The Beckoning of Bravelicious Things (The Beckoning Series Book 3) Read online

  The Beckoning of Bravelicious Things

  Book III in the Beckoning Series

  By Calinda B

  Edited, Produced, and Published by Writer’s Edge Publishing 2014

  All rights reserved.

  © 2014 by Calinda B.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Other Books by Calinda B

  -The Wicked Series-

  A Wicked Awakening

  A Wicked Beginning

  Wicked Whispering

  -The Beckoning Series-

  The Beckoning of Beautiful Things

  The Beckoning of Broken Things

  The Beckoning of Bravelicious Things

  Prologue

  The male traipses into his studio apartment in Bumfuck, Washington—no disrespect to the people who call this place home—drops his tools on the floor, and heads toward the kitchen—more like a stovetop, a cupboard or two, and a window overlooking a field of cows—for a beer. Before he opens the fridge, he removes his paycheck from his shirt pocket and stares at it. Pay to the order of River Taylor. Six hundred and sixty four dollars, twenty one cents. For one week’s worth of hard labor. Fucking ridiculous. B.C., or, before Chris, as he refers to the time when he made that much money in one night when he got extra gigs—private parties, escort service, whatever…. If someone wanted to make use of his looks and muscles and they paid well, he was down.

  He snaps the edge of the flimsy paper a few times on the acrylic polymer counter, then flips it dismissively, causing it to bump with a soft tic on the gleaming silver toaster before fluttering to the smooth beige surface of the counter.

  He catches sight of his reflection in the toaster and stares for a long moment. A scar the length of his forefinger travels his left cheek. It healed in such a way that his lip appears to be in a permanent partial sneer, as if he can’t decide whether or not to complete the facial gesture. He runs his fingertip along it, closing his eyes at the memory.

  He broke the rules of Witness Protection to see her—Marissa—only she didn’t know. She never did. It had been well over a year—more like one year, three months, and six days—since he’d laid eyes on her.

  Since their one crazy night together in Las Vegas, she’s a constant hum in his heart. She probably thought it a one night stand, but for him? Thoughts of her are as essential as food. He talks to her in his mind at work. He sings to her when home. He’s even fantasized about her when he’s fucked someone else—he knows that’s not fair to the woman whose legs were wrapped around him but he can’t help it. There’s no one like Marissa Engles. No one.

  After he moved up here, changing his identity for his own protection, as well as those around him, he managed to find out where she lived. He watched her for a long time as she walked her dog among the trees. He tracked her, remaining silent and invisible, if only to protect her, as she performed errands—innocuous things like shopping for a new dog collar for her mutt…buying fruit and cheeses at the farmer’s market…she’s surrounded by danger and, if he can’t be in her life, he at least wants to lend support. Once, she headed downtown to some sleek hotel for reasons he never figured out. One of her lover’s father’s henchmen was stalking her and River wanted to make sure she made it in and out safely. That’s where it happened…the scar.

  The officer assigned to help him settle discovered what he was up to. Once he found River in the hotel lobby, racing after Marissa as she sailed out into the crisp spring air, he grabbed him. River strong armed him, they fought, he split his face open on the corner of a glass coffee table, and voilà. Instant face transformation as his blood dripped, thick as molasses, dark and slick on the smooth marble floor. Instant soul transformation, too.

  He taps the scar, places both palms on the countertop, and continues his scrutiny, turning his face left and right in the shiny stainless steel reflection. Since he fared worse than the agent, the officer agreed to not press charges against him for assaulting a federal agent and he handled the situation with the hotel staff. River was taken to the hospital, stitched up, and with that act, Chris King, dancer in Thunder from Down Under, officially died, replaced by this new, more dangerous guy. It was a symbolic act of completion for what had already begun. River the Blood Magi, free at last. Sanguis Numin. Able to manipulate the viscous red liquid that flows through a person’s bloodstream. Who would’ve thought that such a transformation could take place to a male dancer?

  He rules the bloodstream, which is to say he rules passion…desire…anger…intensity. He can change the pH, turning it to acid. Make it boil inside a person’s veins or freeze to a milky reddish white ice. Every time he does, however, he loses a few red blood cells of his own, as if they’re compelled to plaster themselves against some score card, keeping a running tally. If he loses too many of them at any one time, it can be a problem—or so he’s been told.

  He scoffs thinking of it, reaches for a beer, and wanders a few steps to his living room—not that he has a living room—more like the chair that rests in the middle of the space like a throne.

  He wears his hair really short now, almost military short. He works a seven to three in construction, building homes for the masses in Sequim, comes home, drinks a couple beers, watches TV, goes to bed, wakes up, and repeats more of the same…repeat, repeat, repeat. None of the excitement of living in Las Vegas, thrusting and grinding, krumping, stomping and busting out his moves before auditoriums full of women. Now he has few friends, dates occasionally, keeps to himself a lot…and studies her. He’s made it a mission to learn everything he can about Marissa Engles. He’s made it a mission to protect her. God knows, she needs protecting.

  A powerful magus, Kyron, has made it his mission to teach River everything about himself, in the night, in the ether world. It’s a strange power he wields, flowing through generations of his ancestors.

  That crazy fuck who helped him see her on her last night in Las Vegas—best fucking night of his life—he introduced River to the Numina since he’s got magic in his blood. He just never felt the need to pursue it—until he met her. When they made love—him and Marissa, a volcano stirred in him. Things that had lain dormant began to grow wild and unfettered. He couldn’t stop them. Didn’t want to. He only wanted to learn as much as he could about the magic inside. That’s where the Numina came in.

  He’d heard about the organization when he lived in Australia. Everyone who has an ounce of magic has heard of them—not everybody chooses to participate. They’re a spider web of magical alliances the world over. Been in existence for centuries. The Numina loosely ally with one another. Whether it’s to keep tabs on one another or help each other is hard to say. Being a part of the Numina means being in a place where you can connect under the pretense of “maintaining order and balance on planet Earth.” Ha! It’s as political as organizations come. Those ether meetings can be a cat and dog fight, complete with spells and sparks. Still…he stays in the back and absorbs as much knowledge as he can. And he trains every night with his magus.

  At the last ether meeting he learned Marissa’s gotten herself into a mess of trouble with both the Night Numen and the Stealth Numen. Seems she attracts trouble like moths to a flame. She burns brightly in the center and they all want her. Him? He wants her, too, only in ways he’s yet to understand. He sees himself as some sort of noble knight, an invisible war
rior who will never make his presence known. Maybe she’ll need his help by and by. And he’ll need hers. He’s certain of that.

  River draws a swig of the frosty brew down his gullet. How long will he have to wait? When will he re-enter her life? Will he ever be a part of her life? Tom the hillbilly sorcerer advised against any contact, but he knows better than to argue with River. Tom says her boyfriend isn’t one to be trifled with. He has no intention of trifling. Says her lover commands the darkness and intends to shield her from everyone. It matters not. River’s only goal is to find a way to be close to her, to be of service. Right. Nobel thoughts, dipshit.

  His cock twitches to life as he pictures her. He gave up taking care of his impulses. It only makes his need stronger. Instead, he lives with the intensely dark ache of desire that pulses through him when thoughts of her sizzle in his brain. I’m the guy who source seeded her, awakening her powers, River thinks—Tom told me. She’s the woman who source seeded me. I know that with every fiber of my being.

  As he sits with his reflections, a horrific, ear-splitting sound speeds toward the house like a sonic boom. He looks up as a black, red, and purple blur rockets through the window, splintering the glass into a translucent explosion. A shout bursts from his throat as he leaps from the chair, knocking the beer over. It bleeds into the frayed carpet as a vicious demon launches itself at his neck. Adrenaline kicks into his system, and he grabs the beast’s weird, bristly body and tugs. Razor sharp fangs shred his skin. He’s dumbfounded, certain he’s going to be dead in a matter of seconds. The only thing he can think to do is boil its blood—assuming it has any. He shapes his power and, with one last horrific howl, in an instant, it lays steaming on the floor, a crimson, swollen mess.

  River drop to all fours, sucking in smoke tinged breath.

  A deep male voice thunders into the room as if a megaphone is poised at the window. “I’ve been watching you, Blood Magi.”

  “Who’s there?”

  A hideous laugh splits the air. “Who am I, indeed? The real question is who are you? I know you’re the one who source seeded her. I know you’ve been spying on her. You want something from her.”

  “And you don’t?” It’s the Night Numen. Daniel Navid. I’d know him anywhere. He’s seen him at meetings as he’s sat lurking in the back while Navid parades back and forth in front of the gathering, displaying his displeasure over everything and everyone like a peacock.

  “Ha! We all do.”

  “And I haven’t been spying.”

  “No? What do you call it then?” He sneers at River.

  “I call it protection, something you might want to do with her.”

  The male scoffs. “You want more than that, admit it. And what makes you think you’ll stand a chance with Marissa based on one night of desperation so long ago?”

  He thinks he’s such a badass. River’s mouth fills with the taste of iron. He spits onto the floor and a dark red stain appears. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand, leaving a long ruby colored smear. “Show yourself, Navid.”

  An earthquake type rumble sounds from outside and he races to the blasted out window. A split appears in the ground. Daniel Navid steps from the Earth’s core looking smug and arrogant. He enters through the gape in the wall, shoving River aside, sauntering in like he’s entering his home. Wait—more like the home of one of his minions.

  Asshole. River runs his palm over his forehead, noting the bloody smudges as he withdraws his hand.

  “I’m only going to say this once. I’ve claimed her. Another wants her. You’re nobody. Only one of us can win. I intend to be the winner.”

  “Who says I want her the way you two do?” River says. This is such a pissing contest, he thinks. Navid throwing his weight around. He studies him through the eye not smeared with coagulating blood. Turns his head back and forth, taking mental notes the way his magus instructed, scanning for signs of weakness. The guy’s formidable. He’s forged his power since he was a youth. River only has a year’s worth of accelerated training.

  “Well?” The Night Numen asks, arms folded. He stands about six foot six. Dark hair and blue eyes.

  We look so much alike, we could be brothers, River thinks, scoffing.

  “I’m waiting,” he says, appearing unruffled.

  He expects servile acknowledgment. I’m not in the mood to be his little bitch, River thinks.

  “My pet Annihilator is outside the door,” he says.

  A shrill noise, like iron nails scraping along metal, rips through the air, as if the beast heard him, and is scratching River’s front door in response, like a good little doggie. Ha! An Annihilator is a wicked beast, capable of ripping a man from limb to limb in a few seconds. They’re the worst of the worst. Even the darkest demons fear them. The mere fact that Navid has one for a pet speaks volumes to his power. River masks any fear and levels his gaze. “You’ve made your point,” he says.

  “So you’ll not interfere with her journey?”

  He shrugs, make his way to the counter, tears a paper towel from the roll, and dabs at his bloody neck and face, keeping his back to the deadly male. “What could I possibly do to interfere? You’ll be traveling together to find the three sisters who forged her sword. She’s seeking advice on what to do about the both of you, her two lovers.” He allows a small smile to form, knowing the effect this phrase will have on him. A low growl confirms his suspicions. “No one has lived to tell of finding them. I’m no fool.”

  “There is only one lover for Marissa,” Daniel hisses.

  River turns to face him. “Tell that to her.”

  The two males lock eyes for a moment, electric blue to voltaic blue. River wills his solar plexus into a hard, unyielding shield to prevent a loss of energy from Daniel’s piercing gaze.

  “So, I have your agreement to not interfere.” He says simply.

  River shrugs again, nods and points to the door. “You can let yourself out. We’re done.”

  Daniel streaks from view like a strong wind, billowing through the jagged edged window frame.

  “What a fucking drama queen.” River stoops to pick up the empty amber bottle he sent flying, softly speaking, “Who said I was going to interfere? It’s only interference if it proves meddlesome. I have other, far more pleasurable plans in mind.”

  Chapter 1

  “Thrust,” Daniel commands. “Your goal is to pierce my heart.” He’s relaxed, his golden-tanned arm, outstretched and confident; his glistening, deadly weapon aimed at my heaving chest. His powerful body, clad in black sweatpants and a muscle shirt, is framed between two stately cedar trees, sun dancing at his feet, the fern-filled forest stretching behind him. The image would make a great magazine cover. He’s barely broken a sweat while I’m sopping wet, my workout clothes clinging to my body.

  “I think I already did that,” I say, winking at him. “I could do it again. I’ll show you what I mean.”

  He grins, his blues eyes glinting beneath locks of dark brown hair. “Later,” he says, his hand tensing around the hilt of his sword. “If you survive my advances.”

  “I have my ways,” I say, pointing my sword just above his solid, muscular chest. “I know how to block and dodge.”

  “And I,” he says, light on his feet, poised and ready. “Know how to thrust.”

  “Ha!” I dance back and forth on my feet, sword held high.

  “That might look good at a ballroom, dulzura, but we’re in a fight to the death. Don’t waste your energy.”

  “Stop telling me what to do.”

  “It’s my job.”

  We’re deep in a wooded area a half mile from Tom the Sorcerer’s house east of Seattle. The smell of verdant green life is abundant, earthy and rich. We’ve trained for hours, since the break of dawn, the same way we’ve done every day for weeks.

  “I think you need a new job.” I lunge, the metal of our swords ringing sharply as he swiftly, expertly parries, springing forward, sword tip a millimeter from my left breast.

>   “You’re dead,” he says simply. “Let’s do this again.”

  I direct my attention to him, studying his face. “Seriously? We’ve been at this for hours. I’m done for the day.”

  “We’re not done yet. Back up, please.” He gazes at me seriously, sober and intent on his goals. “We’ll do this until I feel you’re ready.”

  “Don’t I get a say in this?”

  “You’re talking, aren’t you? That’s saying something. Move into position.” Daniel lifts his sword arm.

  “Why should we?”

  “Because I say so, that’s why,” Daniel answers.

  “Wonderful,” I say, a note of sarcasm shining through. I take a step, still locked to his gaze. His eyes compel me to study him. For a moment, I’m mesmerized. Inside him, there’s infinite love and tenderness. Inside him, there’s unending power and darkness. At any given moment, I don’t know whether to draw into him, or run for my life. I take three more steps backward, saber drawn.

  “Be bravelicious, dulzura.” His lips form a cocky grin.

  “Be what?” I frown. “What a dumb phrase. Bravelicious…what’s it mean?” I shake my head. Daniel’s not known for making frivolous phrases. Is this some strategy to throw me off?

  “Bravelicious. I already know you’re delicious.” His seductive tongue dances along his spectacular lips. “Add bravery to that and…”

  I swing my sword ineffectually, cutting him off. “I’d rather be a badass.”

  “And I’d rather you were ready, not swinging your sword like it’s a helicopter propeller. Are you ready, Marissa?”

  “For what?” I ask.

  “For this.”

  He lunges like a wildcat, and I barely manage to avoid having my head sliced off with his huge blade. It’s so much bigger than mine. Only difference? Mine is magic—magic I barely know how to use.

  “Better,” he says. “You’re getting better. You’re still alive.”