The Sentry

By Lyssa Morasey

In a war between fire and ice, three former enemies must join forces to save everything they love.

The Nixans and Wardens are supernatural beings living hidden within our world, locked in a brutal war for supremacy. Wielding the powers of ice and fire, their ancient feud has grown to engulf six continents, eleven races of superhumans, and one very powerful goddess.

Now, three reluctant teenagers, armed with nothing but a magic sword and a blistering vendetta, are about to take a stand and change their world forever.

Keira Serasul is a Sentry, pledged to serve the Nixans for life. When her best friend’s future is threatened by her own father's schemes, Keira is faced with an impossible task: to infiltrate the home of her people’s worst enemy and steal an enchanted artifact with the power to curse an entire kingdom.

Her target is far away, and the journey is fraught with danger; still, Keira is determined to do everything she can to save her friend. But when her mission forces her to rely on a pair of rivals she’s been raised to despise, Keira is left wondering who her true enemies really are.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyssa Morasey
• Release date: Apr 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463052686

Book preview

26 September: Keira

Fifteen minutes in Boston, and I can already see why we let the Wardens have it.

Sure, the city has big buildings and a good baseball team, but it’s also chock-full of loud, obnoxious people with terrible accents. Cars and taxis honk their way down the streets with reckless abandon, squeezing their way into curbside gaps in the road that really should not be classified as parking spots. The noise, the chaos, the weird hair—it’s enough to give anyone a headache. 

But perhaps I’m a little biased. Growing up in the middle of a forest in northern Idaho has left me without much of a liking for Sen cities. And it’s difficult to appreciate the appeal of the city that doubles as the Wardens’ North American headquarters—a city where a disturbingly high percentage of the population secretly wants to kill me.

Well, they’d want to kill me if they knew I was here. They should know, since I crossed the Appalachian Line this morning. But I haven’t seen any angry men chasing after me with fireballs yet, which means that the ice-glass pendant I’m wearing is actually doing its job.

Hey. Some kid—college-aged, I’d guess—shuffles up to my side. He’s got a cigarette drooping from his mouth, black claw earrings reaching down to his shoulders, and a shock of long, bright pink hair. Definitely not a Warden; he’s a Sen, an everyday average Joe. Nice tattoo. He points to the blue design inked into the underside of my arm: two arrows crossed under a snowflake. My Sentry mark.

I pull my coat sleeve down over the mark, cursing myself for my carelessness. That symbol is not something I want to go around showing off—someone who actually understands what it means could have seen it. Thanks.

Where’d you get it? Pink Hair wonders. His arms, I notice, are covered in tattoos, wolves and snakes and dragons. Maybe he’s looking for another.

I shrug. Some place out West. That much is true; I was given my Sentry mark in the barren cactus-land known as the Sonoran Desert, where the Sentry trials are held.

Ah, he says, so you’re a tourist, then. He spits out his cigarette and grins.

Yep. That’s one word for it. Invader probably fits my current situation a little better, though. I glance quickly over my shoulder, checking once again to make sure there’s no one coming after me.

Pink Hair opens his mouth to ask me something else—about my weird eyes, probably, or my hobolike appearance—but I abruptly duck into the Starbucks at the end of the block and worm my way through crowds of fake-blond teenagers to the girls’ bathroom in the back. Luckily, my Sen pursuer isn’t quite creepy enough to follow me in there.

I slump back against the wall, letting out a sigh. Another bad thing about Boston: nosy city boys. 

The bathroom is empty, so I take the chance to freshen myself up a little. I need to look at least somewhat presentable if I’m going to be meeting the Chief Warden. And I don’t think I’ve ever looked more disgusting in my life, at least not since the end of the Sentry trials. The grimy bathroom mirror reveals sunken eyes, a nest of filthy dark hair, and a fresh pair of zits emerging on my brow. Ugh.

What I really need is a good meal and a nap. My arms are sore as hell; it took me almost four full days of flying to get here from New Fauske. And despite my multiple high-calorie pit stops along the way, there’s nothing that can make you hungrier than a long flight.

I wash the grime of the trip off my face, scrubbing determinedly at my new zits, and do my best to untangle the mess atop my head. Then I take stock of my supplies: a wallet with some cash and a debit card, my phone, an aura detector on silent, Cass’s pendant around my neck. I’m used to having to hide the pendant under my clothes, but here I can wear it as openly as I want. The Wardens won’t know what it is.

Once I’m satisfied, I leave the bathroom and pick up a coffee and slice of pound cake from the Starbucks to silence my stomach and hopefully wake me up a little. I return to the streets and pull out my phone to check the address of my destination. Still three blocks away.

One milk mustache and McDonald’s bathroom trip later, I stand before the entrance to Warden headquarters. The building, like everything else in big Sen cities, is about twenty stories too tall. Above a double set of fancy revolving doors is a simple flame—minimalist, black against steel—and the words IGNACIO CORPORATION right below. In the Sen world, Ignacio is a multinational pharmaceutical company filled with greedy soul-sucking businessmen; in the Novan world, it’s a front for the activities of greedy soul-sucking Wardens.

This is it, I say to myself, balling my hands up into fists to stop their shaking. No turning back now. I close my eyes, take one last breath of freedom, and push my way inside. 

The lobby is big and open, dotted with fake plants and armchairs. The revolving doors filter out most of the city noise, leaving the lobby ambiance muted and quiet after my time out on the streets.

A young woman sits behind a desk off to the side. Unlike Pink Hair, she immediately strikes me as a Warden. I’ve never actually seen one, of course, but I spent hours studying pictures during the Sentry trials, and I’ve had the basic characteristics etched into my brain since before I could walk: dark hair, tanned skin, bright eyes, lots of muscles. This woman has all four. She’s dressed in black, too, which means she has to be an infidel. Nixa’s followers don’t wear black, ever.

The probably-Warden woman smiles when she sees me, but the expression is forced. Good evening, she says. How can I help you?

I can’t move. This is a Warden—a fire-breathing, Sen-killing Warden. If she figures out what I am, she’ll gun me down on the spot.

Swallowing, I force myself over to her desk. This is for Cass, I remind myself. I’m looking for Fenella Shirey.

The woman doesn’t look surprised at my request. She takes in my pale skin, my strange silver eyes, and her fake smile tightens. Elevators are over there. She points across the lobby to a trio of them. Take the middle one.

Thank you. I shoot a fake smile right back at her and follow her finger to the lifts. The middle elevator opens its doors for me as soon as I press the button to call for it.

It’s not hard to figure out how to get down to the Warden lair from there. Below all the elevator’s floor buttons is one with a little flame emblazoned over it. Obvious much? I mutter. The Nixans plaster their snowflake over everything that’s theirs, too, but they have Old Magic to hide their stuff from the Senex, unlike these people. Some curious Sen could easily find his way down to Warden headquarters if the receptionist didn’t stop him. Then again, the Wardens aren’t known for having reservations about killing off curious Senex.

I press the button. The elevator shudders, then begins to descend. I close my eyes and attempt unsuccessfully to steady my breaths.

I go down and down and down, asking myself eventually how far underground this place could possibly be. Maybe the Wardens have set up camp at the center of the Earth—seven-thousand-degree temperatures wouldn’t bother the fire-people.

Please scan your finger for identification, a voice instructs from the ether. I jump at least two feet in the air and almost go bird. Chill out, Keira. Since when have you been scared of automated voices?

A scanner slides out above the button panel just as the elevator finally grinds to a halt. I assume that I have to swipe my finger before the doors will open.

And this is the part where everyone finds out about the shifter intruder.

Swallowing back the bile rising in my throat, I press a finger to the scanner until it beeps. Fingerprint not identified, the voice informs me. Please hold for security services.

The wall to my right flickers to digital life, and suddenly there are two Warden boys about my age glaring accusingly into the lift. They look pretty much the same to me; one boy’s hair is longer and the other’s is curlier, but both are dark and olive-skinned like the receptionist. They’re surrounded by screens showing different nooks and crannies of Warden headquarters—a quick glance up reveals a tiny camera above my head that I hadn’t noticed before. Oops. It’s never good to overlook a camera.

We got a heads-up from lobby security about you, the curly-haired boy growls. You don’t look like a Warden.

No use beating around the bush. I’m not.

Allies aren’t allowed in headquarters without special permission. Really? I find myself thinking, despite the direness of my situation. The Nixans’ allies come into New Fauske all the time; Duke Fenris even holds balls for them. I know, because in my eight years as her maidservant I helped Cass prepare for about a zillion of them.

Well, good, I say, because I’m not one of your allies.

I can practically see the alarms going off behind the Wardens’ eyes. It would be funny if I didn’t have to fear for my life.

What are you, then? Curly Hair breathes, quiet and intense. His eyes are chocolate-brown, the same color as Delphi’s. Don’t you dare think about Delphi right now, Keira. A Sen?

I shake my head, roll up my coat sleeve, and hold my right arm up to the camera. Do Senex have silver eyes?

The boys stare and gape at the Sentry mark for a second before making a break for the door, leaving me looking into an empty security room. Idiots. I could be the diversion for a Sentry invasion of their headquarters, and they’ve just left their security room unattended. I, unfortunately, am not the diversion for a Sentry invasion force, but still.

I wait, pace, pray to Nixa. Stay calm, Caphian always said, and you’ll be okay. I take out my phone, find that they’ve somehow got reception down here, and mouth along to Auto-Tuned pop trash on YouTube for a few minutes—anything to distract me from the fact that I’m trapped in an underground elevator surrounded by Wardens. Then I throw down the phone and wait some more.

For the love of the Goddess, I sigh, someone get me the hell out of here.

And that’s when the doors finally slide open.

26 September: Westrey

The Sentry girl is slouched in a corner of the lobby-access elevator, legs crossed and brows raised. I grit my teeth. She looks entirely comfortable sitting in the middle of enemy camp, and I don’t like it.

Basil stands at my side, his shoulders squared, looking as serious as someone like Basil could possibly look. Behind us are the two guards we’d called for when we found the Sentry in our elevator. Their arms are crossed, their muscles bulging under blood-red sleeves of tattoos. But the girl doesn’t seem to be fazed.

She’s putting on a show, I tell myself. She’s probably scared to death.

Get her out of there, one of the guards grunts at me and Baz. We do, grabbing her arms and hauling her up and out as forcefully as possible. She doesn’t resist.

Are you taking me to Fenella? she wonders. Her voice is strong, steady.

We are, but she doesn’t need to know that. What’s your name?

Keira.

Serasul? Basil asks.

She rolls her eyes. What else? I just showed you my Sentry mark, didn’t I?

Smartass. How about you keep your mouth shut, all right? We’re already more than happy to burn you down to a crisp. She gives me a look of fake surprise; my grip tightens around her arm. Let’s go. Baz and I pull her down the hall, the two guards at our backs.

Our bunker isn’t the most cozy of places—it’s all fine edges and steel doors, artificial lights and obsessively-scrubbed white tiles. Shifters are used to castles and Shade camps; Keira Serasul should be awestruck by the influx of twenty-first century down here. But she’s not—her sterling-silver eyes are fixed on my face, studying me.

Aren’t you going to tell me your name? she asks as we near the end of the hall. I don’t want to have to call you Curly Hair.

Wes, I tell her through my teeth.

And yours? she asks Baz.

Basil. 

She wrinkles her nose. What, like the plant?

"Bah-sil, he corrects. The British way." I shoot him a look over her head. Stop talking to her.

We take an elevator up to the third floor of the bunker and bring the Sentry right up to the entrance of the Chief Warden’s office. Fenella, who’d been expecting us, slides open her door after a single knock, her mouth pressed into a thin taut line.

You can go, she tells the guards behind us, dismissing them with a quick nod of her head; her eyes are glued to Keira, sizing her up as she stands frozen between me and Basil.

Fenella Shirey, commander of all the Warden forces of the continent, is nothing if not imposing. She is tall and built, with sharp bones and harsh features. Her eyebrows are pierced with pointed studs and have been plucked to be thin as razorblades. The dress she wears is cut to show off her tightly-muscled biceps, and her hair, black and streaked with red, ripples across her shoulders like tongues of fire.

Keira, by contrast, is a good half a head shorter, with greasy dark hair and bags blackening the skin under her eyes. Her tiny frame is hidden beneath a thick gray coat, over which gleams a necklace with an ice pyramid for a pendant.

The ice pendant is not surprising: the Nixans are the ice-people, and the shifters are their closest allies. The Nixans have other allies, too—Shades and Sylvans on this side of the Atlantic, and llyrsi in the East—but the shifters are the ones they make into Sentries, the ones they send to do all their dirty work. It’s the shifters that were responsible for the Massacre of Alexandria last year.

My stomach tightens. I dig my nails into Keira’s arm, deep, but she doesn’t flinch.

So, Fenella muses, finally breaking the silence, a single Sentry, strutting into my bunker. She signals for us to enter her office. I’ve never been inside before, but Fenella’s office is easily the least interesting facet of the last few minutes. It’s bland and beige-walled, windowless like every other room in the bunker, with a big glass desk covered in files and maps watched over by a mini phoenix statue.

Show me, she orders, motioning for me and Basil to step aside.

Keira smiles. I’d be honored. And, in about the amount of time it would take to blink, she shifts from disheveled teenage girl into some kind of raptor—sleek and red-feathered, with the same silver eyes she’d had before.

Bird-Keira glances around for a few seconds, craning her neck and stretching her wings, before changing back, as smoothly and effortlessly as her first shift. I can’t help but be intrigued. I’d never seen a shifter change shape before; then again, I’d never seen a shifter at all until today.

Fenella disappears into a side room branching off from her office and returns with a heavy chain over her shoulder. I’ve already called an emergency council meeting. She points to Baz and me. One of you will need to be chained to her. 

Baz nudges me forward; I shove him right back. Neither one of us volunteers.

Wes, Fenella says. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course. The Chief Warden knows me as a parentless boy with a missing sister, and Basil as the only son of her head liaison. Of course she’d pick me to lug around the shifter.

Sorry, Baz mouths. I shake my head.

Fenella secures one of the chain cuffs around my wrist and hands me the key. It’s warm in my hand—it must be made of fire-iron. I pocket it with a smirk. Fenella shackles Keira as well, leaving the two of us connected by six or seven feet of metal links. Then she goes on to check the Sentry for weapons, pulling a Solas phone, wallet, and aura detector from her coat pockets. The wallet she returns after a quick inspection, but she holds on to the phone and detector.

Try changing shape now, Fenella suggests.

Keira looks down at her cuffed wrist, then back up at us. I can’t, she says quietly, narrowing her eyes.

Fenella smiles at her confusion. Your Nixan priests may be the only ones with Old Magic, she says, but the rest of us still have some tricks up our sleeves. It’s a form chain—as long as it’s locked around your wrist, it’ll keep you from shifting.

Keira’s mouth opens halfway; she closes it, shuts her eyes and balls up her fists, but still she can’t shift. Fenella’s smile stretches all the way up to her eyes.

Did you know we had that thing? Baz whispers in my ear. I shake my head; I wonder what other magical relics Fenella has hiding around her office. 

Keira bites her lip and crosses her arms in defeat. Okay, you win, she says. I’m not going anywhere.

Good. Fenella pulls two fire-guns out from underneath her desk and throws them to Baz and me. I catch mine between my palms and slip the hot steel weapon into the holder on my belt. Time for the council meeting, then.

The four of us take another elevator ride back down a floor to the council room. I’ve been in this room before, but only a few times. It’s big and circular, with twenty senior officers seated around a round table in the center like King Arthur’s knights. Basil’s dad—Cesil Kinscey, tall and stern and scarred—is among them; as soon as we enter, his eyes flit to me with an accusation I’m quite familiar with: What have you gotten my son into this time, Doorstep? All the other officers’ eyes go immediately to Keira. 

You brought her inside, one of them murmurs.

She’s not a threat, Fenella assures him, closing the council room door behind her and circling the table until she reaches her seat in the back. She’s alone.

I don’t understand, another says. How did she get here, across the Appalachian Line?

Keira steps forward, the chain jangling between us. I wasn’t stopped by anyone, she says simply. That’s how.

Yes. Fenella’s amber gaze sweeps across the officers before falling on one in particular. I would like for you to answer that one, Sherah.

Sherah sits up and clears his throat, a little blush rising to his cheeks. I know him—he’s friends with Basil’s parents, and the supervisor for our border guards. I have no more of an answer than you do, he assures Fenella. No shifter registered on the aura detectors at any of our border stations.

Nothing showed up on the detector in the security office, either, Basil adds tentatively.

Fenella nods to Keira. Would you care to explain, then, how you’ve come to have no aura?

Keira shrugs. Maybe you should find yourselves some new detectors. I have an aura; you just saw me shift a few minutes ago.

That doesn’t matter, one of the officers, a gray-haired old man, rasps. What is a Sentry doing here in our headquarters?

Keira purses her lips, lifts her chin. I’m not a Sentry anymore, she corrects him. I defected. I want to help you fight the Nixans. 

The room goes pin-drop quiet at that. Several of the officers shift in their seats, and Fenella’s eyes narrow into slits. No shifter has defected to our side since the Nixan War began, she says.

No one alive knows exactly when the war began, but it was sometime back when the Romans were still around, and it’s never let up since. Even today, while the Senex fuss over drilling rights and deficits, the Nixans and Wardens and their allies are locked in a silent battle for world domination. If you look at the right maps—Novan ones—the whole planet is either Nixan or Warden land, except for India and Antarctica and a tiny piece of Ireland. Ireland and India are where the neutral Novans live—the avians and jnani—and even the Nixans haven’t bothered to worry about Antarctica.

Then I could be extra useful, Keira says. When was the last time a Warden crossed the Appalachians and survived? More silence. I lived in New Fauske for ten years; I know everything there is to know about the Nixans and Sentries. I know Fenris Loraveire’s favorite kind of wine and what kinds of movies Caphian likes to go see when he’s off-duty. The names she gives send needles down my spine. Fenris Loraveire is Nixan nobility, and Caphian is the sadistic commander of his Sentries. Both names are profanity to Wardens.

Basil’s dad leans forward, turning so that the thick scar down his cheek shines in the dim light. The sight of it reminds me of the Massacre; a new wave of hatred for the shifter standing next to me turns my stomach. A Sentry would be a significant asset, he says, but only a loyal one. How do we know the Nixans haven’t sent her to study our bunker and return to New Fauske with all our secrets? His question sends a low murmur rolling around the table.

Fenella raises a hand for silence. For now she is attached by form chain to Westrey Dorsan, and unable to shift. If the council allows her to stay, she will remain chained to him until our meeting next month, when we can reevaluate.

What? I never agreed to that. I open my mouth to protest, but Fenella silences me with a glare from across the room. That’s an order. Basil shoots me