Blood Debts (The Temple Chronicles Book 2) (2 page)

I… blinked.

I honestly had absolutely no clue what he was talking about. If I did, I would have given it to him. Hell, I would have given him
anything
to save Indie. Even my own life.

Indie screamed. “Don’t do it, Nate!”

He silenced her by shoving his talon straight through her gut, causing her to grunt in utter shock, and then agony. I realized that I was suddenly closer, having instinctively raced towards him with murderous intent. He held up a claw in warning and I froze with one foot still in the air. His other talon was still embedded inside my girlfriend’s stomach. I was stunned, in shock, unable to think straight, but I slowly lowered my foot to the cold earth. How had it escalated so quickly? He had barely warned me. I glanced down at my feet, trying to control my rapid breathing while frantically assessing the situation for a way —
any
way — to save Indie’s life. Her wound was fatal, not superficial. Alaric was a hunter. He knew my plight. He knew my skills. He had effectively demanded my obedience. He knew I would do anything to save Indie. Give up anything.

“Please!” I begged. “Take whatever you want, just release her!”

He nodded. “Of course. The box. Bring it here. Now. She doesn’t have long without medical attention.” Several new dragons were suddenly pumping their vast wings above me, hovering hungrily as an added threat. I followed his gaze and glanced to my side, only to see the same box from earlier sitting in the bloody, frosted grass.
Wait… that can’t be right. I saw that near the fountain…

In a confused daze, I reached down, my fingers numb, discarding the single rational thought.

“Easy, Temple. No surprises. Bring it here.” I hesitated, not with any rebellious intent, but with simple confusion about how the box could have appeared beside me when I had seen it a dozen feet away only minutes ago. Alaric shook his head with a sad smile, abruptly twisting his talon inside Indie with a violent, final jerk.

“Nate…” She whispered between tortured gasps.

My senses instantly shut down. I was numb with disbelief and impotent fury. My body began to quiver, rattling the forgotten jeweled box that I apparently still held in my now numb hands. The lid began to pry loose from the box. I looked down curiously.
Yes, do it. Do it now…
a strange voice cooed in my ear. I listened to it, not even caring about its origin, and began to open the box, knowing that Indie was already dead. A part of me was now dead too. Only ashes remained of my heart. The world could burn, and thank me for it.

I no longer cared.

“No!” Alaric’s voice boomed as he tore his claw entirely through the love of my life, effectively slicing her in half. I felt the mass of dragons dive for me as one cohesive unit, a pack of claw and fang. As if in slow motion, I realized that my death would be a painful one, and I also realized that I was fresh out of fucks to give. I deserved it. I had inadvertently allowed this to happen. Allowed them to kill the woman I loved.

So I opened the box.

A wail of despair from the very pits of hell filled the night before my vision turned an amber tinted urine color, tunneling out to a single point. Indie.

The dragons’ claws tore into me, trying to prevent me from opening the box. But they were too late. The world ended in a climactic symphony of pain and sound as I embraced death.

I
became
death.

Then nothingness.

Chapter 2

I
jolted awake, shattering a glass of liquor that was clutched in my fist.

The other patrons of the bar sprang back from their stools with a shout. The man beside me was the only one to remain in his seat, casually raising his drink to his lips. I was panting heavily as if I had just finished a marathon. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, my eyes darting back and forth, trying to make sense of my new surroundings, desperately searching for Indie and the dragons. But I wasn’t at
Chateau Falco
.

I was in a seedy bar.

What the hell?

Then it hit me. It had been another of the night terrors — now turned
day
terrors — that had plagued me since the aftermath of the dragon invasion a few months ago. They were happening more often now. Escalating in their brutality. But I was getting used to them.

Kind of…

I began my usual mental process of rationally stating the facts in order to calm my racing heart.
The dragons are no longer a threat. Indie is safe. I’m not at Chateau Falco…
After a few repetitions and deep breaths, I began to calm down, and reality began to emerge from the depths of my fractured mind. I glanced at my watch and scowled.
I’m in a seedy bar waiting for an unpunctual appointment. The man who called me with information on my parents’ murder. I had dozed off. Again.
By sluggish increments, my breathing returned to normal.

I had lost track of the numerous variations of my terrors, but the mysterious box was always center-stage, and the vision only ended when I opened it. But while in the dream, I never at first recognized the box. Not until I opened it. Then nothing but pain.

I waved at the bartender. “I’ll sport a round for the bar. Sorry, guys,” I muttered. The bartender eyed me warily, no doubt wondering what would happen if he told me to leave. After all, I was the infamous ‘wizard’ and local billionaire,
Master
Nate Temple — the
Archangel
— as some now referred to me. Or as I liked to imagine myself, the Notorious N.A.T.

Biggie Smalls had nothing on me.

“I’m fine. Really. Let me make it up to everyone. Get me another one while you’re at it.” I muttered, plucking a few pieces of glass out of my now bleeding palm. I pressed a napkin in my fist to staunch the blood flow. After a few moments, the bartender finally conceded. Several of the men shook their heads and decided to drink elsewhere. I couldn’t blame them. The calm man next to me still hadn’t moved.

The bartender placed a new glass of cheap, gasoline-spiked whisky onto the warped, sticky oak counter. I scanned the room with a frown of both anger and disgust. It had been many years since I had been in a
Kill
— a bar where violence was commonplace, even encouraged, and the hygiene equally dangerous — and was eager to pay my tab and get the hell out. After I got the supposed information about my parents’ murder from the cryptic caller who had asked me to meet him here. If only that fucking appointment wasn’t late I could be home already.

I sighed. No use. I was already here. Might as well wait a bit longer. My notoriety was apparent, judging from the hateful glares cast my way from various patrons of the bar. Which might say something about me. After all, a
Kill
was where only the most nefarious of supernaturals — or
Freaks
— hung out. My reputation had really jumped after the Solar Eclipse Expo a few months back, when a harem of were-dragons had decided St. Louis was the ideal place to host a ritual spell that would ignite the rebirth of the ultimate god of all dragons, as well as being a convenient locale to announce to the world that magic was in fact very real.

I hadn’t agreed.

And they hadn’t survived.

Now, even the
locals
were apparently terrified of me. And when I say
locals
, I’m of course referring to the
magical
locals.
My
people. Where I arrived, death and destruction was now expected to follow. That dragon event was what led me here tonight to
Achilles Heel
— this supernatural
Kill
— waiting on my unpunctual appointment.

I swiveled a bit on the squeaky wooden stool, scouting the seedy bar in a way that I hoped seemed nonchalant, doing my best to look inconspicuously lethal…

And my clumsy bleeding fist knocked the drink plum out of the old gentleman’s hand beside me. Some of the liquor splashed onto my open wound, causing me to hiss in pain. I instinctively called to my gift, filling myself with magic in order to defend myself from the Octogenarian, doing my best to ignore my stinging palm.

Sure, he might
look
like a frail old man, but you never knew in a
Kill
. Plus, he hadn’t freaked the fuck out when I had my conniption a few minutes ago. He had steel nerves. Which usually resulted from having a severe case of
badass-itis
.

The man smiled amiably at me, waving me off with a forgiving hand motion. “It happens. No worries.” His eyes twinkled like arctic ice, seeming to glow. The silence stretched as I waited for him to make his move. His smile grew wider. “You can release your power now. It was just a drink.” I let loose the breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding, and then, slowly, my magic.

This
was when he would attack. I
knew
it.
Wait for it…
I was ready for anything. I would never let my epitaph say ‘
The dragon slayer that was slain by a nursing home patient
.’

He shook his head as if amused at a child’s antics, and turned back to the bar, for all intents and purposes seeming to dismiss my distrust. I swiveled back myself, still tense as a spring.
What the hell? Courtesy?
I slowly began to relax. “Huh. Paint my lips and call me Suzie. You meant it.”

The man turned his mercurial gaze my way, and I briefly noticed purple flecks in his icy blue eyes. “Why would I call you Suzie? You are Nathaniel Laurent Temple, of course. Kind of a big deal.” He seemed amused at that. “And why would I say something and act otherwise? Is this a riddle? Or one of those New Age ideas that don’t seem to make a lick of sense? Are you a…
Hipster
?”

The word sounded unfamiliar on his lips, but I could see that he was proud to have used it, as if it was one less thing pulling him from the grave, a last clutch at his youth. But as I appraised him, I began to wonder if he was really as old as I had originally thought. He had a youthful…
vibrancy
to him. I managed to stammer a response. “No, never mind. I thought… you know… this
is
a
Kill
.” I finally grumbled, as if he were the one being strange. He shrugged and began to completely ignore me as he studied the bottles of liquor behind the bar, apparently deciding on his next drink.

Which was extremely odd. See, my reaction was an important stance in a place like this. I compared a
Kill
to an African watering hole — where one went to do his business, grab a piece of water, and then efficiently retreat to his hidey hole — all the while watching his back for any threats. The place wasn’t full, big surprise, with it being cold as balls outside and a week night to boot, but enough patrons lingered here and there to justify the sultry guitarist idly strumming cover band music in the corner. And it was vitally important to keep this crowd entertained.

For they were primarily
Freaks
, as the
Regular
folk called them, or supernaturals.

Even though my new glass was a few inches from my hand, a distinct chime overrode the guitarist in the corner, as if I had tapped my glass with a fork. “Get him a replacement, please.” I mumbled to the bartender, and then reached out to down my drink. “Me too. But not this swill. Get me a decent whisky.” The grizzled barkeep grunted, and I received a new glass of Johnnie Walker a few moments later.

I lightly sipped the new drink in an effort to fuel my lidded eyes from drooping further.
Mustn’t fall asleep again
. I shivered to clear my head, noticing a pair of men down the bar whispering to themselves and glancing pointedly at me. I shrugged to myself. “I have enough friends.” I muttered under my breath. I wasn’t in the market for new ones.

The older gentleman rapped idly on the gnarled wooden counter with a bony hand as he spoke out of the side of his mouth for my ears only. “You can never have enough friends.
Never
. Also, this doesn’t seem like an ideal place for sleeping.” No one else had heard, I was sure of it. “I’ll take a
Death in the Afternoon
, Barkeep.” He requested in a louder voice to the bartender, who seemed to be respectfully waiting for the man’s order.
Absinthe and champagne
, I mused, immediately interested, and a little alarmed at what quality of champagne they might have behind the bar. If any at all.

“Nice choice.” I spoke, suddenly curious that this might be my contact. He had been here since before I had arrived. Had he been assessing me before deciding to follow through with his information? I was suddenly glad I hadn’t stormed out.

The man glanced over at me, his unique frosty blue eyes twinkling in amusement. He was gaunt, skeletal even, but wiry with a resilient strength underneath, and he sported long, straw-colored blonde hair in a man-bun. He was dressed sharply; formal even, and seemed to fairly reek of money, looking like Don Draper from
Mad Men
. I concluded that he definitely wasn’t as old as I had originally thought. Just frail. He plucked a cigarette from an ornate silver case, casting me a curious brow as if asking my permission. “Coffin nail?” He offered me one. With a Herculean effort I managed to decline, waving him to go ahead. He lit up, speaking softly between pulls. “I became infatuated with the drink many years ago. It’s the color, I think. Silly reason, but there it is.”