The Warrior Read online

  The Alignment Series

  The Alignment

  The Two

  The Oak and the Moon

  The Catalyst

  THE WARRIOR

  THE WARRIOR

  Copyright © 2017 Kay Camden

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real people, places, or events is coincidental.

  Editing by Debra Argosy and The Polished Pen

  Formatting by Write Dream Repeat Book Design

  Cover art by Damonza

  ISBN-10: 0-9910044-8-5 (paperback)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9910044-8-5 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 0-9910044-9-3 (eBook)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9910044-9-2 (eBook)

  For more information about Kay Camden go to

  kaycamden.com

  Table of Contents

  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

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Sloane

  My grandma told me about this house. Gray-white castle stone on a green carpet of grass that goes on forever. Towers propping up the sky. The tall black fence surrounding it like a prison. And the menace infecting the air contained within that fence that settles deep in my bones as soon as I’m inside.

  She and I share many things. Our name. Our magic. The secrets she’s told me no one else knows. Now we share the same captivity in the same room of our enemy’s house, only she was freed fifteen years ago and I’m here for the first time. Alone.

  The symbol she carved in the wood floor is here like she said it would be. I take a risk and pull my amulet out of my boot to compare, side by side, the curved triangle inside the circle. My family’s promise of protection. Smuggled inside this house, it’s all I have here, all I had on that long drive from my mountain home to this hate-filled house in this heavy Southern heat. It’s the biggest mansion I’ve ever seen but it’s more stifling than Grandma Sloane described. She lived here so long, she must have become immune.

  I slip the amulet back in my boot just in time—my captor has arrived. He crosses the room to lock the French doors that make up the wall to the outside. Grandma Sloane told me her husband removed those locks. These must be new, just for me. I hope they know to affect them with magic. I learned to break through locks when I was five.

  Dillon settles on his feet in front of me, his lips moving even though he knows I can’t hear. Hearing people always think the Deaf can read lips good enough to catch every word. I haven’t yet figured out if I should pretend to read nothing or everything, so I do what I’ve done for the past few days: fake being stupid. He probably knows it’s an act by now but that’s his problem. He’s the one who kidnapped a deaf girl.

  He pulls out his phone, speaks into it, and shows it to me.

  This room is the safest place for you tonight. Leave it, and I can’t promise you won’t be killed.

  I struggle to give him the blandest look I can manage—I am my father’s daughter after all, and he couldn’t fake a mild expression to save all our lives. Luckily I’m my mother’s too.

  Dillon looks at me a long time. Deciding. Planning. Conjuring the memory of every member of my family he’s killed. At least that’s what I see. I don’t break his gaze because I’m my brother’s sister too, and he’s a hard kid to beat in a stare-off. In my peripheral vision a shadow flutters underneath the closed door to the little sitting room that leads into the hall. Dillon turns his head to call out then the door opens to reveal another man coming toward us. He stops in front of me. I want to step back but I don’t dare. He’s uncomfortably close. He did it on purpose so I’d have to look up at him. And when I do, he smiles like I’m a piece of candy. The fist I’ve made has to go into my pocket so I don’t ruin the ‘stupid’ act.

  When he turns to speak to Dillon, the light plays on a scar on his cheek, from a many years’ old cut running into his lip. He has a scar just like my dad’s but I’m not sure why or how I know this confirms he’s Jared, Dillon’s brother and my dad’s biggest enemy. I catch nothing of their conversation. My phone could help—two speakers would be confusing but easy enough to make sense of—but Dillon destroyed it, and I’m sure I won’t be getting another anytime soon.

  Then they’re both facing me again. Jared is reaching for my own cheek but the look on my face must cause him to reconsider. He withdraws, makes some comment to Dillon containing the word cat, then he pantomimes a striking animal paw, claws bared.

  If he’s talking about me, he’s right. As soon as I get my chance.

  Jared moves to the desk to set down the notebooks and pens he’s holding. I have room to breathe now that the attention’s off me, and I try to control the air now freed from my lungs. That’s my other act I’ve struggled to keep up during the long trip across the country in their car. Holding my breath keeps me from shuddering too much. Latching my arms across my chest keeps my trembling hands hidden. If they see how I’m rattled, they’ll think I fear them. They don’t know I’ve fought this my whole life. There’s nothing special about them.

  Dillon’s speaking now, arguing maybe the way his eyes have narrowed and Jared is shaking his head. Then Jared says something that makes Dillon go, Oh, right. He says something else: When … tell her?

  Jared answers, Tomorrow. He steps close again—too close. My bangs are in my eyes when I look up, but I don’t fix them. I don’t move at all. He thinks his height is menacing, but he should know it’s a disadvantage to be within range when I’m so much closer to the ground. There are so many ways I could use that height against him.

  He grabs my hair so roughly I exhale, an unavoidable consequence of the counter I had to suppress. Stupid—that’s me. I’m stupid, and slow, and all the things they want to believe. Not a threat at all. Knowing when to hold off is just as important as knowing when to fight.

  I’m forced to turn my head as he twists the handful of my hair. It doesn’t hurt like he thinks it should. Boys don’t understand: if they want to pull hair and make it hurt, they need to grab just a few strands. The more they grab, the less it hurts. But the big handful does give him power over me. I’m just not ready to fight it yet.

  After getting a good look at my now exposed neck, he releases me like an expectation has been cleared. He says something to Dillon who responds, Already did. They head to the door together, but Dillon hangs back, stalling, almost waiting for Jared to leave first. When we’re alone together again, he types a message into his phone: Food? I can send one of the staff up.

  What a hero, I sign, aware he won’t understand.

  He hands me his phone. I refuse like I have every time he offered. If he wanted to be able to communicate with me, he shouldn’t have squashed mine. When it’s clear I won’t be speaking to him in any language he can understand, he gives me one last message
, holding the screen in front of my face long after I’ve read it as if to drive it in.

  You use any magic in here, we’ll know.

  I watch the door close behind him. Then I squat beside my grandma’s carved symbol, fingering the time-smoothed edges. She survived this house. So did my dad. And so will I.

  *

  I do some stretching on the floor in front of the windows while the sun sets. The shadow from the giant oak on the lawn grows long, almost reaching the house. If only I could get through these doors I could leap onto its edge, let it carry me to its base and disappear into the night.

  Now the room has become dark. Instead of turning on the main light, I flip on a lamp by the bed. With the lights still on in the hall, I’ll notice the shadows under the door easier if someone comes to visit. I ransack the room for weapons, distracted by the things I find that must’ve belonged to Grandma Sloane. An old hairbrush with a silver handle. A box of assorted seed packets. Tons of books and antique vinyl records. In the bathroom vanity, I find an old shaving kit, which must’ve been her husband’s. There’s a razor—the flip-open kind, and still sharp. I pocket it, glad I don’t have to scavenge something metal from inside the toilet tank and render the toilet unflushable.

  Light shifts in the main room, so I peer around the doorframe to see I have another visitor, a woman wearing a cook’s white uniform. When she sees me she beckons me over to the coffee table by the couch where she’s laying out plates covered by metal lids like hotel room service. She’s speaking but I can’t understand a thing. Her lips move differently from what I’m used to.

  I catch one question she aims right at me: How old are you?

  I show her ten fingers, then five more.

  Fifteen?

  I nod.

  Can you speak?

  That’s easy—I see that question often.

  I’m deaf, I say. It’s the one thing people always understand whether I speak it correctly or not. My brother Marcas says my deaf accent gives me away.

  She produces a small notepad and short pencil from her pocket. Can I get you anything else? She gestures toward the food.

  I shake my head without looking at it then reach for her notepad. Thank you, I write.

  She gives me a smile and lets herself out of the room. I wonder if she knows about the scum she works for or what they’ve done to keep her from talking about what she sees in this house.

  Eyeing the food, I take a seat on the couch. My mouth tingles enough to overcome my resistance. Plus, I’m not really stupid. I have no idea what’s coming next for me but whatever it is will be better faced with a full belly. That’s my excuse for digging in, anyway. I’m not sure what I’m eating but it certainly proves they’re rich and I’m not. As if I care. Gourmet room service at home? Just weird.

  It fits though, because the Moores are weird. Sick and weird. And badmouthing them in my head makes me feel not so tiny in this giant room while I try not to wonder what I’m supposed to be doing instead of sitting here idle, eating their fancy probably poisoned food.

  My attention lingers on the bed where my grandma slept most of her life. After the long ride in the car, the plush cover and piled pillows tempt me worse than the food. If I could contact the wildlife outside, I could sleep. They’d warn me of any coming danger in time for me to wake and protect myself. I cross the room to check out the doors. The locks are old-fashioned and pickable—no magic required. With the right tool, I could get through it in minutes, prop open the door and call the animals for help.

  That’s when I notice the line of white dust on the balcony floor outside. I’m not sure the kind of magic, but I can guess: some type of boundary spell. The Moores might use different practices but our roots are the same. I’d use affected soil or ash. I don’t want to know what they used.

  I stack a tower of Grandma’s books by the door that leads to the sitting room and hall, its corner just within range of door’s swing. Beside it, I prop a hand mirror I found in the nightstand. If the physical thud of the falling tower doesn’t provide enough vibration to alert me, hopefully the mirror will throw a reflection around the room for a visual alarm.

  In the bathroom I wash my face. With Grandma Sloane’s silver-handled brush, I work out the tangles then fasten the hair on the crown of my head in a high ponytail, leaving the rest loose against my shoulders. My lucky extra-long piece has frayed in its braid, so I untwist its silver fastener and start a new braid, trying not to think about my mom and how many times she’s done this for me. I swallow hard because I can’t cry. I don’t want to cry. But my eyes already look red and puffy, and I’m choking and gasping and I can’t stop. Something’s shaking me from the inside. I have to sit down. The edge of the tub leaks cold through my leggings, which rises to meet the cold in my chest, and it’s over. I can’t help it.

  Yes I can help it. I’m not crying in the Moore mansion. I’m going to lie down on their fluffy bed and take a nap. They won’t kill me now if they need me for something tomorrow. So I lie down, trying to control the shivering and shuddering with the breathing my dad taught me. If I think about him, I won’t cry. He’s the one I can’t fail.

  It’s the most comfy bed I’ve ever slept in and I hate them for it.

  Chapter 2

  Rex

  My opponent goes limp on the mat, his hands up in surrender. I give him a few more jabs in his already bloodied nose because I can. Okay, maybe it’s more like ten. The guys around us pull me off, but they don’t say a thing. They know not to. Then I spot my father standing on the sidelines, and I inwardly groan.

  “You know better than that,” he says. “Are you trying to waste all your sparring partners?”

  “Maybe I am.”

  He chucks a towel at me, too fast and hard to catch with anything but my face. “Clean up. We need to speak to you.”

  We. Well, great. That means another family meeting, more planning my every move. It’d be a lot easier if they’d just slip a set of instructions under my bedroom door each morning. Why involve me at all?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t be a smartass. Dining room. Ten minutes.”

  I wipe down my neck and face while he crosses the training room toward the stairs. It’s such a treat he’s home so my life is back to the normal amount of people riding my ass. Usually I blame my family for the nonsense I deal with on a daily basis, but I remind myself they’re not at fault. It’s the Bevans who started all this, the Bevans who refuse to end it, and as soon as we can snuff them all out, my life will be my own.

  My opponent passes beside me holding a towel against his wasted nose. The gash I opened on his forehead leaks blood down his face. He points at me. “Payback’s a—”

  “Unfulfilled fantasy of yours? Sorry to hear that.”

  My trainer clamps a hand on the guy’s shoulder to steer him away. Most know not to cross me, some are still learning. It’s not my problem if some guys only learn things the hard way.

  After a shower I’m taking my seat at our meeting in the dining room—sixteen minutes late according to my watch but whatever. My only regret is my lukewarm plate, but I’m too hungry to tell one of the staff to heat it up. As usual everyone’s watching me and as usual I ignore it. Uncle Jared shifts in his chair, impatient and starting to get pissed. But I keep on eating as if I’m the only one in the room. I’m too old to get smacked by him anymore. He had to give up that hobby when he figured out how hard I can hit back, and that I’m no longer afraid to.

  “She’s here,” my father says.

  I stop chewing my steak and look up at him. “You’re so full of it.”

  “What’d I tell you about being a smartass?”

  “Why am I eating dinner if she’s here?”

  He extends a hand to Uncle Jared, like he’s too tired to give the orders tonight. He did just get back in town. Now that I’m paying attention, he’s g
ot some new lines in his forehead and a crabby look on his face. Probably needs a nap.

  Which reminds me to take my pill that’s now overdue—I check my watch—by nineteen minutes. No wonder I’m so foggy. I fish my pill case out of my pocket and pop one in my mouth, washing it down with water.

  “Because you won’t be seeing her until we’re ready for you to,” Jared says. “You’re not to step foot on the second floor.”

  She’s here and they’re going to make me wait? I’ve waited my whole life for this. “Okay, so you’ve dropped her in a room so she can take her sweet time crafting some twisted Bevan escape? That’s genius material there.”

  For the first time, I look around the table and notice how crowded it is. Some of these people must’ve wandered in while I was stuffing my face because I think I would’ve noticed the table this full when I came in. Silverware scrapes plates behind me too. A second table also full. What’s that, forty people? Fifty?

  “We need to get some information out of her first,” my cousin Emily says. Her face is so hardcore with intensity I nearly drop my fork. She’s one of the few who’s been a friend instead of a drill sergeant, and I get a nudge of warning that if I screw this up, that’s going to change. “I’m going to talk to her tomorrow to try and get it out of her easily.”

  Of course they’d choose her to play the good cop. She’s twenty-one, old enough to be an adult who should be minded but young enough to relate to Sloane Bevan. Plus, she’s a girl. Girls like to talk to girls.

  “So who gets to play bad cop?” I ask.

  Charlie starts to raise his hand, but Emily swats it down while giving my father a pointed look.

  “You let us handle those details,” my father says.

  But I’m too busy looking at the thrill of the hunt in Charlie’s eyes. Another cousin—second, third, who knows? A cousin’s a cousin in this family. My father thinks I don’t practice good sportsmanship downstairs? He’s never been down there when Charlie’s just warming up. I’ve caught Charlie’s attention though, and the severe look says he’s wondering why the hell I care.