The Crescent and the Zobâtants: The Transcendents, #2

By Stephanie BwaBwa

A self-destructive heiress. Assassins mysteriously disappearing. And a vicious court plunging into further darkness.

 

Sixteen year old Zavala Nightingale has been crowned as the new heir of all assassins in the Court of Bones.

 

And to cope, she finds herself fighting in the ash pits with the Zobâtants of her court—hardened pit fighters and the deadliest criminals alive.

 

While collecting coin through fighting, Zavala's world is flipped upside down when the Ash Queen, Master of the Crescents, reveals that assassins are mysteriously disappearing while out on assignment without a trace.

 

It's up to Zavala and her Crescent partner to find out what's happening to the assassins and put an end to it before war breaks out in the Court.

 

But when all evidence points to a powerful group of angels, will Zavala be ready to do what it takes to cut the threat down?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie BwaBwa
• Release date: Jan 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201158606

Book preview

1

The roar of stomping boots filled the night. A cacophony of snarls curled around her ears. Thick fog snaked throughout the ash pits weaving through every corridor of the maze she was in. A low, distant, growl rumbled from somewhere in the darkness. Warnings of the unknown beasts living in the ash pits. Terror clung to the air like a heavy cloak as exhaustion spread throughout her body.

Beneath the bleak, smoky night, Zavala Nightingale forced herself to her feet. Her vision was a blur. She blinked, barely able to make out the swelling mass of death floating in front of her. Before she could react his large fist collided with her jaw sending her sprawling across the blackened stone.

Shouts and jeers rose like waves. They demanded more, more, more. The show they were getting wasn’t enough. They thirsted for her blood. Hungered for her bones. Craved the taste of her fôrs—the life energy and spirit of all angels. They wanted her to play with immortality, and lose, slipping into the Ellelights once and for all.

Zavala’s hearts thumped in her chest. While she rolled over, reeling from the hit, she looked inside herself. Her fôrs glowed bright ivory like a beam of starlight across a dark, barren land. The form mirrored her angelic physique, with arms, legs, and limbs shimmering within her. If her fôrs were ever siphoned, she’d still live, if not for long, in a different vessel. Angelic fôrs carry consciousness, memories, and magic. Without it, the body becomes a husk of flesh, blood, and bone. If it were crushed to nothing, angels would be rendered mortal and die a permanent death, crossing into the Ellelights for good.

Her spirit glowed with porcelain white light beneath the layers of tendon, muscle, and bone. And deep inside her fôrs were two elephantine pools of magic—a well of ash and another of bone. Looking into the wells, like always, she found no bottom. So much power lived inside of her. Like the angry waters of the Kaizron Sea, her magic pools thrashed, restless, relentless. They wanted to be let out, unleashed to do the damage they were capable of. Magic leaked from the wells, snaking through her body, seeping into her muscles.

Zavala’s fôrs sparkled brilliantly, shimmying this way and that. Her spirit beckoned her to open her eyes. To get up. Wait. When had they fallen shut? Her eyelashes fluttered. She stretched out her hands feeling roughened stone pressing against her palms through her leather gloves. She breathed in… and immediately regretted it. Zavala coughed choking on the fog entering her lungs. She slowed her breathing then took a cautionary sniff. She smelled something acidic, and altogether rotten, curling her nose hairs. Sulfur and brimstone. Her stomach rolled but she shook it off.

Finish her!

Zavala coughed. It was more like a wheeze than anything. She struggled to get any clean air flowing through her lungs. She ignored all the hollering around her. She needed to get an advantage against her opponent but the vagabond was just too strong. Too fast. Too… everything. She rolled onto her stomach, crawling up on all fours to rise. That was a mistake.

A thick boot crushed into Zavala’s spine. She grit her teeth against the fire of agony flooding her back. She had a moment’s reprieve before the heavy foot lifted, then landed on one of her wings. The boot stomped down on soft tissue crushing her wing where the tendon met bone. With an audible tear, feathers spilled out onto the stone of the ash pits. Zavala choked down a shriek as stabs of agony crawled down the columns of her limbs.

Wedged between her opponent's boot, and the ground, she lifted her eyes. Through the haze she saw walls of stone surrounding them. It was an open prison and only death would let her part from it. Chatter about her fate surfaced. Would she survive? Would this be the fight that finally finished her? She could hardly place the sounds beyond the buzzing of her ears. Beyond the Shreyol filling all the crevices of her aching body.

A burning, cold metal rested against the bare skin of her chest beneath her Crescent fatigues. One moment it was warm, like the rest of her body covered in thick leathers. Then in another, it stung like a block of ice. In the darkness of the pits she saw something like a whip of shadow, rise. The thin cords lashed out wrapping around her body. The evil force squeezed her tight. Zavala snarled, violently thrashing herself on the ground, as she wrestled the cords of shadow. Something inside of her broke, unfettered anguish threatening to undo her from the inside, out. The metal against her skin, and the cords of shadow, burned hotter than any fire. Worse than any flame. It burned like ash. Then, just as quickly, the sensation was gone leaving her panting. Her mind was a mess as she fought to focus her vision.

The world spun as Zavala felt an urge to vomit. The cold biting into her chest sang a symphony that made her wish she were deaf.

The pendant of the Ash Queen, the signet of the heir, was a searing brand between her breasts. Zavala saw spots as she fought against the flustering sensation and the thought slammed into her mind.

I’m the heir. Burning bollocks. I’m the Eternals Blessed heir.

The words pounded against her skull without relent. She shoved thoughts of the pendant, of her new life, away.

Zavala’s opponent rammed his boot into her ribs bringing her back to the present. A wide fist knotted in her hair yanking her head back. She winced, her eyes smarting, as pieces of her hair ripped out from her scalp.

"They call you Siphoner," a gruff, rich voice spoke into her ear. Vowels and syllables clashed on an odd lilt forming an accent she wasn’t used to.

This Zobâtant—a pit fighter—wasn’t from the Bones Court.

Whispers spread on the wind of a Crescent whose very name bends spines under floods of terror. The angel leaned in; sniffed twice; let out a sound of revulsion. "And yet, now that I’ve found you, I see you’re nothing but a spineless, little, angèlle. A pathetic youngling. You know, there’s better places than this for you to learn how to be a real—"

Zavala cocked her head back slamming it square in his mouth. A loud crack trickled into her ears. She jerked trying to gain leverage, but the hulking brute was too big. He held fast and shook her like a bramble of twigs from the roots of her hair. The Zobâtant spun her around. She took in his sheer size and almost yelped. Again. The first time she saw him she’d immediately regretted coming to the pits.

The angel was of Archim rank like her, oversized with skin darker than the noir of her leathers and had silver eyes gleaming like pearls long lost to swine. He bared his teeth, the show meant to intimidate her. Three looked like charcoal. Still, in his eyes, she found the same emptiness her own held. Most Zobâtants, she learned, didn’t fight for the thrill. They did it to avoid the Daerman—accursed demons—in their dreams.

Zavala lifted her eyes to the Zobâtant who was still shaking her like she was made of a bag of feathers. From a hollow place within she awoke the part of her she often kept dormant. The beast she kept on a tight leash. A slow, wicked grin spread across her lips. The pools of magic thrummed. Her magic was calling.

Zavala met the flash of silver in the Zobâtant’s bright eyes as they pierced through her. She held his stare of hatred with her own filled with boredom. And for the first time in their fight, she spoke back.

Really, for an ash eater your size, I was expecting you to do worse.

2

Zavala tutted, having the audacity to put her hands on her hips. She had to look ridiculous since she was still upside down.

Laughter tumbled all around her and the Zobâtant.

Zavala took inventory of their audience. Tonic addicts, gem thieves, pocket pickers, fôrs collectors, slavers, mercenaries, coin-lusting bandits. Caldryen’s riffraff. It’s feared outlaws. Luckily, outside of herself, there were no other Crescents present. That would’ve caused more problems for her than she’d be able to solve.

Each Zobâtant was as menacing as the other. All of them had managed to avoid getting rounded up by the Defenders—the task force of the Bones Court. And every last one was high earning, waiting to get their pound of flesh from their next opponent.

She watched them as they laughed, eyes of all colors, in brown faces of all shades, leaning in to see who’d be flying out of the pit. Only one winner could surface. And fighters only won when their opponents were dead.

Her eyes leisurely returned to the Zobâtant. The Archim stewed in rage. Ignoring the pain from her wings to her shoulders, she cocked her head back and cackled. The Zobâtant fumed. The audience went wild, their shouts and roars filling the night.

They were located in Circe Noir, perched at the very edge of Caldryen’s slums. Circe Noir was a holding ground belonging to the Noirfathers—the Gang Lords of the Bones Court—used for illegal activity, like pit fighting for coin. A thin veil, serving as