Hasea Chronicles Compilation (Books II, III, IV and 0)

By Stuart Meczes

THE AWAKENING: NOW FREE ON SMASHWORDS! JUST SEARCH FOR ‘THE AWAKENING’ TO GET YOUR COPY NOW!

Thousands of copies sold. Over TWO MILLION pages read. Tons of 5 star reviews. Find out why this the Urban Fantasy series people are talking about!

The Hasea Chronicles Compilation features the 3 current sequels and prequel in the bestselling urban fantasy series - The Corruption, The Veil, The Rising: Part I and prequel novel, Without A Heartbeat. This is by far the cheapest way to buy the sequels to The Awakening.

About the books:

The Corruption:

It’s been six months since Alex and Gabriella stood against The Sorrow and won. The Veil still stands uncrossed, and with every passing day the possibility of finding the person stolen from Alex alive diminishes. But after an influx of new Awakenings, the Alliance is being stretched to breaking point. A melancholic Sophia is acting mysteriously and Sage Faru has set the formidable task of gathering a team of Guardians willing to enter Pandemonia. Meanwhile the looming threat of a new, stronger SOS hides in the shadows.

But that is the least of Alex’s worries.

Something is growing inside of him. Something dark and vengeful that whispers in the silence. Something that plagues his dreams with visions of a horrifying apocalypse.

An apocalypse he will start.

As Gabriella struggles to hold everything together and Alex struggles not to fall apart, one thing becomes clear. Before they can cross the Veil and stand against Hades, Alex must first defeat his greatest enemy. Himself.

The Veil:

The Veil has finally been crossed.

Alex, Gabriella and the Guardians of Orion have arrived in Fenodara, a beautiful Luminar city that acts as the last beacon of hope for a dying civilisation - but also a place that hides a dark secret. Never before have they been so close to the Ageless War and witnessed the way it corrupts not only the fading world, but also those who live there.

Soon afterwards, a devastating attack on the city rips Orion apart. Broken and defeated, the Guardians are forced to separate and travel through the dark underbelly of Pandemonia in a desperate attempt to save those they love, and stop the forces of Hades before it is too late. However, the longer Alex spends in the dark and hostile world, the more a single fact becomes clear to him.

This is a journey they might never return from.

The Rising: Part I

A world apart but united in their singular mission, the Guardians of Orion struggle for survival as they force their way across the brutal and unforgiving planet of Pandemonia.

Still tormented by the ever intensifying visions that plague his dreams, Alex is forced to endure his growing desperation and fear as his party continue their journey across the Dark Sea, led by the grizzled mercenary Zero and his band of misfits. At the same time, word of the Sorrowslayer spreads like wildfire across the world, shedding a final ray of light onto those who had already given up hope.

Meanwhile, Scarlett and her team of Guardians have found themselves caught in the clutches of the deranged Scorched Knight, Lilith. What she wants with them is unclear, but they know their only chance is escape...at whatever cost.

And hidden in the shadows something ancient stirs, waiting for everyone to play their part.

For the Rising is coming, and with it, the end of all things.

Without A Heartbeat

Not much is known about the mysterious Vampire Scarlett. Until now.

The year is 1872. A darker, more unforgiving Alliance is working in the shadows, struggling to keep order on the streets of London. Meanwhile in Ireland, a young girl is about to take up a position as scullery maid in the sinister Oakley Manor. It is a decision that will alter her life forever and send her on a path of destruction and death.

A path that leads right to the Alliance.

DILECTI SURGEMUS - SOCII POLL

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stuart Meczes
• Release date: Dec 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370260515

Stuart Meczes

Stuart was born in South London, England, but now spends his time in the quaint city of Worcester. After getting fed up of high pressured rat race of big city work, he decided to pursue his dream of writing. As soon as he started, he knew there was no going back. He quit his job and re-entered full time education to get a better understanding of the writing process. He achieved an upper first class degree in English and Creative Writing at the University of Birmingham in 2013. Now he writes full time, creating novels, short stories and even the occasional blog on his website www.stuartmeczes.com. Feel free to send him an email, he loves replying to them - it fuels his procrastination. From Stuart - To all of you who have purchased any of my books, I am so very grateful. It's because of your support that us indie writers can keep going. Thank you.

Book preview

To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.

-Friedrich Nietzsche

PROLOGUE

A silver-eyed man stalked across the skyline of Belfast, following his nose rather than his eyes. The town around him seemed to breathe in unison, the calm breath of countless sleeping humans pouring from every direction.

He had no breath to call his own.

The man slipped from shadow to shadow, sweeping across the rooftops of the ramshackle houses like a fog. Somewhere nearby a clock tower chimed midnight, the clanging of its bell a harsh reminder of his delay.

Much longer and they’ll notice my absence.

He had been given an important job to do and so far that evening he had done it badly. One target left bleeding out in an alleyway, surrounded by policemen with terrible timing and not a single clue between them. Another was a drunken lout who had stumbled from a tavern to take a piss on the street, retching and burping as he released his stream. An easy target one would assume, but one who somehow had the wherewithal to slip from the silver-eyed man’s grasp when a friend had piled out the tavern to find him. The fool had run blindly through the streets, screaming at the top of his lungs, only to fall headfirst into the Lagan River. He had drowned of course, churning up water and splashing in the darkness while the silver-eyed man watched from a position of safety, unable to rescue him. Most of these people weren’t even worthy of the gift he wanted to give them, but so far he was running out of options.

He would not make a mistake the third time.

The scent he followed was a strong perfume that was almost overwhelming in its potency. It was joined by the taint of sweat that came from working long hours in a bad profession. However, neither of those things were what had drawn the silver-eyed man’s attention – he was following a darker part of the scent, one that justified his divine work. He drew closer to the source, the trail visible to him in the darkness as a silvery wave, which hovered and undulated in the air.

Soon afterwards he picked up sounds, his keen ears twitching like an animals. The sounds were words, and harsh ones at that, full of swearing and accusations. Speeding up, he hopped from rooftop to rooftop with expert precision, until he was peering over the top of the docks; the masts of the many ships stretching out in front of him like skeletal trees. Below was his target – a girl he knew worked at the bordello nearby. She was young, far too young to be in the profession she had found herself in. In the back of his mind a sensation stirred - something similar to sympathy, but far duller. The girl was pressed with her back against the wall, trapped by two men who were the source of the noise.

Give me back mah money ya thievin’ whore.

I already told ya, I don’t ‘ave it! insisted the girl, staring wildly between the two men.

One of them, tall and loaded with the muscles that came with dock labouring, shoved her hard into the wall. Her head snapped back, thudding against the stone. A rose of red bloomed from beneath her mousy hair. The big one’s friend – a short man with a stout gut formed of years of hard drinking – was scowling like a petulant child.

You took it while we was cleanin’ ourselves up, he barked.

I only have what you paid me. You spent the rest on ale!

You stole it and we want it back. The dockworker snatched her bag – a garish red to match the dress she barely wore. The strap snapped and the contents spilled onto the dock floor. Among the strewn items were a few pennies. Not enough money to do much of anything with, but the men snatched it from the ground regardless, stuffing it into their trousers.

No, that’s mine! the girl howled, attacking the men with a sudden ferocity, hitting and clawing at any part of them she could reach. Her nails raked across the face of the smaller one, drawing blood.

Bitch!

He responded by punching her in the stomach. Gasping, the girl collapsed to the ground, heaving and crying as the men proceeded to kick her relentlessly, all the while shouting abuse. The silver-eyed man thought to himself for a moment.

Allow this poor wretch to die here tonight, or intervene and risk detection?

He could bear witness no more, what little left of a conscience he had would not allow it. Spilling over the rooftop like a yawning shadow, he landed without a sound behind the men. He seized the smaller one’s head at each temple and squeezed, crushing it as if it were an egg. Before the larger man could make a sound, the flesh of his throat was torn asunder, and he fell next to his friend, twitching as his life spilled out of him. The girl was screaming hysterically as the man knelt down and retrieved the coins from the dead men’s pockets. He held the blood-soaked pennies out to the cowering girl. His eyes flashed in the darkness.

I believe these belong to you.

The girl did not take the coins. Instead, her eyes rolled back into her head and she passed out. The silver-eyed man regarded her for a moment. Well, at least this makes my task easier.

As gently as he could, he picked the unconscious girl up and jumped back onto the rooftops, allowing the shadows of Belfast to swallow them both.

PART I

BORN

THROUGH

FIRE

Teine, County Antrim

Ireland

September

1872

1

The small homestead could no longer keep out the bitter draft. It poured through cracks in the wood and stone, chilling the room with its icy breath and unleashing eerie whistles that made the girl shudder. She pulled up the threadbare blanket and wrapped it tightly around herself in an effort to deflect the chill. Cupping the candle flame with one hand, she picked up the worn copy of The Monk and started to read, speaking each word aloud, as she always did.

"He let the hand drop slowly which held the crucifix, and which till then he had pointed towards her. The apparition bowed her head and her form melted into air…"

A groan came from beside her. Scarlett, I’m tryin’ ta’ sleep. The words were thick with both accent and tiredness.

Sorry, Connor, Scarlett replied in a tone as soothing as her husky voice would allow. She glanced down at her brother, who had tucked himself into such a tight ball on their shared cot that it was as if he were trying to make himself disappear. He was a tiny thing - ten years old but with the frame of someone half his years. Connor was one of the unfortunate many marked by the cruel touch of polio. His right arm and leg were twisted by atrophy, and he had a disposition that was inclined towards sickness. Regardless, he was the sweetest boy and Scarlett loved him more than words could express. He rolled over and the blanket slipped away from his fragile body. With great care, Scarlett wrapped it back around him and slid closer to share her body warmth.

Scarlett continued to read The Monk, trying her best to whisper the words. Among all the books she read – and there were many – it was one of her favourites. Beyond the supernatural, which always captivated her, there was something about the tragic corruption of Ambrosio - a man of such purity and piety – that made her spine tingle with excitement. It was an unusual book for a girl of only fifteen to enjoy, especially one from a Protestant family.

But then there was nothing usual about Scarlett, or her family. Secrets were familiar to them all.

Firstly Scarlett could read and write. It was a trait not shared by any of the men or boys who laboured on the potato fields with her father, or the women and girls who worked at the laundry house with her mother. There was no school in Teine. ‘Education for all’ was an idea stirring in the town of Belfast not ten miles away, but was still a faint whisper that would not reach the village for years.

The skill to read and right had been taught to Scarlett by her father and was one that she treasured with all her heart. To be deprived from the incredible worlds hidden within words - the horror and romance, vengeance and love – was to her like standing at the doorway to heaven without the key to unlock it. Scarlett was able to practice these skills because unlike every other family who lived on the farmland, her family owned dozens of books. They stayed hidden in a large box under her parents’ bed. Access to a plethora of novels had allowed Scarlett to become far more educated and erudite than her societal position gave her any right to be. Her knowledge rarely transferred from mind to tongue. Scarlett’s father had warned of the probing questions a literate potato famer’s daughter could bring, so she kept her thoughts quiet and her accent as thick as her mother’s stew.

The front door creaked open and Scarlett’s heart skipped several beats. The book lingered in her mind and for a moment she imagined seeing the ghostly form of a phantom standing on the threshold. It shifted into the familiar form of her father, who had returned from the village alehouse. The icy breeze that followed him in was topped with the scent of stout. It took much longer that it should have for her heart to settle, and she pressed a trembling hand to her chest to comfort herself.

Her father frowned and sat down next to her, placing a hand on her raised knee.

Are you okay sweetheart?

She gave a weak smile, setting her book down and cupping her hand over his. I’m fine, Da.

What are you still doing awake? he whispered. As he spoke, his voice shifted from the broad tones to the controlled accent he used only with his family.

You know I can’t sleep when you’re not here, she said.

Her placed a hand gently against the dark red hair that spilled down the sides of her pale face. You shouldn’t worry so, Poppy, I’ll always be here in the morning.

Poppy was Scarlett’s nickname. At a young age she had found a single one of the flowers growing behind their cottage. Thinking it was special; she picked and bought it home with her, excitedly showing her father. He in turn had taught her how to dry and press it so she could keep it forever. Her enthusiasm over the whole event had earned her the affectionate nickname.

You know I can’t help it.

He smiled. I know. Actually I’m glad you’re still awake, I have been meaning to speak with you about something important. His expression changed, becoming more serious. He took the candle from Scarlett and set it down on the floor, taking both of her hands in his.

What’s wrong? Scarlett breathed, feeling anxious. She leaned forward. Is there something the matter with Connor?

No my darling, its nothing like that. The thing is… he paused as he tried to bring himself to say his next words. We have none of the money left.

The money was another secret.

It was the reason Scarlett had access to dozens of books, and how her father could teach her anything printed within their covers. Desmond Reid had once been aristocracy – the wealthy son of a lord who also owned a vast number of tobacco factories on the outskirts of Belfast. Desmond had been an intelligent and well-educated young man. He had studied English and Politics at Oxford University, and it had been David Reid’s hope that his son would go on to become an important figure within the Irish government. Unfortunately for his father, on a chance visit to one of his factories at the age of twenty-two, Desmond Reid caught sight of a worker named Mary O’Connell.

When the shameful scandal finally emerged of Mary’s pregnancy, Desmond was given a stern ultimatum by his father. Abandon the whore and the bastard child in her belly, or be disowned by the family. Scarlett’s father always spoke of how satisfying the moment had been when he had delivered his answer.

Married in secret, Desmond took his pregnant wife, a large selection of books from his personal collection, and all money he owned – well over three hundred pounds – and loaded them into a carriage. Together they had left the vibrant town of Belfast in their dust, and travelled around Ireland – each destination less glamorous than the last as their family grew - until their money dwindled enough that they settled in one of countless draughty stone cottages that lined a vast field in the quiet village of Teine. The educated man who had studied at Oxford University and had once considered taking up politics, was now a potato farmer.

Scarlett said nothing, unsure of what her father’s confession meant.

Desmond rubbed his hands over his face. I tried to make it last as long as possible so that we could eat a little better and live a little happier, but Connor’s medicine is so expensive. He sighed. That money is gone now and we are surviving on small wages. Your Ma and I have tried to carry on as normal, so that you can stay home and keep looking after your brother, but we just can’t.

Scarlett stared at her father. You want me to work.

It was a moment before Desmond replied, and when he did his words were heavy with guilt. I do, Poppy.

What about, Connor? Who will look after him?

Your brother can go to the laundry with your Ma in the day and help out there as much as he can. He will be well looked after by the girls, you know they love him to distraction. Desmond dropped his gaze to the floor. Your mother and I wanted desperately to keep you both from that kind of hard life, but we just can’t anymore.

Scarlett moved closer to her father, taking hold of his hands as he had hers. Da, look at me. He lifted his head and she smiled. I will do anything I have to for this family. If you want me to work, I’ll work.

Tears glistened in Desmond’s eyes. I just wanted so much better than this for all of you. He glanced around at the tiny homestead and shook his head. This was the only way we could be together without my father finding us and making our lives difficult. I’m so sorry I let you down. He let out the long sigh of a man trying to control his emotions. The alcohol was making him sentimental, it always happened when he drank too much. Regardless, his words came from the heart. He was the kindest and most caring man Scarlett knew, and she would happily work her fingers to the bone if it meant she could help support him.

You haven’t let us down, Da. You’ve always done your absolute best by us, so now let me help you.

He nodded. Thank you, Poppy.

Do you know somewhere that is hiring?

Her father scratched the thick stubble that lined his neck. The scullery maid at Oakley Manor just upped and left a few weeks ago. I heard that they are still looking to fill the position. He sighed. It’s unforgiving work.

Scarlett squeezed his hand. Work I’ll happily do.

Her father gave a smile. What did I do so right that I was blessed with such wonderful children? He kissed the top of her head. I’ll speak to the housekeeper tomorrow. Now go to sleep darling, it’s late.

Scarlett used the dried poppy to mark her place in the book and then handed it to her father. He read the title and chuckled. "Always with the supernatural and horror. Why not try reading something more suitable, like Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre?"

Scarlett screwed up her face. So boring!

Desmond laughed, a deep rumbling sound that Scarlett loved.

I had to try. Right, time for bed I think. Did you say your prayers?

Scarlett nodded.

Good girl.

He placed a hand gently on Connor’s good arm and held it there for a second. Then he stood up, swaying a little and walked to the only other room in the cottage. He turned back to face Scarlett, who was just about to blow out the candle. Now to try and get to bed without waking up your ma. Let’s hope I’m successful, or I’ll be sleeping out here with you two. He winked and Scarlett laughed.

A few moments later there was a series of creaks as her father settled himself into the old bed. Soon afterwards came the sound of him softly snoring, a sound that always gave Scarlett comfort. She thought for a moment, thinking what it would be like to have a job in the grand manor, with its almost infinite number of rooms – no doubt including a library filled with more books than one person could read in a lifetime. She imagined how exciting it would be to meet all the different people who worked there and to help make the grand house she had only ever seen at a distance even more beautiful. The work would be hard of course, but she was not afraid of that.

It’s going to be a good thing, she thought as she leaned over and blew out the candle.

It was not a good thing.

2

Huntmaster Solignis tore through the filthy alleyways of Old Nichol, cursing his bad luck. His target – an Ifrit - was a few yards in front of him, flaming hair streaming behind him like a meteor trail.

Stop you blasted creature!

The hunting party had been planning a raid on an illegal organ-harvesting ring operating out of the slum for several weeks. Unsuspecting drunks and the homeless were vanishing from the streets and re-appearing on the Red Market as barrels of liquid or small packages wrapped in newspaper. The Huntmaster and his team had gone in loud and they had gone in hard. The stench inside the organ factory had been dizzying, and even with his years spent as a Guardian, he had been appalled by what he had seen.

There had been twenty-two of Pandemonia’s worst working in the factory. After thirty seconds, only five of them were still breathing. The Huntmaster and his fellow Guardians had the remaining few backed into a corner, ready to part their wretched souls from their bodies. However, as was always the way with such things, fate had decided on a different course of action. The current victim – a balding tramp, strapped down to a sawing table and about to lose a kidney - had chosen that exact moment to wake from his sedation and start screaming. It had taken a split second of distraction for order to give way to chaos, and the remaining five Pandemonians had taken to the wind. They all ran in different directions of course, no doubt each of them with a destination that would spell bad fortune for anyone following.

But Huntmaster Solignis had a job to do, and he would not fail.

The Ifrit turned and unhinged his jaw like a snake. His throat made a high-pitched whine and a jet of searing flame spewed from his mouth. The Huntmaster leapt to the left, using a foot to push off the grimy wall and vaulted over the blistering stream of fire. Landing without a sound, he rolled and in a movement so fast it was a blur, tucked a hand inside his cloak and threw a disc-shaped blade at the target.

The razor sharp metal ripped through the Ifrit’s shoulder, severing tendons and opening a wound that gushed thick, lava-like blood. His scream echoed through Old Nichol and was followed by the sounds of doors and windows slamming shut. Cradling his useless arm, the Ifrit launched himself up the side of a narrow house, scrambling onto the ramshackle roof. The Huntmaster growled in frustration and pounced into the air, taking to the sky on gossamer-light wings that had sprouted from slits in his cloak. The curling wind lifted the Guardian like a leaf and he landed on the roof only a few feet behind his target.

Pigeons scattered and ragged clothes were torn from washing lines as the Ifrit dashed as fast as he could across the rooftops, hopping over cramped alleyways and hurling fireballs from his now boiling hot hands. The Huntmaster sprinted close behind, never letting his target slip from his sight, waiting for the perfect moment.

The Ifrit spun his head around to check his pursuer. As he did, his foot connected with the crumbling bricks of a chimney stack and he stumbled. It was only for a moment, but it was enough. Huntmaster Solignis vaulted back into the air and arched his wings, gaining speed. He closed the distance like a bullet, colliding with the Ifrit and sending them both crashing through the ground-floor window of a building below. The target landed on his back, with the Huntmaster on top. Opening his mouth wide, the Ifrit sent a streaming pillar of flame rushing upwards. The Guardian jerked his head to the side, feeling the tremendous heat blister his skin. He unleashed a flurry of punches to the side of the Ifrit’s head, which shut him up.

What do we ‘ave ‘ere then?

The gruff voice came from behind the Huntmaster. There is no need to concern yourself good sir, he said as he climbed to his feet. Might I advise you to… his words faded away as he turned and saw the group standing in front of him.

They were not human.

The Huntmaster did not see in the same way as others. His vision took the form of light and colours, which manifested in his mind as tangible shapes. What he saw now were two Imprinted Skinshifters, an Imp and a Bloodseeker Vampire.

Well this is unfortunate, he sighed, dropping his hands to his sides. The Ifrit scrambled past him and joined the other Pandemonians. He winked at the Huntmaster, his burning eye sending out a shower of embers and a puff of smoke, as if someone had snuffed out a pipe.

Welcome to my home. You could’ve just used the front door. He gestured around him at the grimy hovel, which was filled with filthy mattresses and a single, filthy table supporting several sealed boxes.

The Huntmaster gave a pleasant smile and ran a hand through his silvery hair. Gentlemen, he said, addressing the new arrivals. The Alliance has no current interest in you. As far as we are aware, none of you have committed any crimes. He extended a finger towards the Ifrit. However, this one has been harming humans for profit, and we cannot allow that to stand. So I kindly ask you to exit the premises and allow me to do my job.

One of the Skinshifters, who had adopted the form of a stocky man covered in sailor tattoos, gave a heavy laugh. Not gonna happen mate. There’s one of you an’ five of us.

Exactly. Which is why I suggested you leave.

The Bloodseeker stepped forward, his dark eyes studying the Huntmaster. He pulled his thin, pale mouth back into a snarl. You are some type of Luminar. The malice in his voice was palpable, and he practically spat the words. Your kind sickens me. Refusing to surrender to the more powerful races and attacking my kin. He stabbed a bony finger towards the Huntmaster. And now you come to this world and pledge your allegiance to the Chosen like a cowering dog. Joining an organisation run by nothing more than freak humans. You are a disgrace to our homeworld!

Huntmaster Solignis gave a sigh. I take no pleasure in excessive violence. Therefore, I strongly urge you to ignore your personal grievances and leave now. This is your final warning.

The group did not move. Your precious Alliance killed all of my siblings, hissed the Bloodseeker. I would rather die than let you live to harm another Pandemonian for your corrupt masters.

As you wish.

The Huntmaster slipped both hands inside his cloak and drew out two identical red swords. He threw one with expert precision. It whirled through the air like a sycamore seed, slicing right through the neck of the Bloodseeker. His decapitated head thumped to the floor as the blade came to rest in the far wall.

Huntmaster Solignis rushed forwards as the Skinshifters began to revert to their canine forms, unleashing a kick that sent one catapulting into another wall, which crumbled and collapsed around him.

A blade came streaking through the air. The knife was clutched in the hand of the furious Ifrit. The Huntmaster jerked his head from side to side, ducking and pivoting, each attack missing by inches. He reached out and broke the Ifrit’s other arm. With both his limbs rendered practically useless, the Pandemonian backed away with a howl, allowing the snarling Imp to take charge. He attacked with clawed hands, swiping out with deadly force. The Huntmaster flipped onto his back and the Imp sliced nothing but air. Using his hands to press against the ground, the Guardian launched himself back up, planting both feet firmly into the Imp’s chest. The Pandemonian flew across the room and crashed into the rotten door - which caved in and sent fragments of wood scattering into the alleyway outside.

The Huntmaster went to confirm the kill, but was butted to the side with tremendous force. A second later he was lying on his back on one of the putrid mattresses. The second Skinshifter had completed his transformation into a colossal, black dog. He bore down on the Guardian, snarling and exposing teeth the size of daggers.

The beast tilted his head and attacked. The Huntmaster rolled backwards to avoid the jaws, which snapped together in a deafening chomp. He stood up and used the wall to flip over the shifter. As he did, he extended an arm and used the sword to slice the hound from the top of his skull all the way to his tail. The beast let out an ungodly howl as smoke and blood poured from the massive wound. Huntmaster Solignis used his momentum to grab onto either side of the beast’s flank and tucked himself under the Fera’s giant legs, using his blade to finish the job from the opposite side. Guts splashed over the Guardian, covering him from head to toe in ichor. He stood up, blade in hand, looking like some awful creature raised from the depths of Hell.

Don’t kill me! pleaded the Imp by the door. He stood up and tried to escape through the door. Huntmaster Solignis’ hand twitched at his side for a moment, contemplating his next action.

They attacked a Huntmaster.

With a sigh, he reached his bloodstained hand into his robe and produced a small iron dagger, which he unleashed with a flick of his wrist. It carved through the air and thudded into the Imp’s neck, nestling between two vertebrae and severing the spinal chord. The Imp became a statue. A few seconds later he toppled over and lay motionless on the ground, his open eyes staring at the exit. The Huntmaster used his wings to float over the mess of destruction that had become the floor, towards the rubble where the other, dazed Skinshifter was coming back to his senses. The Guardian clamped his hand around the back of the Fera’s neck, and positioned the point of the blade against his throat.

Why could you not just do as I asked?

Cos’ the bastard Alliance is no better than us, yet they treat those who don’t join em’ like animals.

But why harm humans in such a cruel way just for a few pennies?

The Skinshifter gave a laugh. Survival of the fittest.

He seized the Huntmaster’s arm and pulled the blade into his own throat. A loud hissing escaped the wound and his eyes went blank as he died.

Huntmaster Solignis shook his head in dismay. He pressed a hand onto the wall above the dead Skinshifter and freed his other sword. Placing a hand on his knee he stood up, flicking the blood from both blades and sheathing them. From inside the cloak, he retrieved another of the circular blades. There was a catch on the side, which shed layers with every push of his thumb, exposing blades of differing materials. He kept pressing the button until it exposed its core magnesium layer. If used on the right creature it could produce a white light bright enough to illuminate a four-mile radius and reduce the target to nothing.

He had the right creature.

The Ifrit was cowering on the floor, whimpering as Huntmaster Solignis strode towards him. Please no, you don’t understand, I have to do this. There was no other option…the Alliance turned me away.

Huntmaster Solignis hoisted him up by the lapels of his jacket, which was sodden with a mixture of bloods. Good, then you can explain your actions to them, and they can decide on your fate. I have had more than my fill of death for one evening. He dragged the whimpering creature over to the table, and ripped open one of the boxes. They were full of human meat, packed in salt.

As I thought.

The Huntmaster motioned to leave the carnage of the hovel and rejoin his fellow Guardians, when he felt a tickle in the back of his mind. It evolved until it became words, scattering across his brain like streaks of lightning.

Huntmaster Solignis. I need to speak with you.

The Huntmaster’s jaw tightened from discomfort as he forced his mind to answer, sending his reply mentally across miles.

Of course Sage Blackwood, I shall make your attendance now.

He glared down at the Ifrit. I would advise against any threatening behavior if you value your life. Releasing him, he placed his fingers to his own temples and his form wavered. In his mind, he travelled to the base of operations, where his leader sat in the grand chair in his office, waiting with an impatient expression on his scarred face.

How may I help sir?

How goes the handling of the mission? asked the Sage.

The Huntmaster cast a look through the wavering portal that showed where his physical body still stood, down at the Ifrit cowering at his feet.

Handled.

Good. I have an urgent new task for you. I have recently learned that Sciath Outpost in Ireland is dealing with several disappearances and deaths they believe to be within our wheelhouse. They have been trying to handle it themselves, but the time has come for our intervention.

That is unfortunate news. How can I be of assistance?

Head up there and find the cause. Handle things…quickly.

As you wish, Sage Blackwood.

I would also ask that-

One moment sir, interrupted the Huntmaster.

He jerked his arm to the right, which was followed by a blinding white light so intense; it ricocheted into his telepathic meeting.

Good lord, what happened? asked the Sage.

I told my prisoner not make any threatening moves. I consider a fireball to my side a threat.

Are you alright?

I will be Sage, thank you for asking.

Good. I cannot afford to lose my best Huntmaster.

Your compassion is overwhelming, he thought to himself.

Gather your Guardians, you depart this evening. I have faith you will not let me down.

Of course not sir. I will come back to the Warren as soon as I am able. Please send a Scrub team in the meantime. There is a lot of cleanup to be done here.

I will.

The Huntmaster removed his hands from his temples and the vision wavered. Before the connection was cut, the Sage’s parting words floated through to him.

Thank you, Faru.

3

Scarlett stood in the entrance hall to Oakley Manor feeling unsure of what to do with herself. Clutched in her clammy hands was a bundle bag containing nothing but a change of clothes. Everything around her looked expensive: the chandelier that hung above her head, the numerous portraits of ancestors and the frames that held them, the rich white and gold wallpaper that covered the walls and the elegant side tables pushed against them. But for Scarlett, the most luxurious things of all were the large ivory statues that had been placed around the grand hall. Each one of them had been carved to represent animals that were as terrifying as they were magnificent, most of which Scarlett could not place. Just a single one of the statues probably cost more than she would ever be able to repay in her lifetime should she accidently break it.

The house was quiet, but in the background she could hear the low hum of voices. A door creaked open and Scarlett was met with the sight of a stern looking woman sweeping towards her from the opposite end of the hallway like a ghostly apparition. The woman was thin and pale, her cheekbones high and angular. She wore a sombre black dress, drawn tight at the waist. A spotless white apron covered her lower half to the ankles and a matching bonnet had been firmly tethered to her head. Odd, round spectacles covered her eyes, the lenses as dark as night. Her uniform made a sharp swishing sound as she walked and was coupled with the hard knock of her boots on the floorboards. The woman stopped a few feet away from Scarlett and gave a curt nod, folding her arms behind her back.

You are the new girl correct?

Y-yes ma’am, answered Scarlett, trying not to stare at the peculiar glasses. She found herself wondering if the woman was blind. She certainly didn’t move as if she were.

"Well girl, servants are not permitted to enter through the front entrance under any circumstances. You should count yourself lucky that the master of the household is not here. Should I catch you doing that again, your time at Oakley Manor will be very short."

Sorry ma’am, said Scarlett quietly, taking care to use her broad accent.

Name? she demanded.

Scarlett Reid, ma’am.

I am Housekeeper Margaret Ellison, but from now on you shall refer to me as Mrs at all times. Is that clear?

Yes, Mrs.

Good. How old are you?

Fifteen, Mrs.

And your family lives in one of the cottages on the land? Your father tends the potato fields, correct?

Scarlett nodded. Yes, Mrs.

Are you religious?

Yes Mrs.

Protestant or Catholic?

Scarlett paused. Uh Protestant Mrs.

Good. Master Clarke despises both Catholics and non-believers. The Housekeeper lowered her head slightly. What is in that bag?

Just clothes, Mrs.

Mrs Ellison gave a snort. Herbert!

The shrill sound of her voice was so loud it made Scarlett jump. A moment later a thin man with a back twisted by arthritis appeared at a set of open French doors at the far end of an adjoining drawing room. He was carrying a rake in one hand.

You called for me Mrs?

The housekeeper snatched the bundle from Scarlett’s fingers and marched it through the drawing room, dumping it in the man’s hand. Groundskeeper, see to it that these are disposed of.

He nodded. Yes Mrs.

When he had gone, she marched back to Scarlett, who was feeling less at ease by the second.

Everything that you need at Oakley Manor will be provided for you. Is that clear?

Err…yes ma’am. She grimaced. "Sorry, yes Mrs."

The woman let out a harsh sigh. Follow me.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and headed back the way she had come, boots echoing around the expansive entrance hall. Scarlett hurried to follow, almost tripping over her own feet as she struggled to keep up with the marching woman.

You shall work as a scullery maid, the woman said over her shoulder. You will report to the cook through the kitchen assistants. You are never to talk to her without being addressed first, do you understand?

Yes Mrs, answered Scarlett breathlessly.

"Your main duties will be cleaning and scouring the floor, stoves, sinks, pots and dishes, as well as anything else around the manor you are asked to do. You will not refuse any command given to you, nor complain, and you will never answer back, or you will be out on your ear. Housekeeper Ellison turned suddenly and Scarlett almost bumped into her. Your position is the lowest in the household. If you follow orders and work hard, it is possible to gain a promotion. But if you cause a single wrinkle in the smooth running of this establishment…"

I understand Mrs, I’ll work hard.

The woman appeared to consider the answer for a moment. Then she simply nodded and pushed open the tall door they had reached.

Scarlett had to bite her lip to stop herself gasping at the kitchen she saw before her. It was twice the size of her entire cottage and stocked to bursting point. The black tiles she stood on had been polished into an obsidian shine. A large Welsh Dresser had been set against the far wall and held an array of expensive china crockery. Shelves ran around the room in tiers and were crammed with copper pots and pans, all jostling for space. More still held jars of spices, herbs and dried fruits. A dominant iron stove stood at one end, a mystery of doors and compartments, topped by a thick, black tube that disappeared into the chimney. An open door showed a larder stacked full of cheeses, as well as an array of jams, home cured meats and root vegetables. In the middle of everything was a wooden table that would not have comfortably fit anywhere in Scarlett’s home. It was loaded with a rainbow of fruits and vegetables that made her mouth water. In Scarlett’s home there was never quite enough to eat, so the dull growl of hunger had become a familiar enemy.

A round woman with a smiling face was chopping onions with the speed and skill of someone who had been doing it for many years. Underneath her apron she wore a bright red gown that appeared to match her jolly disposition - just like the black dress matched the housekeeper’s. The cook was being assisted in her food preparation by two girls in grey uniforms, who Scarlett imagined could only have been a few years older than she was.

When the cook noticed the new arrivals, she set the knife down and wiped her hands on her apron. Good afternoon, Mrs, she said.

Good afternoon, Bridget. The housekeeper gestured a hand towards the girl. This is Scarlett Reid.

Ah, so you must be tha’ new addition ta’ my workforce.

Scarlett noticed that the cook had a strong Irish accent, unlike the housekeepers, which was clipped and foreign sounding. Added with the wink the woman gave her, it made the girl feel more at home and helped soothe her jangled nerves. At least they’re not all like Mrs Ellison, she thought with relief.

Answer her girl! snapped the housekeeper.

Scarlett hadn’t realised there had been a question. Err, I’m the new Scullery maid, ma’am, er Mrs err…Cook.

This one has a lot to learn, sighed the housekeeper as she swept over to the far side of the kitchen Come on.

Bridget rolled her eyes to Scarlett, who grinned in return before she scurried off after the marching woman. She noticed that a section of Housekeeper Ellison’s dark and surprisingly greasy hair had wormed its way free of the bonnet, but she didn’t dare say anything. They reached a set of slatted doors near a basin sink. Mrs Ellison unhooked the latch and Scarlett was surprised to see a narrow staircase leading upwards. The housekeeper lifted the edges of her dress and made her way up, making a minimal amount of noise.

These areas are known as the servant passages, she said as the girl hurried to follow. There are two in every room, one leading up and one leading down, apart from the attic and cellar, naturally. They are common in large houses such as this, so that the help can navigate around the manor without being a nuisance to the owners. The mark of a good servant is one who is rarely seen and never heard."

The housekeeper hitched open the door at the top of the stairs and stepped into a corridor so narrow, Scarlett’s shoulders almost touched the sides. They passed a few identical doors until they reached one at the far end. Inside was one final flight of twisting stairs that led them into an attic room crammed with rows of cots. They beds were well worn, legs bowing and mattresses swollen and lumpy. But the sheets at least appeared clean. Each cot had a small table next to it and a wooden box at the base. There was a single window on the wall opposite the beds, and a shelf at the far end that held a multitude of candles and parlor matches, as well as a dish filled with soap bars.

Mrs Ellison pointed towards the first cot in the run. Since it doesn’t look like the runaway Maria will be returning to the manor, this is where you will sleep. Both your uniforms are inside that box there, along with a nightdress, one change of regular clothes and a copy of the Bible. I assume you cannot read of course, however there are pictures inside that you can use to aid your prayers.

Scarlett bit her tongue as she felt her hackles rise. After all, Mrs Ellison was simply being realistic. However, there was a note of venom in her words.

It is your responsibility to wash your own clothes in your free time, she continued, gesturing towards the shelf. You are permitted the use of one bar of soap and one candle per week. If you use either too quickly, then you will have to ask to use someone else’s, she smiled, or get used to darkness and the smell of yourself. You will be working twelve hours a day, seven days a week, with one Sunday off twice a month. Days begin at five am. Any questions?

It took Scarlett a while to find her voice and even though her words were small, she still had to squeeze them out. I was…wonderin’ about my wages Mrs.

Mrs Ellsion sniffed and raised her nose as if she had caught a bad scent. Master Clarke pays well, even for your position. Your wages will be fifteen pounds a year, paid on a weekly basis, minus any deductions for breakages or damage to the property.

Scarlett gave a nod. Thank ya, Mrs.

Anything else?

No, Mrs.

Good. Get yourself changed and be back downstairs in ten minutes. She pointed a slim finger at Scarlett. When you come, bring those clothes to be disposed of.

Without another word, Mrs Ellison slipped from the room like a shadow, closing the door with a harsh tug. Scarlett stood in the same position for a moment, overwhelmed into inertia. She knew working at the manor would be hard, but she didn’t suspect it would be so hostile.

Think of Da and Ma. Think of Connor.

Blinking back the tears, Scarlett moved over to the box and knelt down. Glancing about her first, she surreptitiously slipped The Monk from its hiding place inside her frock and slid it to the bottom, underneath the Bible. Then she lifted out each part of her uniform and lay them down on her cot.

Slowly she began to change.

4

Faru Solignis and his hunting party, which consisted of seven of the finest Guardians ever to take the oath, stepped off the deck of the Iron Whale and onto the docks at Belfast. They had broken surface in the small hours, in the hopes that there would be nobody about to see them. After all, eight figures cloaked in black, one of whom had two glimmering white eyes and a third tattooed on their forehead was not the most inconspicuous thing in the world. Not to mention the Iron Whale itself, which was a vessel unequaled by any other, built by some of the finest technology and materials that Pandemonia had to offer.

Faru was utterly unsurprised to find the dock teeming with life. The update he had received when he returned to the base was that there had been a double homicide – definitely not caused by human hand – and mysterious double murders tended to attract quite a number of onlookers. A group of about fifteen people stood in a crowd, a mixture of drunks, night workers - and, he saw with a frown, children. The curious onlookers were being held back by several pale-faced policemen, who were clearly disturbed by whatever they had witnessed lying underneath the two bloodstained sheets.

A black man stood about twenty yards from the crime scene, his dark cloak flapping around him in the bitter wind. The man nodded at Faru and the Huntmaster started to make his way over. Faru kept his face hidden, so that no one would see it and create a new problem. As they walked, he signaled to one of his Guardians.

Five, see to it that the crowd lose interest.

The chestnut-haired Chosen gave a smile. At once, Huntmaster.

Faru always referred to his Guardians by their assigned numbers rather than their names. The reason was twofold – it was more efficient in critical situations and it kept their identity anonymous to their enemies.

Five moved to the crowd and spoke in a voice that was an octave higher than normal and carried a vibration with it, as if it were the vocal equivalent of a tuning fork.

Listen to my words and hear me. You are tired and cold. You no longer want to stand here and see this death and misery. You want to go home and…

The Guardians words faded as Faru and his team reached the cloaked man. Moments later the crowd dispersed, no longer interested in the chaotic scene that had enthralled them only moments before.

Huntmaster Solignis, a pleasure to make your acquaintance again, said the man, crossing his arms over his chest and then extending them towards Faru in the traditional Alliance salute. It has been some time since last we met.

Faru returned the salute. That it has. It is good to see you again Outleader Kodessa. The rest of his Guardians fell in around them, looking like members of a secret order in their unifying cloaks and dark garb – which, in fact, they were.

To business then. Faru turned slightly and gestured towards the bodies. Have you been able to gather any information about what occurred here?

The Outleader nodded. Yes. The police captain is affiliated with us, he’s the one who bought it to my attention.

What about the other policemen?

Unconnected. The captain told his men that I was a private investigator contracted to take a look by the mayor. He shrugged. An unlikely story, but they don’t seem to care much.

Faru nodded. What exactly is under those sheets?

Two male victims, both in their late thirties. One has a multiple skull fractures caused by something crushing his head with tremendous force, the other a hole in his throat the size of my fist.

How long have they been dead?

I’d say only a few hours.

Faru nodded, thinking. Remind me, what is your usual Pandemonian activity here?

Well the biggest problem Ireland faces is Fera - namely Banshees and Kelpies. But we’ve been hunting those bootlickers down to near extinction on this side for some time, so their attacks are becoming far less frequent. Apart from that we have the usual mix of Fae and Umbra - mainly drifters, but most are tagged by the Alliance. Honestly, we don’t normally get much bother here. There’s no section of the Veil in Ireland, so there’s not much draw. I wouldn’t imagine there are more than a thousand Pandemonians and hybrids living in the whole of the country. This recent spate of disappearances and deaths has taken us by complete surprise. Up until now our biggest issues were domestic Pandemonian feuds, or Kapre murders.

Faru raised an eyebrow. A Kapre? In all my years I have never had the pleasure of meeting one.

It is no pleasure, trust me. Those bastards are pure mischief and malice. Plus catching one is harder than grabbing smoke with your hands. He gave a smile. We finally managed it though. I would be happy to show him to you later.

That is very kind of you, perhaps if we have time, Faru replied. Do you suppose a Kapre could have done this?

A lot of different Pandemonian species could have done this, answered the Outleader. However, this isn’t a Kapre’s style. They are tricksters, death through suspicious accidents. That type of thing.

I see. So apart from the method of death, were there any tell-tale marks?

Outleader Kodessa shook his head. Unfortunately not, but… He leaned in closer to Faru, as if afraid that the policemen bustling around over twenty feet away might hear them. As it was, the officers were making great efforts to pay absolutely no attention to Faru or his Guardians. As was usual in these situations, asking questions about mysterious robed figures who had descended on a crime scene was considered a level of curiosity that was not supported by their wages. This isn’t the first attack tonight.

Really?

The police captain told me they discovered another victim in an alleyway only a few miles from here. He tapped his neck. Puncture wounds, still oozing secretion.

Vampire, said Faru.

Looks that way.

Bloodseeker?

Kodessa shook his head. Hole sizes are representative of a Bloodling bite.

Did the man survive?

He shook his head. Too much blood loss. I’d say whoever attacked him got interrupted and had to move on. Poor wretch was left bleeding out without anyone to help him. The Outleader nodded over towards the claret-covered sheets. If you ask me, it was the same person who did these two in. Trying to feed.

Excuse my interruption sir, but were the victims were exsanguinated? asked Two, himself a Bloodling Vampire. He had been a handsome man even before his change; his well-structured face descending to a strong jaw, and topped by long ashen hair that he tied into a ponytail.

Actually…no. They both still had blood in them.

Then the Bloodling wasn’t feeding. If they were going to risk attacking humans, then they would certainly take as much blood as they could.

Thank you for your insight Two, said Faru. He turned back to face the Outleader. I am inclined to agree with my colleague, this wasn’t a random feeding gone wrong. However, like you say, I do think that both these deaths are somehow connected. Tell me, these dead men, what were they doing out here?

Your guess is as good as mine.

Perhaps the police captain might.

Let’s see.

Outleader Kodessa made a quick signal with his hand and the captain – a skinny man with a mop of thinning ginger hair and a tuft of beard sprouting from his chin made his way over. A few of the other policemen cast their eyes over in the direction of the Guardians, but averted them again when their gaze was met.

Mister O’Reilly, this is Huntmaster Solignis.

A pleasure to meet you…shittin’ hell! The man recoiled when he saw Faru’s blazing eyes. I…uh sorry sir, didn’t mean to offend. I just don’t often, uh you know, see those of your type, he added breathlessly.

You mean Pandemonians?

Yeah. Sorry, you jus’ caught me off guard is all.

Faru gave a smile. It is perfectly alright. I can imagine I look somewhat startling. Anyhow, I was hoping you might be able to tell us if anyone knew what these two men were doing out here on the docks. It’s cold enough that it would have to be for a good reason.

A good point, the policeman said. One of the girls from Red Lace said they was out here with Lisa, one of the newer workin’ girls. They didn’t ‘ave any more rooms at the bordello, so… he shrugged, they had to take the party outside.

Faru disliked the police captain. It was something he could see in his aura – a tainted colour that exposed his nature in a way only the Seelian race could see. He wasn’t a bad man, just not a particularly good one. Also the fact that he was allowing illegal prostitution to occur right under his nose and not doing anything to address it did not sit well with the Huntmaster. He didn’t need to merge minds with mister O’Reilly to know that most of the girls in the Red Lace likely knew him on a first name basis. Regardless, the man had information Faru needed, so tact was necessary.

You say they came out with one of the girls. Have you managed to locate her?

The man gave a solemn shake of his head. No we haven’t sir.

And there it is. The missing piece.

It’s too dark out now, but when first light hits I’m going to have a team sweep the dock waters. Chances are we’ll find a bloated body, continued the captain. He sighed. Terrible thing this. She was only thirteen.

Faru raised his eyebrows. Did you know her?

The captain nodded. I’ve seen her around from time to time. Jenny her name was.

And knowing she was only thirteen years of age and being the police captain of Belfast, you made no attempt to alter her situation? Faru asked flatly.

I uh-I have other commitments. I can’t be everywhere at once! spluttered the chief.

Evidently. Or maybe you just do not care a great deal. He could feel Kodessa’s eyes boring into him, but he didn’t look. Thank you officer, you have been most helpful. He turned back on the odious man to signal he was done with him. The captain passed seven glaring Guardians, walking back to the crime. Once he was out of earshot, Faru turned to Five and spoke low. Go convince the dedicated leader of the Belfast police department that he should spend less time thinking of himself and more time thinking of the citizens of his town.

My pleasure sir, he said with a grin.

Kodessa folded his arms but said nothing about Faru’s stern words to the captain. Instead he asked, Do you think the girl could have been a Bloodling we were unaware about? Maybe attacked the men when they got a bit too heavy-handed with her?

Faru shook his head. No. That girl did not attack these men, nor will the police find her corpse tomorrow. She is gone, Outleader Kodessa. Someone killed these men and then took her, just like they took all the others.

But why?

That I cannot answer…yet.

5

As the week continued, Scarlett found that things at the manor were not nearly as awful as she had originally feared, as long as she kept busy and on the correct side of Housekeeper Ellison’s fiery temper. Still, the days were long and hard, and the girl had to practically drag herself to bed, falling asleep the moment her head touched her misshapen pillow. On nights when she had enough energy, she prayed – curling her hand around the silver cross her father had given her - and then hid herself away from the eyes of the others, reading The Monk by candlelight. The book transported her back to her tiny cottage, and it was in these moments she realised how much she already missed home. Turning the pages became a challenge due to the constant scrubbing that had left her fingers sore and nails brittle. However, she ate better than she had at home in a long time, and the attic was at least warm enough to be comfortable.

In addition – with the exception of the stern Mrs Ellison and her distinctly aloof air – there seemed to be an element of camaraderie among the fellow servants. The cook insisted that Scarlett call her Bridget when the housekeeper was out of earshot, and slipped her a few chunks of vegetables when they prepared evening meals. Other servants would give a nod or a smile when they passed Scarlett in the corridors. The stable boys winked as they bought horses around the side of the building to be fixed to carriages. The attention of males was something Scarlett was familiar with – the farmer boys had never made secret that she was the object of their affections. Regardless, she was still young enough to feel insecure in her own body, and her cheeks would flare the same colour as her hair.

Scarlett learned that there were around thirty servants working in Oakley Manor on a day-to-day basis. Some lived in the various servant quarters of the vast house, others - like the cook and gardeners - travelled from their own homes in the village each morning. Two other maids worked in the kitchen alongside Scarlett, assisting Bridget with food preparation and the day-to-day operations. Claudia was tall and awkward, as if she didn’t fit properly in her own skin, and Lucy was a rotund girl who suffered so badly with skin irritation, it left her arms red raw. They were friendly enough, although Scarlett would often find Lucy staring at her with an odd expression that seemed to border on pity.

Beyond Lucy and Claudia, three other girls shared the attic room with Scarlett. Willow and Sarah were sullen looking twin sisters employed as housemaids. Grete was an older woman from Germany, nanny to the Clarke’s two children - Rupert and Isabel - who as yet Scarlett had not seen. Indeed, the only member of the Clarke family that she had met was Mrs Clarke, and it had been a confusing and unnerving experience.

Three days after Scarlett’s arrival, a new delivery boy from the village grocer had accidently left an extra bag of potatoes inside the front entrance, instead of bringing them to the rear as expected. Scarlett had been sent to fetch them and rather than navigating the entire perimeter of the huge house, she had decided to risk walking through the main hallway. Whilst staggering back to the kitchen, struggling under the weight of the laden sack, Mrs Clarke had appeared at the top of the stairs like a ghost.

Scarlett had stood rooted to the spot as the woman descended the staircase. Mrs Clarke was a woman who would have once been considered beautiful, but now clung onto the fading whispers of her former glory. Her blonde hair was streaked with grey, and not even her high cheekbones could do much to stretch out the emerging wrinkles. Her cobalt blue eyes shimmered with intelligence, but were outlined with crow’s feet and dark patches. She had been wearing an elegant blue dress, undermined by a tatty looking shawl that she hugged around