The Final Calling Read online

  THE FINAL CALLING

  THE CRUCIBLE SERIES BOOK 5

  • • •

  by

  ANGELA COLSIN

  • • •

  Copyright © 2016 by Angela Colsin. All rights reserved by the author.

  Published by Angela Colsin www.acolsin.wordpress.com

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover image designed by Angela Colsin.

  This story is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination, or merely used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locations, events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is not for reproduction by any party outside of the copyright holder. Transmission of this publication by any means other than the intended e-book distribution is prohibited without prior written permission from the author.

  For any questions, concerns, and/or comments, please send an email to the author at [email protected] or visit her blog at www.acolsin.wordpress.com.

  • • •

  ALSO BY ANGELA COLSIN

  Blue Moon

  Light of Dawn

  Strange Brew

  Fallen Hearts

  TO CHRISSY

  There's so many things I could say after all our years of friendship. But I get the feeling they'd be too sentimental for our tastes. So I'll just stick with, “Minty pussy and Fermented Dreams?”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I had to include this for Joanna, my 'Cup-o-Jo', who not only helped me hammer out plot holes and build a better story, but also made frustration easier to bear by providing many late night chats about our villains, protags, and damn, why won't work just go away?

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  • • •

  Preface

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Author's Note

  Preface

  • • •

  Mage: Many differing types of magic practitioners are considered mages. But the term is most commonly used to refer to those who've studied the arcane in Mystikkar, the City of Magic, as the institutions offered in the city have produced some of the most powerful mages ever known.

  Theirs is a society consisting of beings from all walks of life when anyone possessing an aptitude for magic might learn to cast spells and harness energy. But a selective eye is kept for those chosen to study as only the most talented students would have any chance of passing their trials.

  Once chosen, the apprentice is marked with a sigil meant to strengthen their connection to magic and make their training somewhat easier. Many mages also specialize in different fields, such as alchemy, conjuration, or summoning, though these fields aren't actively chosen by the student. Instead, the personality of the apprentice reflects the class of magic they'll be most adept at practicing.

  In the mortal realm of Terra, mages are governed by The Arcane Assembly, an Order operating under The Crucible.

  Perosian: One of the more well known races of demons, Perosians were once divine beings, cast out of Divinity after their deity, Peros, lost favor with the Pantheon. Now considered a formidable race of immortals, Perosians are known for their quick reflexes and swift regeneration, including the regrowth of lost limbs. They also possess uncanny night vision and light sensitivity.

  Because of these talents, Perosians are feared by many, and their abilities only strengthen with time. Once a Perosian has reached a thousand years of age, they're considered an Ancient, and may even be able to survive decapitation—the only known method of killing them.

  By looking into a mortal's eyes, Perosians can read their fears and desires, a talent that won't work on other immortal beings unless directly related by blood or matehood.

  Prologue

  • • •

  The Grand Coliseum, Imperial City, Perosia

  “Open the gate and bring in the betrayer!”

  Two massive doors at the south wall of the Grand Coliseum opened at the bellowed command, revealing a military unit adorned in black and silver armor standing behind them.

  The sight of the imperial soldiers caused a hush to sweep over the large crowd of Perosian citizens gathered in the arena as, standing in neat rows of three, the unit began a forward march through the entrance. Their footfalls created a synchronized thump against the dirt floor of the arena, most carrying razor-sharp swords held out before them with the blade tips pointing upward.

  But the two rows at the center of the procession were hauling a mobile stock unit inside. Locked into the device was Alder Persias, the youngest son of the late Emperor Rigyl and the last living member of the Imperial Family—a family recently slaughtered as a result of betrayal.

  And as soon as he came into view, the crowd erupted in scornful booing.

  Hunched forward with his head and wrists barred inside the stock, his tunic stained with blood and trousers torn, one would never have guessed Alder was a prince by simply looking. The expressions of contempt and derision coming from his own people also masked his former popularity.

  But most importantly, they'd never know he was actually innocent.

  Some citizens spat at the passing unit, others throwing mud and garbage as the soldiers took him to the north side of the arena.

  There, high above upon an extended ledge of the coliseum's dome, stood a towering, granite statue of Peros, the God of Darkness and patron deity of Perosia. The monument was cloaked with two horns jutting through the hood, his hidden gaze downcast as if looking over the scene in judgment.

  In the stands directly below the statue was an elaborate, upraised dais where each Elder of the Tribunal stood. Garbed in ceremonial robes and full face masks hiding their identities to symbolize unbiased judgment, each of the nameless figures quietly waited for the sentencing to commence.

  And sitting on the throne between them was Emperor Rigyl's most trusted advisor, Rothario.

  Unlike the Elders, his golden face mask and headdress was worn as a symbol of status, covering the upper half of his face with a pair of vividly red eyes gazing out over the scene. Rothario was the only advisor to survive a misguided attack on the Imperial Family, and because of Alder's incarceration, he'd become the Steward of the empire until a legitimate regent could be installed.

  He remained silent and almost deathly still, allowing Alder's ridicule to continue until the prisoner's stock was settled upon a large, circular seal carved into the arena floor. The metal imprint was considered the most ominous place in the entire Perosian Empire, housing the only portal into a dreaded hell plane known as the Pit.

  Alder's future home.

  Once his stock unit was settled, the soldiers who'd hauled him inside took up positions around the seal in an even circle, the pounding in the arena floor going silent as soon as they were in place. In turn, the crowd's jee
ring came to a slow halt when Rothario finally stood from the throne and stepped forward.

  During the silence, Alder closed his fiery, amber eyes, grinding his teeth against the bit strapped into his mouth in both anger and heart wrenching remorse. Despite his innocence of the crimes laid before him, he felt incredibly guilty, so much so that he hadn't cared to fight this sentencing. How innocent could I be when I failed to protect them? Not even Dalia survived.

  Knowing his younger and sole sister had also been murdered was the most painful part of all—not that any of it was easy to handle. His parents and three older brothers were all gone, no thanks to him. I was too late … .

  “Alder Persias,” Rothario called loudly enough to be heard throughout the arena, the echo intensifying his cold tone. “In fair judgment, The Imperial Tribunal of Perosia has found you guilty of high treason in conspiring to assassinate the Imperial Family, your family.”

  Rothario briefly paused to allow his words to sink into the minds of everyone standing silent in the crowd, then added, “Now you will suffer the consequences.”

  Uproarious cheering ensued the new Steward's decree, but only briefly when he raised a single, gloved hand to command silence.

  Once everyone calmed, he announced the sentence.

  “Under normal circumstances, The Tribunal would claim execution a suitable punishment. Yet the atrocities you've committed does not merely affect a few, but all imperial citizens. So it seems death is too … lenient. Instead, a much more fitting sentence had been decided upon.”

  Alder sensed movement behind him, unable to see what was happening in his current state of bondage. But he already knew the punishment coming.

  Expulsion.

  “Alder Persias will hereby be effaced from our society, his memory purged and identity erased.”

  As Rothario spoke, a low rumble of cheers began growing louder, forcing him to raise his voice. “His title of Prince will not only be annulled, but irrevocably removed from every facet of his being. Alder's power will thus be muted, and he will live out the rest of his miserable, nameless days in the bedlam of the Pit.”

  The spectators were now frantically shouting in approval as the leather clad overmaster pulled a white hot brand from a nearby cauldron of coals and climbed onto the stock unit.

  Reaching out, he ripped Alder's bloodstained tunic away, wasting no time mercilessly jabbing the burning brand against his upper back.

  Alder seized up, muscles tensing as he bit down into his muzzle so hard one of his fanged canines broke against it. The stock holding his neck and wrists began cutting into his flesh the more he pulled, and for several moments, everything went dark.

  The magic of the brand seeped into his skin like a scourge, subduing his energy to leave him weaker than he'd ever felt before. His head dipped forward, blood seeping from the crease between his lip and muzzle, and once the brand was removed, it left an intricate pattern of letters in the Ancient language across his upper back.

  The cheering continued, but seemed to grow distant as Alder became too weak to notice their approving shouts, the mute sapping his energy. The overmaster had to lift his chin to make sure he was keeping his focus on the Steward.

  Or maybe they wanted it on the court's mage who was now preparing to efface him—and Alder welcomed the punishment. Anything to get rid of this humiliation, to forget the pain he was enduring, a pain that drove much more deeply than the physical.

  His family was gone, and he'd been too late to help them. I failed them all.

  Yet, in mere moments, he'd awaken in the Pit as a new person without the maddening grief of loss plaguing him, and it wouldn't take long then for some indigenous creature of that hell plane to finish him off.

  If justice existed in any sense of the word, he would then be reunited with his family, and they could go on in peace together, far away from this society he'd once cherished, but was now irreparably tarnished.

  So he eagerly awaited the spell to be cast, and as the chant went on, a strange sensation swept over his mind. It felt as if all he'd ever known of himself was being sucked away just as the overmaster opened the stock and jerked Alder out.

  Shoving him from the unit, his body landed on the seal with a thud at the same time the spell was finally cast. A pain stabbed through his skull, so intense it was like a shock to his system, wiping away all memory of the life he'd once led. His parents, siblings, everything he'd ever cared about was now gone, lost in the bright light of the portal rising up around him.

  And the Pit swallowed what was left of Alder whole.

  • • •

  Dra'Kai Estate, Outside Atlanta, Georgia

  Present Day, Approximately 700 Years Later

  To most people, a curse of eternal decay would be a nightmare to endure.

  To Isaac, it was a disappointment.

  Laying on a soft bed in a lavish estate, he'd wondered if the decay inflicted on his body by the curse would have some success in removing the mute branded on his back. But no, the marks remained in tact, subduing his abilities despite the loss of three and a half fingers, a good bit of his hair, the vision of one eye, and nearly all of his teeth.

  Still, he probably shouldn't have been surprised. After all of the abuse he'd taken in the Pit alone—including being skinned alive repeatedly—the damned thing never failed to regenerate with the rest of his body. Never could catch a break.

  “Isaac?”

  The voice broke through his thoughts from outside the bedroom door only seconds before it opened to reveal his best friend, Ulric Dra'Kai, followed by his new mate, a mortal-turned-sun fae named Charlotte. Their presence and well being proved she'd just survived a ritual that called for her sacrifice, and Isaac inquired over it—realizing in the process that it was getting difficult to speak.

  “Guess you guys finally killed the bitch.”

  Charlotte smiled happily. “Yep, Lillian's gone, and as a bonus, we took out several of her friends.”

  Ulric looked extremely pleased by the outcome, taking a seat in a chair next to the bed. “All that's left now is breaking your curse. How do you feel, anyway?”

  Pressing his tongue against a loose tooth, Isaac turned his head and spit it into his palm, then deposited it on the nightstand with the rest, answering, “Like a big fucking bowl of sunshine. Can't you tell?”

  Ulric grinned in amusement, looking the demon over in his decrepit condition. “You'll be better soon. Chandra's here, she's just discussing this curse with Edith.”

  Isaac groaned at the drop of Chandra's name. Though she was a sorceress who'd agreed to break his curse, she hadn't been his first choice to ask for assistance—or his last.

  A few days prior, Isaac had randomly stumbled across a vampire plot to abduct Charlotte while visiting a popular supernatural nightclub in Atlanta called Foxy's. The club's succubus owner had idly mentioned to him the oddity of a mortal with Charlotte's description visiting that night.

  So Isaac investigated, and found her unconscious with a severely burned vampire poised above her, ready to drain her blood.

  Without hesitation, he'd intercepted, killed the vampire, and teleported Charlotte to the Dra'Kai Estate where Ulric's eldest brother lived.

  But what Isaac didn't know was that Charlotte had a cursed pendant in her pocket, and when he deposited her onto a bed for rest, his hand made contact with the chain dangling from her jeans. The simple touch was enough to contract the curse, making it imperative to find a mage who could break it, and Chandra was everyone's first choice.

  But Isaac refused.

  He'd known the sorceress for two centuries now, and her magic was both potent and reliable. But he'd sought every other avenue possible rather than turn to her for help, and the reason was simple.

  Two centuries ago, a prophecy was made revealing the identity of Isaac's mate as being Chandra's first mage apprentice. She'd never been overly interested in acquiring a student to teach, but Isaac knew she'd do so soon if only because he'd been dreamin
g of his mate for the past two years.

  Such premonitory dreams were something all male demons experienced, a sign that they were soon to meet their fated match, and in a word, those dreams were hellacious. Isaac could never see his mate in them, and always woke with a sense of yearning for her so strong he nearly felt physically afflicted.

  Furthermore, his dreams had grown so intense in recent months that he knew she was extremely close—and may have hounded Chandra about taking an apprentice even more often than usual.

  This meant she'd make a demand for breaking the curse he was now under, and it happened like clockwork. As soon as Isaac's plight was out of the bag, he had to take a blood oath to refrain from interfering with his mate's training no matter how much he wanted to see her.

  But Isaac was impatient, and some apprentices trained for decades.

  Still, it was a waiting game regardless of his desires—waiting for the curse to be broken, and for Chandra to actually take an apprentice, let alone teach her.

  At the thought, the bedroom door opened. Both Charlotte and Ulric looked back just as a tall, slender woman with black hair tied into an impossibly neat bun at her crown entered the room. In one hand was an ornate, silver staff with a large onyx gem set at the tip between two inverted scythes, and in the other was … a saltshaker?

  Whatever purpose the salt served, Chandra turned her piercing silver eyes to a short, fiery redhead who entered the room behind her. Next to the sorceress who was scantily clad in shimmering materials adorned with silver embellishments, the mortal looked rather plain in her tank top and denim shorts—not that Isaac could make out any details when the vision in his good eye was blurry and deteriorating.

  “You see, Edith,” Chandra began. “Isaac's been reduced to a sad, sickly thing who needs a few drops of virgin blood so he can go about antagonizing everyone he knows. Personally, I wouldn't mind leaving him this way, but I made a promise, and it's one I won't break.”