, his gait and posture more Frankenstein’s monster than Living Dead.

She held up a finger. W-wait outside. P-p-please. She backed herself into the breakfast bar.

The zombie shook his head. He dropped his pumpkin. The thud of the hollowed plastic on the wood floor stirred a swarm of hornets in her gut. She gagged back the bile crawling up her throat.

M-my boyfriend will be home any second. I swear!

Through slits of his cheesy mask, the zombie stared at her. Cold. Dead.

She said, He’s seven f-feet tall and, and, and over three hundred, three-hundred and sixty pounds.

The corny mask continued staring at her.

Did I mention he’ll be home any second? He just called. Y-you should leave. An act of futility to keep her voice even and steady.

The zombie peeled the mask over his head, revealing the human beneath.

Shane!

She palmed her chest, heartbeats kicking at her rib cage.

Relief flashed to anger. Amy straightened and glared, rushing up to him. With a flat hand, she slapped at his chest. Jerk! Hands balled into fists and slaps to jabs.

A scowl marred his handsome, scruffy face. He grabbed her wrists, one in each of his hands. What boyfriend?

Good gravy, her heart felt as if it might burst from her chest, and the hornets in her stomach were still frenzied.

She eyed the grip he had on her wrists. Her glare moved to his suntanned face and eight o’clock shadow. You said you wouldn’t be home for a few days.

What boyfriend! he repeated, the volume of his voice amplified.

She thrust her arms down, ripping herself from his grip, or at least that was the plan, but he held her firm.

What boyfriend? This time his tone was husky, not loud.

What was I supposed to say? I thought you were a bad guy. Again, she eyed his hold on her wrists.

He blinked, as if he’d forgotten he had her in his grasp. Shane released her. "I am a bad guy."

Realization hit her like a dunk in a cold lake.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. A fierce hug. With her head tucked beside his, she brushed her hand over his buzz cut and palmed the back of his neck.

His arms coiled around to the small of her back. He pulled her tight against him. Very tight. She cleared her throat and stepped out of the hug.

Walking backward, she led him to the sofa. Amy sat and pulled him onto the cushion beside her. Tell me everything. Before he got a word out, her eyes widened. Amy covered her mouth and slapped her thigh. Wish I’d known you were coming home early. I’d have cooked your favorite.

He shrugged. Surprise.

Amy’s face scrunched. Well, dang. I don’t even know what your favorite meal is. She grimaced. I should know.

She was rambling, and in a nervous sort of way, Shane thought. And he loved it! When she’d pulled him in for a hug, the scent of her hair, the sun on her skin, the feel of her soft yet firm breasts pressed against him was incredible. God bless home. God bless Texas. God bless Amy. And God bless breasts.

Amy continued, Why don’t I know? I should have asked. Why haven’t I asked? In one of my letters I should’ve asked . . .

Shane hid a smile. What was his favorite thing to eat? He thought for a moment. Only one delicious word came to mind. And it was a juicy sweet and tangy word.

Pussy.

But Amy wouldn’t have served pussy for dinner. They were just friends. And friends don’t spread their legs for other friends. So what else did he want to eat?

He frowned . . . thinking . . . racked his travel-weary head.

Nope.

He just wanted pussy.

Laura was a fairly sure thing, just as long as her on-off boyfriend was currently set to the off position. Tammy was a definite, maybe, but she was a bit of a skank and there was a good possibility she had contracted one or more diseases–or even cultivated a brand new strain since the last time they’d bumped ugglies. Reese was gorgeous and crazy fun in bed, or on the dryer, kitchen table or in the tub, but there was always that one little thing between them, the fact that she was a crack dealer, and he was a reformed junkie. No way in hell he’d ever go back to that nightmarish merry-go-round.

Guess he’d just be hitting The Bull. On the way home he’d seen the Halloween get-up that Mike had put on the front corral gates: a column of human skulls rimming the gate and fake green glow-in-the-dark spider webs on the head of Sick ’em over the archway. Maybe he’d catch Carmen there and she could help set him up. Maybe if Car was drunk enough he could just re-propose that friends-with-benefits policy. Maybe she still did X. Even better.

Shane felt something rub against his leg. He looked down to find a black-as-night cat slinking around and between his calves.

Amy let out a small girlish, cute-as-hell giggle.

I almost forgot, she said. This is Freya. She adopted me about a week ago. I hope you like her. I told her she could stay. She sighed. Wanna know something weird?

Shane laughed. Hell yeah. Go for it baby.

Somethin' familiar about her. Not a little familiar, but really familiar. I know it sounds crazy but I swear I've met Freya . . . in a past life maybe.

Shane cupped her chin. You ain't crazy.

Amy blushed. She eyed him.

Scoffing, he removed his hand from her chin.

She said, How long had you been planning this? Surprising me with an early return home, and costumed as a madman?

He snickered, flashing his best interpretation of a roguish smile. Initially, he hadn’t planned anything more than surprising her with his presence.

After Birch picked him up at the airport, Birch was supposed to just drive him home, but when Shane saw the flickering sign next to Dot’s Pawn that was advertising discounted costumes, in a moment of genius, he concocted his scheme.

Shane paid the guy for the mask, knife, pumpkin and other accouterments and walked out of the place with a rich swagger and a wide grin.

Toying with Amy and her superstitious beliefs was too irresistible to pass up. The thrill of the anticipation, the look on her pretty face should've been boner-worthy. It should’ve been fun as hell.

And it had been.

Until she said she had a boyfriend. Not only that, but she was going to sic the motherfucker on him like her personal junkyard dog.

It wasn’t fun anymore.

Okay, she didn’t really have a boyfriend, so why was his blood boiling hotter than the desert sands? And why did he want to punch a hole through the wall, possibly burn something down? And why did he care if she had a boyfriend?

Her head cocked, she studied him. What is it?

He smiled.

Long blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. Sunbaked copper skin. Purple tank, white cotton shorts, bare feet, blue painted toe nails. Girl next door to a tee.

Not his type. He liked his women hot, wild and willing. Too much rouge on the cheeks and too much booze in the veins. The trashier, the sexier.

But sitting here now, he fought an incredible urge to kiss Amy Rae Wintry. What would she taste like?

Shane crooked a finger, motioning her closer.

Amy’s eyes widened in question. She looked over her shoulder, as if he were talking to someone behind her.

Shane crooked his finger again.

Slowly, she leaned forward. Her lips parted. Shane inched closer, until he scented . . . what . . . on her breath. He inhaled again.

A shallow intake of air made Amy gasp, visibly shutter.

A subtle fruity, sweet fragrance emanated from her parted pink lips.

Your breath, he said, keeping his face close to hers. Inhaled. It smells . . . sweet.

Their faces almost touching, lips almost touching, she moaned something indiscernible.

He whispered against her parted lips. What have you had in your pretty mouth?

She swallowed.

Shane watched a small lump slide down the slender column of her neck. His gaze moved to her face, her lips. Babe?

She blinked. Er . . . oh . . . I had a glass of strawberry wine. Just a little.

Strawberry?

She nodded.

He had to taste it. Shane put his lips to hers . . . just a gentle brush of his mouth.

He waited.

Amy waited, eyes closed.

She hadn’t slapped him or pulled back.

Shane leaned in again. A slow swipe of his tongue along her parted lips.

Definitely strawberry.

Amy jerked away. She stood from the couch and ran her palms down her thighs. A nervous laugh. Both hands lifted to tuck her hair behind her ears. Smiling tightly, she turned toward the kitchen and started walking. You must be famished. I’m sure I could whip something up. I’ll take some meat out of the freezer for tomorrow, then we’ll—

Shane jumped up, sprinted after her. Coming from behind, he wrapped his arms around her waist, hands laced across her abdomen, face pressed against the nape of her neck.

He kissed her soft, warm skin and relished the faint taste of her sweat and girlish musk. I love strawberry.

Shane . . . His name wobbled with apprehension, her body stilled in his embrace. What . . .