Council of Souls Read online

  Table Of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Council of Souls

  Fated Eternals: Book Two

  A Red Adept Publishing Book

  Red Adept Publishing, LLC

  104 Bugenfield Court

  Garner, NC 27529

  http://RedAdeptPublishing.com/

  Copyright © 2017 by Jen Printy. All rights reserved.

  Thank you for downloading this Red Adept Publishing eBook

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  First Print Edition: October 2017

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  For my daughters,

  two of the strongest and bravest young women I know.

  Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.

  J. Robert Oppenheimer

  PROLOGUE

  ARTAGAN

  I wait in the shadows, watching the door of San Jose Mission. From the dilapidated buildings and barred windows, it’s clear the charity isn’t in the safest part of town—a fact I’ve used to my advantage. My next assignment has volunteered here for the last ten years, handing out meals to the homeless and encouraging the down-on-their-luck patrons. The thought of what lies ahead sends a familiar prickle up my spine to the base of my neck, more robust than any drop of Scotch. I rub my hand over the gooseflesh that ripples up my forearms. Retrieving a pack of cigarettes from my blazer pocket, I tap a slender roll from the box and light it. I take a long drag, the cigarette’s tip burning brightly in the darkness, and try to dislodge the dread constricting my chest. The kindhearted and the martyrs are always the hardest.

  Close to an hour passes before a small, frail woman I know to be Trisha Lambert steps from the mission and locks the door behind her. She slows in a pool of light cast by a streetlamp, her hand fumbling in a purse slung over her arm.

  I glance to my left. One of the neighborhood junkies skulks out of a nearby alleyway. From the lad’s crazed, bloodshot eyes and pasty, sweat-soaked skin, I can see he’s jonesing for a fix. Just as I planned.

  Upon hearing the junkie’s approach, Trisha looks up, startled, but the alarmed expression fades as a concerned smile spreads across her lips. “Charlie, there you are. I was wondering where you were tonight. You’re too late for a hot meal, but I could get you a sandwich or maybe a cup—”

  The sight of a pistol Charlie has slipped from his pocket cuts off the woman’s words. Although his hands shake, he’s able to aim the barrel in Trisha’s direction.

  “Y-Your money,” Charlie stammers out.

  “You don’t want to do this,” Trisha says. “You’re sick. Father Matthew offered to get you help. Remember? Let us help you.”

  Charlie glances around, uneasy, avoiding Trisha’s pleading gaze. Then with a hesitating nod, his posture slackens, and he drops the gun to his side. His body language tells me the lad is reconsidering my plan, thinking of backing out.

  I grumble under my breath, although I can’t say it’s unexpected. This possibility is the reason I’m here and not cozied up with a curly-haired brunette in a pub somewhere. I push closer to the shadow’s edge and coax Charlie forward, planting the memory of the high he so desperately craves deep in the gray folds of his brain, reminding him of the ecstasy that could soon be his if he completes this simple act. The lie makes my stomach churn. No murder is ever simple.

  Charlie’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips. He strides forward and raises the gun. As his grip tightens on the handle, a pop of gunfire echoes through the night.

  Trisha’s eyes go wide with surprise. She clutches her chest, falling backward onto the uneven pavement.

  Charlie drops the gun and rushes in to snatch the purse, but stops. He stands, staring, his gaze glued to Trisha’s unmoving body sprawled on the ground. A brief sound of agony comes from him, and the lad begins to pace, striking his temples with his fists. Then, slumping to his knees, he buries his face in his hands.

  I take a long drag on the cigarette and toss it to the ground, squelching the burning ember with the heel of my shoe. Stepping out of the shadows, I bend and pick up the gun. At the young junkie’s side, I hold out the weapon, whispering thoughts into his frazzled mind, inviting him to save himself from a life full of regrets. Almost in a trance, Charlie takes the gun from my outstretched hand. He presses the barrel to the spot just under his chin, and with a sudden bang, my task is complete.

  The lad’s dead before his head hits the asphalt. My gaze returns to Trisha, her heart’s blood creeping its way around her like a crimson aura. I crouch by her side as I remove a pewter flask from my pocket—a memento I picked up from a merchant in Rome over five hundred years earlier. I dab a bit of alcohol on my thumb.

  Trisha turns her head in my direction, struggling to open her eyes. Her lips move, but I hear only gurgling gasps.

  “Shhh, it will be better soon,” I say, my voice weary.

  After reciting the last rites in Latin, I draw the sign of the cross first on her forehead and then on the palms of her hands. Trisha gasps for air, her body fighting against the inevitable. A prolonged, sickening rattle follows, her eyes roll back into her head, and she lies still.

  I swig what’s left of the Scotch to calm my nerves and steady my trembling hands, ignoring the rush of euphoria sinking into the marrow of my bones. I stand, turning my back on the scene, and leave through the shadows to reemerge in a dark alleyway behind The Maiden’s Head Tavern—a seedy little hole-in-the-wall on the back streets of Edinburgh.

  I sit at the counter, resting my elbows on a cracked vinyl bumper, and wait for the bartender to take notice of me. At the end of the bar, the bartender laughs and carries on with a boisterous group of patrons. After nearly ten minutes, he still hasn’t acknowledged my presence. I let my gaze glide over the littered shelves of bottled delights and
then back to the empty spot in front of me.

  I grimace, shaking my head.

  Once the group settles down, the bartender glances in my direction, and I raise my hand. He flicks a sharp gaze over me and, tossing a dishrag over his shoulder, walks my way. He stops in front of me, grabs the rag from his shoulder, and wipes the countertop. “You all right, mate?”

  “Fine,” I snap. “Scotch. Neat. Macallan eighteen-year if you have it. If not, twelve will do.”

  “I only ask because I have a sixth sense about these kinds of things. Probably comes from seeing all types, from the brokenhearted to the down-on-their-luck sort. I’m a good listener if you need to talk.” His voice dips upward with a coaxing tone.

  I know bartenders are the poor man’s therapist, but this bloke is taking his role too seriously.

  “Just the Macallan,” I say.

  When the bartender returns with my drink—on the rocks, I note, not neat—he offers a listening ear once again. I refuse, mumbling my thanks. Finally, the bartender goes back to jabbering with his cronies. I close my eyes and savor the Scotch fumes before indulging in its rich, woody taste. I’m about to take a sip when Death slips onto the stool next to mine.

  “How did you find me?” I grumble into my glass.

  “This is your hometown. You were born, what, a block from here? Besides, you always come to this particular pub when you’re trying to make a decision. Do you think I don’t notice these things?” Death turns to look at me. The light from the overhead lamp shadows his deep-set garnet eyes and illuminates his forehead and the ridgelines of his hollowed cheeks, making his face look remarkably skeletal.

  An involuntary shiver quakes through me, and I raise my glass in a toast, the amber liquid sloshing against the side, almost spilling over the rim. “To a life of servitude and the humdrum of time. Oh, and let’s not forget, here’s to destroying a young girl’s life.” I down my drink, taking pleasure in its fire trailing down my throat, washing away the cold truth of my words.

  “Always so dramatic,” he says, running his fingers through his dark, collar-length hair. He takes in a deep lungful of air before he goes on, undeterred. “Vita’s scheme, Serevo’s betrayal. If not your plan, they were your aspirations. You’re a smart man. You had to see Leah Winters’s immortality came with a price.”

  I had suspected. Of course I had.

  I was once just a soul immortal. When my mortal body died, my soul returned in a new body, though I didn’t retain any memories of past lives. But now, my body wasn’t mortal, and I would never age or die naturally—luxuries denied me when my ancestor, Brennus, a son of Death who was driven mad by his cunning twin sisters, Vita and Domitilla, took his own immortal life. With his dying words, he thrust his council seat upon me along with true immortality, changing me forever.

  Being the only one to go through that metamorphosis, I wasn’t sure if the two—immortality and the council seat—were inexorably linked. However, that didn’t stop me from pursuing reprisal against Vita and Domitilla for Brennus’s death and my new status. Then again, what choice did I have? The twins had taken their revenge on my family and the entire Brennus line, including me, so I’ve been out for blood, either for revenge or self-defense, ever since. So when an opportunity presented itself to rid the world of one of the twins and give Jack and Leah their forever, I took it.

  With the connection between the council seat and immortality unclear, I hedged my bets, going as far as creating false evidence to make the other candidates in line for Vita’s position appear ineligible. What I hadn’t expected was for Death to discover my lies before I intended. He took my smears as truths, but he kept his discoveries to himself. So when Vita picked Serevo with her last breath and the craving for Leah’s death vanished, I assumed I’d won, that Leah was immortal without the burden of her ancestor’s council seat. I was wrong.

  “Are you listening, Artagan?”

  I peer sidelong in Death’s direction.

  “I said I would not allow my children to do what they wish without consequences any longer. And I meant it. If I did, what kind of father would I be? This imprudent feuding must stop if we’re ever to be a happy family.”

  I burst into laughter. I can’t help myself. “Happy? Ha! I can see it now—Domitilla and me sitting around a campfire, toasting marshmallows, and singing ‘Kumbaya.’” Another round of laughter rolls through me.

  He ignores this. “I’m giving you one week before I induct Leah Winters into the council. You’ve had ample time to prepare her. That you’ve squandered it is not my fault. I understand these events aren’t easy for you, but you will do your job. I’d rather not lose another child, but don’t confuse my fondness for you as weakness.”

  “Fondness, is it?” I snort and look back to my Scotch.

  He slams his fist on the counter. A growl reverberates deep within him, rattling the glasses and vibrating the floorboards. A flash of red-hot agony bolts through me, and I attempt to stifle a cry. The bartender and customers look our way. Death’s gaze flashes in their direction. They all quickly turn their attention away as if they’ve seen a glimpse of the monster he is.

  “This is not a game. Remember, Artagan, our choices seal our fate—and the fate of others. I’d hate to see anything happen to Jack. I am quite aware of your partiality for your family.” He pats me on the back, sending a cold shiver to my core, and he slides from the bar. His words linger in my head as he strolls toward the door and vanishes.

  One week.

  I roll my neck to relieve the tension. Bones pop and crack. Death aimed his not-so-veiled threat not only at me, but at the chink in my armor as well. I’d do just about anything to protect my family, and he knows that.

  Right on cue, my phone buzzes. I fish the cell out of my pocket. Jack’s name flashes on the screen. I ignore the call. It will be better for Jack if this is a surprise. No time to plan something heroic.

  Reckless, over-the-top, combative—all perfect descriptions of Jack’s reaction when he finds out his beloved is to become a card-holding member of the Concilium Animarum. If I give him time to scheme, I know he’ll toss all caution to the wind. Since I’m a betting man, I’d put all my money on him fleeing with Leah. Of course, he’d get himself killed in the process. Yes, surprising Jack is best.

  A heaviness drops into my gut, a pang of remorse I’m confident a hundred tumblers of Scotch won’t lessen.

  As if transported from heaven for my personal deliverance, a shapely brunette ambles up to the bar. She glances in my direction, and I grin. A crimson smile overtakes her full lips, and she slides into Death’s vacant spot by my side. Wafts of her perfume dance around me, its exotic scent tantalizing my senses. I raise my hand to the bartender while still ogling her skintight dress. I’ll buy her a drink to start. Knowing what troubles lie ahead, I need to lose myself for a while and, at least for a moment, forget it all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  JACK

  A chill rouses me from sleep, and I delve deeper under the covers to flee the cold. Fingers outstretched, I run my hand over the soft woven fibers of the sheets, searching for Leah. The other side of the bed is empty. Not even a remnant of her warmth remains. I hoist myself onto one elbow and look into the flood of moonlight streaming in through the slightly open window. A crisp breeze ruffles the dingy curtains and skims across my bare shoulder, causing me to shiver. Despite the mid-autumn nip in the air, I shove the blankets off and sit up to scan my bedroom. Among the stark walls and bargain-basement furniture, I find myself alone.

  Studying again. I sigh, forcing my fingers through my matted hair. Or worse, another nightmare.

  We returned to Portland, Maine, after our bout with the children of Death. To my delight, if not my surprise, Leah took to her newfound immortality as if it were her destiny all along. In full Leah fashion, she leaped in feet first, making lists upon lists of things she wants to do and places she wa
nts to visit.

  Immortality through Leah’s eyes has granted me a new perspective. I see now eternity doesn’t have to be the fiendish burden I’ve always thought it to be, but instead, time used to experience one’s deepest aspirations and most frivolous whims. But as life has so relentlessly taught me, happiness is seldom enduring. To prove its point, life over the past week has brought drastic changes.

  Dreams that were at first only scattered—a natural reaction to everything Leah had been through, I told myself—now plague her, growing in intensity. She claims my presence subdues their effects, and she spends most nights at my apartment. But when I find myself abandoned in these cold wee hours, I fear, despite her reassurance, I’m a distraction at best.

  I constantly remind myself dreams are nothing new for Leah. Nighttime reveries have been part of Leah’s life since before we met, ever since she almost died of cancer six years ago at the tender age of thirteen. Back then, her dreams were of an era she had never lived, about the past that belonged to Lydia Ashford—my decades-lost love whose soul now resides in Leah—and me. According to Leah, these new dreams have nothing to do with our history, but to my dismay, she shares little else.

  The light of the hall peeks into the darkness of my room around the gap of the door. I swing my legs off the bed and grab a shirt from the clean pile strewn alongside the dirty pile on the floor, sniffing it to be sure it’s wearable. Fighting to tug my arm through the evasive sleeve, I hustle down the hallway toward the living room.

  Leah sits cross-legged in the far corner of my lumpy, brown-and-golden-plaid sofa with a blanket draped over her shoulders. Her Renaissance history notes lie forgotten by her side as she hunches over a tattered drawing pad. Crumpled balls of paper litter the floor and couch cushions. Pencils of every color clutter the coffee table. She sketches with the fervor of a madwoman, the pencil point darting in a zigzag pattern across the white paper. Her sloppy blond ponytail bounces and sways with each jerky movement. Suddenly, she rips the drawing from the pad, crumples it, and throws it across the room before returning to the next blank sheet. She’s so frustrated that she doesn’t notice her movement has caused the blanket to fall off her shoulders.