Shadowglass Time-Magic, Blood-Magic: Shadowglass Series, #1

By Tina Capricorn

"Too late we realized for magic to survive, witches must survive."

Magic has almost left the world entirely. The last piece of Shadowglass vanished centuries ago. Since then, the vampires have hunted down almost all of the Aeorian time-witches who could wield it, with an insatiable thirst for blood and magic.

Now, in the final winter of World War II, a piece has reappeared–in the clutches of a dark and timeless enemy, in league with the Reich. Emboldened by the possession of the Shadowglass, dark magical forces are gathering to turn the tide of war, and extend their dominion over all humanity.

A rag-tag group of extraordinary beings—some out of myth, some out of legend—must band together in an attempt to retrieve the Shadowglass, defend the last the Aeorian time-witch on Earth, and defeat an enemy as ruthless as time itself.

Shadowglass Time-Magic, Blood-Magic is Book One of the Shadowglass Series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tina Capricorn
• Release date: Nov 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781735799735

Tina Capricorn

A native of Western North Carolina, Tina grew up on a small farm in Mills River. Her artistic passions are not limited to the written word, she also holds a Bachelor’s of Fine Arts from Warren Wilson College where she majored in Art with a concentration on painting and illustration. Additionally, Tina has worked extensively in the cosmetology industry for over ten years, but has retired from salon life to write and do other retired stylist things. She lives with her hilarious husband and two step sons, and belongs to the adventure chihuahua Bella and Peaches the reading cat. When she’s not writing she’s trimming her friends and family’s hair, singing karaoke, or camping.

Book preview

SHADOWGLASS: TIME-MAGIC, BLOOD-MAGIC

SHADOWGLASS SERIES

BOOK ONE

TINA CAPRICORN

LUPUS OBSIDIAN LUPUS OBSIDIAN

Map of Germany, Sweden and NorwayMap of Rostock

Copyright © 2021 by Tina Capricorn

All rights reserved.

Shadowglass Time-Magic, Blood-Magic is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. World War II, the Nazi regime and the Holocaust, however, were very real, as is the city of Rostock, Germany.

For the purpose of the story, the author has reimagined Rostock, along with other names and locations within the city.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Ebook ISBN 978-1-7357997-3-5

Paperback ISBN 978-1-7357997-4-2

Cover Design by Bukovero

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The book cover of Shadowglass:Time Magic by Tina Capricorn with a jewel with pink and purple swirls and the title and authors’ name.

For Ashley of the Wolf Isles—

Your friendship is everything.

CONTENTS

TIME-MAGIC

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

BLOOD-MAGIC

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

A New Journey in Time is Coming…

TIME-MAGIC

1

VLAD

Almost possible to forget there's a war at all, Vlad said into the wind. He watched the sun set over the Mecklenburg Harbor, a strange moment of calm settling over him as the bright star slipped soundlessly beneath the sea.

Descending from the church spire he had been clinging to as he watched the sun set, he jumped effortlessly to the ledge of St. Petrikirche's roof below. His long fingers dug into what remained of the church's famous red tile as he landed, lithe and nimble like a cat.

A gaping hole in the roof yawned wide, held up by crumbling walls, courtesy of the latest bombing.

He turned, his vantage point still giving him a clear view of the estuary of the Warnow River below. The river, flowing from the Ostsee, divided the city in two. No matter what side of the river he stood, the sea was still pungent on the wind.

He scanned the Altstadt on the western side of the river, the most residential area of Rostock. The gothic architecture, brick with a maritime flare, made the skyline of Rostock unmistakable, though the city was crumbling under the pressure of another protracted and bloody war.

Vlad paused, minutes ticking by as the veil of impending night deepened, the blue-black shadows cloaking the Augustenstrasse synagogue, directly across the street from St. Petrikirche. The shadows of its roofless walls lengthened in the waning light.

It had been many years since Kristallnacht, but the walls of the synagogue stood, the scorched marks on them blending in with the other rubble of the city, including St. Petrikirche's church.

Vlad moved from his position on the church ledge, crossing over a few more partially intact roofs until he came to another section of Rostock, the Alter Market, or Old Market.

He paused, squatting at the apex of a roof, observing the empty square. He sniffed the air again. The saltwater fragrance of the sea had not changed in the hundreds of years since he had last been to the harbor town. He named the scents like old friends—sea salt, young potatoes, vinegar, soot from hearth fires...His eyes snapped open, searching for the unfamiliar scent. It was sweet, and sharp, stinging his nostrils like ammonia.

New vampires.

He closed his eyes and pressed an index finger to his temple, concentrating.

"Lachlan, be on alert. I caught the scent of other vampires," he said into the mind of his blood-son and second in command, currently under cover in a bar a few blocks away.

Unknown vampires? Coming to the Blockleiter Bar? Lachlan's words dripped with sarcasm. Might want to work on your timing, that's old news. Quite a few humans here who are...well, transitioning into something a wee bit nastier than our old acquaintances from the Sanguine Court, for starters. These Block Wardens are getting a little more than just propaganda from their Zellen—aw, for fuck's sake!

Chess game going well?

Lachlan's thick Scottish brogue was present, despite their conversation being telepathic. Aye. I have to play every fucking Blockwart in this bloody pub to get to Gunter. But these Fritzes know their chess, it's annoying…

Can you confirm Gunter has a piece of Shadowglass?

Almost. I know he has something on him. I can feel the magic. It's old. But the vampires here—

They're young. Vlad's nostrils flared as he surveyed the two uniformed vampires in the street. He squinted, trying to make out their armbands. His eyes widened when he was able to clearly read them. "They're Reichsmarschalls. Recently made. But how?"

Why the feck are Reichsmarschalls coming to a Block Warden bar? A bit below their office I should think. Checkmate, you sorry sod.

How are they new vampires? From his perch that overlooked the empty Alter Market, Vlad was afforded an impressive view of the street below. The two uniformed vampire Nazis didn't detect him—yet. If the wind changed direction, it would be a different story.

Lachlan began another chess game. Vlad felt Lachlan's thoughts shift. Several minutes passed while Vlad remained crouched on the other side of the market, watching as the vampires walked in the empty street, headed to Der Zogge's.

After Lachlan settled into his match, he responded, New vampires...it could explain the Reich's interest in occult artifacts. Maybe it's that and these Galas we've been hearing about that are giving the Dark King enough magic to make his own vampires again.

Vlad shifted his position but remained crouched on the rooftop. He didn't like that Lachlan still referred to Chronos as the Dark King. It rankled him. Chronos was a usurper, like all the Elders before him. Was that Kingly?

Vlad scoffed into the wind. Ill news. If Chronos has a piece of Shadowglass as well, he may be creating a vampire army to turn the tide of this human war. Maybe even create a gate.

Gotcha. Checkmate, my Blockwart piece of shite. Who's next?

Vlad shrank back from the roof ledge. The gray-black smoke rose from the train station, Lloydbahnof, in the east, the gray-ash scent failing to dampen the musky aroma of a secret brothel operating in Mittlestadt.

The wind changed.

He skittered several rooftops over, hoping to make his presence less noticeable. The vampires were new. Maybe they wouldn't be able to detect him.

Not a single Rostock resident could be found on the street, though. The locals had a strict curfew, all citizens shuttered themselves inside by the time the winter sun set, even though it was still early evening. Save for Blockleiters, Rostock streets were habitually empty after dark.

Blockleiters, or Block Wardens, the lowest political rank in the party, were perhaps the most vital. Without fail, the Blockleiters surveyed their neighborhood territory, enforced Nazi doctrine, and supervised the local population—ensuring curfews as well as the totalitarian state. They, the SS, as well as other members of the Wehrmacht German military, roamed the streets of Rostock at night without interference or encumbrance.

But none of this interested Vlad. These wars of man came and went. His attention focused on the fact that vampires had appeared in the ranks of the Nazi party. New vampires.

He heard planes in the distance and shrank into the shadows of a dormer partly smashed in from a previous bombing. With the almost full moon casting light on the opposite pitch of the roof, this side was obscured in deep shadow.

The bombings by the British were usually to the east of the Warnow River. Across the river aviation manufacturing for the war occurred in factories like Arado and Heinkel. But the bombs still exploded on the western side of the river too, where the majority of the city's population lived. He remembered St. Petrikirche's had been practically destroyed this way.

...and this family home, Vlad thought, shoving a hunk of rubble with his boot. What could we do to the humans that they don't do to themselves?

Vlad. Those Reichsmarschalls aren't just any vamps. And they're not new...not exactly.

Lachlan sounded worried. Afraid almost. He was never afraid.

Are they in Der Zogge now? Vlad asked.

Yeah. They're new but also Dux Noctis. Don't let the armbands fool ya—

Lachlan's telepathic link was buzzing. He was gearing up for a fight.

We must get to Gunter first. Don't attract attention to yourself, they don't know your face and I'd like to keep it that way.

The din of the planes grew louder. British by the sound of them, not German, and drawing closer.

Aye. We must get to Gunter first. Bad news is, they're here for him and that magic thing too.

Vlad shook his head, scrambling out of the ruins of the house, processing Lachlan's intelligence. The most elite SS Vampire Death Squad, Dux Noctis, pursued Shadowglass too.

The covert meetup with Gunter was changing—quickly. Vlad's nostrils flared. Lachlan was outnumbered and alone.

Don't start anything, I'm coming to you!

Too late, Lachlan said with pinched words. Gunter's got a stone out, and he's reciting some words—I can't hear them but—it feels like he's channeling my… Lachlan trailed off.

Just then, a plane soared close by overhead, dropping a bomb on the other side of the river. The explosion shook the city, lighting up the night sky.

Vlad's body flattened against the ledge of a building from the blast impact. Windows shattered. A blood curdling scream rang out and was muted by another deep boom and the sizzling crack of electricity. A burst of light exploded from the Alter Market, from the same corner as Der Zogge.

Vlad righted himself, skimming over the rooftops, using his vampiric hyper speed to traverse the cityscape in an eye blink.

Lachlan! he shouted at him through their blood-bond. His mind swam with memory—Vlad had brought Lachlan into immortality, from the blood and death of the last Jacobite rising in 1746.

The streets of Altstadt blurred in his vision. He pushed himself to go faster, his limbs acting of their own accord as he pressed forward into the cold.

As his sire, he was responsible for Lachlan in a way that could not be explained, only felt. Their blood-bond forged an ineffable link between them, connected them telepathically and emotionally.

Vlad blinked, snow spitting into his eyes as he neared the market square. Lachlan, the last of his progeny, was the end of his raging bonfire of a Blood Fever that had swept across this continent and beyond for centuries. His bloodlust was now only dying embers.

He stood at the door of the pub when the ground beneath him convulsed, shattering the windows, a waterfall of glass shards exploding onto the cobblestone street as blinding white light poured through the windows. The heavy wooden door of the bar whined on its hinges and blew back like a cannonball, casting Vlad across the street under a rain of splinters.

* * *

It was fortuitous that the residents of Rostock were tucked tight inside their homes.

Vlad pushed himself up from the cobblestones. Chunks of wood that were formerly the front door protruded from entrenched wounds on his arm and chest. He plied them from his flesh with brutal efficiency as he stumbled to the threshold of the still-smoking pub. His wounds healed immediately.

Vlad, a voice rasped from just inside the pub. He turned toward the sound, his heavy black coat swinging like a cape behind him.

In the corner by the door, a blackened creature with a tuft of dark blonde hair in the back of his skull whispered his name once more. It was Lachlan.

Vlad knelt next to him, slashing his wrist and offering it to him. As Lachlan drank heavily from the open vein of Vlad's arm, a cold emptiness crept up his wrist.

Vlad ignored the feeling of death which whispered when another vampire drank from him this way—it was why he no longer sired progeny or shared his blood. The blood-magic left him more and more each time.

He blinked, a chill settling into his shoulders. He scanned Lachlan. He was barely healed. Vlad didn't betray his horror as he realized reviving Lachlan would take years...and more blood than perhaps Vlad could provide to recover from the damage done.

But he didn't retract his wrist. Lachlan was all he had.

Nae...I'll kill you, Lachlan whispered, breaking himself from the latch at Vlad's wrist.

He blinked in disbelief at Lachlan's sense of self-control, despite his injured state. He studied him. Wounds still dotted his skin—some still gruesome and weeping. The regrown skin on his face and wrists was gray and dry, almost mummified. Vlad shook his head. Something wasn't right about the burns. They were magical in nature.

Vlad stood, giving Lachlan a stiff smile. I'll find a surviving fascist for you to feast on then.

Be careful of d'witch, his blood-son warned, his expression indecipherable due to his half-healed wounds.

Vlad arched his brow. A witch? He turned, scanning the smoking pieces of wood that were once tables, chairs, and about a dozen human Block Wardens. The Dux Noctis nowhere to be seen— could have escaped he supposed, but were likely just as injured as Lachlan, judging by the rest of Der Zogge's.

"Bastard summoned a witch tru dah fucking mirror— Lachlan hissed, his accent thick with agony. Dux Noctis become ash," he finished, panting and slumping back against the singed wall.

Vlad's walked toward the front of the bar, where the mirror and the two most elite Einsatzgruppen death squad vampire members were nothing but debris on the floor. He took a step toward where the counter had been—now it was a chunk of cinder. The fire had been bright, hot and extinguished rapidly, Vlad observed from the burned remains. As his shoes crunched on more glass, the moans of other vampires erupted, as the now unrecognizable creatures slowly regained consciousness inside the pub. The dead and undead alike were covered in soot, ash, and glass.

An unholy sound vibrated under his feet. Something tugged in his mind—the psychic stirring of a being with immense power. He jumped over the rubble until he came to a small cellar door in the ground.

He lifted the door and blinked, disbelieving his senses. An eerie light flickered at the bottom of the cellar steps, and the pull of magic thrummed through him, tugging at him to step down into the light.

The velvet smooth power had a deceptive lightness to it, but he could also taste the age of it...somber and sweet, granite and sunlight, spring breeze and cold moonless nights. The Nazis had perhaps awoken a being older and more powerful than Chronos.

Scheisse, he thought.

He shook his head, placing one foot down on the step, his eyes wide and unbelieving as he stepped down the stair. Lavender and magenta waves of mist rolled around his ankles as he descended.

His age paled in comparison to the being in the cellar, to the being that Gunter had summoned. Vlad, one of the oldest living vampires remaining, hadn't sensed power like this in many lifetimes of man—in truth, he believed that deep magic was becoming the myth humans treated it as.

How did a shitty mortal like Gunter summon a being such as this? Perhaps he has a drop of witch blood that somehow survived the Harrowing?

The Harrowing had culled the human population of all those with Aeorian or Ethereal witch-blood. What Chronos, the Sanguine Court, and Vlad had not realized as they feasted for centuries on witch's blood and gained astonishing—but temporary—powers was that the surviving Aeorian witches inherently brought magic to the world. As their numbers dwindled, so did magic.

Vlad flinched, the pungent stench of burning flesh rising from the depths of the cellar, rousing him from his thoughts on Chronos, Aeorians, Gunter, and what he could be.

Human. He wrinkled his nose and continued to descend. The crispness of the cellar air combined with the pungency of the kegs of ale, soft-packed dirt floor, and burned human skin caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise. The scents clamored over his exposed skin, the magenta mist snaking to his knees had golden sparks that burst and tickled across his legs.

He paused halfway down the steps, grasping the railing. Suddenly, his sight swam with light, and his senses became overwhelmed. His hands sizzled where the light flickered through the railing slats of the wooden stair. He hissed, withdrawing his singed hands into his coat.

Damn. Lachlan was right. Gunter summoned a witch.

Vlad reached into his coat to withdraw leather gloves and tugged them painfully over his hands. Like Lachlan, his burns weren't healing.

He tugged his scarf up over his mouth and pulled the hood of his long black coat over his head. He resumed walking down the cellar steps.

Despite the obvious danger to his immortal body, he knew he was unable to turn back, inexorably drawn, like an insect who hadn't yet realized it struggled in a much larger web.

Finally on the cellar floor, he got his first glimpse of Gunter, the target Lachlan had been trying to reach earlier in the evening. Zellenleiter Gunter Schlaurheim had been promoted to Reichsleiter—an incredible jump of office and jurisdiction within the party—likely due to his talent with blood-magic.

Vlad strained to see from behind a pillar in the cellar, shrinking himself into its shadow to avoid the chaotic waves of light. He frowned. Though mortal, Gunter had the ability to access blood-magic.

Runes covered Gunter's forearm, carved into his flesh by the tip of the Shadowglass shard he possessed. He bled profusely onto a stone that he held with an unshakeable grip. His eyes, eclipsed with power, and pupils bleached with light, stared forward. Furious waves of lavender and magenta circled him, as well as the witch, who floated in an orb of mist before him.

She was breathtaking to behold, her hair fanned out around her like a dark sunburst. Gold and silver sparks of light coiled and framed her body like glowing thread. Stars winked in the locks of her hair, and orbs of light that resembled phases of the moon circled her head like a crown. Her eyes were bleached white as well, glowing and expressionless. Her mouth moved like she was responding to Gunter, but Vlad couldn't hear what they were saying.

Vlad blinked, his eyes hot. He looked away, rubbing his closed lids and still saw the outline of the pair behind his shut eyes. He opened them in time to see another flash of witch's light glance off the walls of the cellar. The acrid aroma of ozone permeated the room, muting the other smells. He shook his head, no longer able to chance a look at them. Instead, he slunk closer and caught a snippet of their conversation—

—looks for you here, ma mére. It is dangerous. Reform the Gate and focus on these space-time coordinates to return to Charing Cross.

The witch responded, but her words were still for Gunter alone. Vlad peered from behind the closest pillar to them and saw her lips move but heard nothing.

Revenir, ma mére, Gunter's reply was like gravel, every word an effort.

Suddenly there was a small thud as the stone fell from Gunter's grasp and the light in the cellar dimmed. Vlad turned fully from behind the pillar, looking toward the unconscious Nazi and the witch.

Gunter's head was bowed, as if asleep. A second later, he nodded awake, his expression confused. He glanced down at his arms, the runes still glowing. Then his eyes narrowed, his expression hard lined with suspicion.

Witch! I summoned you here! You must obey me, for I possess a shard of the Shadowglass—

Obey is a strong term, Vlad spoke from the shadows at the bottom of the steps, having slunk silently closer.

Gunter's face sank as he beheld Vlad's ominous profile in the gashes of shadow and the last vaporous traces of the magenta mist.

Vlad continued speaking, That particular blood-spell is tricky, but only a fool would summon a witch to do his bidding—

Gunter screamed, putting his free hand on his forearm as the runes glowed. His blood blossomed through them, before exploding into light. The light funneled into the oval of mist suspending the witch above the dank cellar floor.

She's doing it to him. Vlad nodded, realizing the situation was being handled. Gunter would be destroyed—consumed more likely—and the witch would disappear through the portal she came from, taking the Shadowglass shard with her.

He was an intruder in this fight.

By the time he was up the stairs, he caught a whiff of what was left of Gunter's corpse. He closed the cellar door with a soft click and returned to the front of Der Zogge.

The situation...well in hand? Lachlan croaked as Vlad crept toward him.

He was sitting up. Vlad sensed the low hum of energy between their blood-bond. He was still quite weak and needed to feed—needed more blood than Vlad could supply.

Not how I would put it, he said through tight lips. He hoisted Lachlan up, but he sagged against him, grunting. Let's get thee to a brothel. I know of one in Middlestadt. You can feed there.

Of all the shite luck. You finally take me to a brothel, and I have no cock.

You will, whenever it grows back.