The Knight: The Original's Trilogy - Book 3 Read online

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  The Knight

  The Original’s Trilogy

  Cara Crescent

  Contents

  Cover Image

  Title Page

  Verse 1

  Chapter 1

  Verse 2

  Chapter 2

  Verse 3

  Chapter 3

  Verse 4

  Chapter 4

  Verse 5

  Chapter 5

  Verse 6

  Chapter 6

  Verse 7

  Chapter 7

  Verse 8

  Chapter 8

  Verse 9

  Chapter 9

  Verse 10

  Chapter 10

  Verse 11

  Chapter 11

  Verse 12

  Chapter 12

  Verse 13

  Chapter 13

  Verse 14

  Chapter 14

  Verse 15

  Chapter 15

  Verse 16

  Chapter 16

  Verse 17

  Chapter 17

  Verse 18

  Chapter 18

  Verse 19

  Chapter 19

  Verse 20

  Chapter 20

  Verse 21

  Chapter 21

  Verse 22

  Chapter 22

  Verse 23

  Chapter 23

  Verse 24

  Chapter 24

  Verse 25

  Chapter 25

  Verse 26

  Chapter 26

  Verse 27

  Chapter 27

  Verse 28

  Chapter 28

  Verse 29

  Chapter 29

  Verse 30

  Chapter 30

  Verse 31

  Chapter 31

  Verse 32

  Chapter 32

  Verse 33

  Chapter 33

  Verse 34

  Chapter 34

  Verse 35

  Chapter 35

  Verse 36

  Chapter 36

  Verse 37

  Epilogue

  Books By Cara Crescent

  Author Bio

  The Knight

  The Original’s Trilogy, Book 3

  * * *

  Copyright © 2017 by Cara Crescent

  * * *

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  * * *

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

  * * *

  Cover Design and Interior Format by The Killion Group, Inc.

  www.thekilliongroupinc.com

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  There is this one, special creature in every writer’s life called ‘a family and friends editor’. This particular editor gets no payment (‘cept drinks and laughter) nor any glory. They tend to be the one to read the book first before the betas, the alphas, the paid editor, or the proofreader and my F&F editor is wicked awesome. She catches things like the difference between a pine tree and a fir tree, steps and stairs (yes, there is a difference!), and that when listing the color of things, you should always do so with ROYGBIV in mind. Every time I’ve sat down with her over a manuscript. I’ve learned something new and laughed until my belly ached. I’ll ask her a question about what grows on the North side of the Cascades and she’ll go into a winding two-hour fact fest that’s like a James A. Michener novel.

  * * *

  “Well, what’s really interesting is that the such-and-such plant lives on the East side of the Cascades which draws the blankety-blank bug which, of course, draws the thing-a-ma-jig bird. The cougars love eating those birds which is why the mountain filled up with hunters back in the seventeenth century. There’s a little-known ghost town out there where this really creepy thing happened and….”

  * * *

  And an hour later, my one little question, which was wrong on some basic level, has spawned a geology/history lesson that has left me with enough fodder to write six books and a mini-series.

  * * *

  She once told me she’d love ten minutes inside my head just to see how the hell my brain works. All I could do was stare, ‘cause I’d had the same damn thought about her many a time.

  * * *

  To Jean, who is both family and friend, and an F&F editor of the highest caliber.

  In the beginning, there was a dark void. The goddess was displeased because she could envision a vast universe teeming with life. She went out into the void and whispered, “Let there be light.”

  The goddess smiled. The light was good.

  Chapter 1

  Monday Carnation, Washington

  Where the fuck was he?

  Julius Crowley peeled himself off the over-bright yellow-and-white-checkered tiles and scanned the kitchen through bleary eyes. The walls sported a sunny yellow paint which highlighted the white trim and cabinets. Jesus. Some yahoo had taken the time to paint little daisies on the edges of each corner. A refrigerator hummed at the end of the counter and a Tweety-Bird cookie jar watched over the space from on top.

  Too bright. Too happy. The lot of it made his fucking head hurt.

  Never would he walk into such a place—the epitome of domestication. Made him think of a wife baking. Children sitting and doing homework. Made him think of family. Warmth. Love.

  All things he couldn’t have.

  The scent of ash and blood lingered despite his fresh, clean surroundings.

  Every inch of him ached, bringing to mind a balloon stretched to its limits before being deflated and tossed aside. That’s how he felt—stretched out and yet . . . empty.

  He took inventory, checking for injuries. Dark splotches of blood caked his skin and clothing. When he moved, the maroon stains tugged at the little hairs on his skin.

  What the hell had he done? The blood wasn’t his. Couldn’t be. He didn’t bleed.

  “Hello?” His voice held a weak, shaky quality. He tried to put more force behind his question. “Hello!”

  The house remained still and silent.

  A shiver ratcheted up his spine. “What the hell is going on?” he shouted the question, trying without success to put strength behind his
voice.

  No one answered.

  He glanced into the dark living room through the kitchen entry. Considering the condition of his clothes, he doubted he’d find anything pleasant in there.

  Julius rubbed his hand over his face, causing maroon flakes to flutter down, marring the pristine floor.

  Christ, he didn’t belong here. He was the antithesis of this bright little kitchen. A killer. Usually, though, he required a sound reason to commit murder and he sure as fuck didn’t frolic in his mark’s blood.

  This wasn’t right. None of it.

  He flung open the back door. The first, faint hues of sunrise lightened the sky over the tops of the surrounding firs. “Jesus Christ on Sunday.” This just kept getting better. He couldn’t risk getting caught in the sunlight. He was stuck.

  He glanced back to the living room as he closed the door. He’d much prefer tucking into his own bed for the day, but . . . . His whole frame stilled and he rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest. He couldn’t picture his bolt-hole. Why couldn’t he remember where he lived?

  He tried to slow his respiration while he prodded the black hole in his mind where his memories should be. Calm down and think.

  Last night he must’ve woken . . . maybe showered . . . . Shit! Nothing.

  SUBMIT. The deep voice vibrated through the house.

  His entire body tensed, his hand going to the small of his back where he wore his weapons.

  His blades weren’t there.

  Slowly he turned, staring into the black hole of a living room. “Who’s there?”

  OBEY.

  “Show yourself, you son of a bitch.”

  CUT OUT YOUR EYES.

  Though he faced the living room, the voice still came from behind him. He turned a slow circle, scanning the yellow walls and the white cabinets with little daisies painted around the edges, searching for speakers. Cameras. He didn’t see any. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

  The kitchen was clean. Tidy. Happy. Looked like a kitchen straight out of the latest issue of Better Homes and—too-much-fucking-time-on-my-hands—Gardens.

  YOUR EYES. YOUR EYES. YOUR EYES. YOUR EYES.

  Something else was in here with him. Something dark. Angry.

  CUT OUT YOUR EYES.

  Nah. His eyes were his survival. He’d be helpless without them.

  FIND A BLADE. CUT OUT YOUR EYES. DESTROY YOUR EYES.

  The compulsion spiked through him, adding a frantic, antsy quality to his already frayed nerves. Urged him to move. To take action. He lifted his hand, stretched his arm toward a drawer.

  He snatched his hand back. Drummed his fingers on his leg to keep them busy.

  CUT-CUT-CUT-CUT-CUT.

  Someone had fucked him up good. Some bastard had used their talent on him. He should know the signs—he was a mesmerist. Now that he knew the problem, the voice would go away. The will of a mesmerist always faded once the victim became aware.

  CUT OUT YOUR EYES!

  He damn near jumped out of his socks.

  CUT-CUT-CUT-CUT-CUT.

  The demand pounded away all other thoughts in his head, relentless in its cause. He reached for the nearest drawer.

  Opened it and sighed. Towels—all bright-colored swatches of cloth folded into neat rows.

  CUT YOUR EYES OUT.

  Though he didn’t want to, he did grab the handle of another drawer. His muscles bulged as he fought the urge. He shook. The dried blood pulled at the hair on his arm. He flung open another drawer. Utensils. Spoons and forks. Gouging his eyes would be difficult with these, but he could . . . No!

  No. Slamming the drawer shut, he turned away. Walked out of the kitchen into the gloom of the living room. He refused to do this. Would not. Why was he even arguing with himself about it?

  Even as he willed himself not to, he returned. His muscles flexed with every halting step—he shook with the effort to restrain himself. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Still, he went back into the cheery, fucked-up kitchen and continued his maniacal search.

  “Your eyes.” Jesus, he was saying the demand aloud now. His voice wasn’t right. He sounded . . . off. “Cut out your eyes.”

  He had to stop himself. He couldn’t do this.

  He grabbed the handle of a drawer.

  Flung the whole thing away, before even glimpsing the contents. The drawer hit the wall and fractured. Utensils pinged and jangled across the tiled floor.

  He went for another.

  Panting with effort, he struggled, decimating the tidy kitchen one drawer at a time in his fight against himself. Potholders and kitchen bric-a-brac littered the floor, making him slip and stumble as he searched.

  Eventually though, they found the knives.

  They? He was out of his ever-loving mind.

  Blinking away the tears blurring his vision, he left the safety of the house, keeping to the shadows the firs provided, with the knife clutched in his hand. His body refused to heed his mind—he’d lost all control. “Cut-cut-cut. . . .”

  Stop! Sit down. Lie down. Throw the fucking thing away.

  He walked around the side of the house and out into the forest.

  Stop, damn you. Go back. The sun’s rising. We’ll never make our way back if we can’t see.

  The stars had almost disappeared, pale blue lighting half the sky.

  Stop!

  His body listened. They stood there, swaying, head tipped to the side.

  Go back. Leave the knife and go into the house. Get away from the windows.

  “Cut out your eyes. Cut out your eyes. Cut out your eyes.” The words spilled from his mouth, monotone. Robotic. His fingers flexed around the cool hilt of the knife. “Eyes. Cut out your eyes.”

  He tried to block out the voice. Couldn’t tell anymore if that was him speaking, or him thinking, or if he’d disappeared altogether. Maybe he’d died and this was hell.

  “Gouge the eyes from your head and let the sun take you.” The blade of the butcher knife gleamed in the dim light. “The eyes hurt. They cause pain. They destroy. Destroy the eyes.”

  No! Don’t do this. Don’t listen . . . but he’d spoken the truth. His eyes had caused all his problems.

  He gripped the knife in both hands as if that would stop his shaking, the dangerous part pointed at his face.

  “Obey me. Cut out your eyes.”

  He had to remove his eyes.

  Closer. The tip blurred and disappeared as the point neared his iris.

  “Submit. Cut out your eyes.”

  He had to do this.

  Machon.

  Katherine O’Hickey pressed her hand to her belly in effort to settle the flock of stomach-lining-eating butterflies swarming there and sped-walked toward the Citadel.

  She’d kidnapped the Harbinger—the most wanted criminal on both Earth and in the daemon realm of Machon—right out from under the noses of her coven and the Guardian. Well, she did have her new high-priestess’, tentative blessing—but only if she could heal Crowley and prove he was still sane after being possessed for the last three hundred years.

  “Kat!”

  She waved to Harrison but didn’t wait for him to catch up with her. She was exhausted, dirty, and worried about her mate. She’d transported him to her house with a spell, but had stayed behind in Machon to make sure she was seen. Neither Trina nor Lilith wanted anyone to suspect she’d caused Crowley’s disappearance.

  Harrison picked up his pace until he was even with her. “You look like hell.” A wide grin broke over his face, softening the criticism.

  His minion, George, rode on his broad shoulder, his wide, diamond-shaped head bobbing with each of Harrison’s steps. The minion broke into a toothy grin.

  She paused long enough to give the ferret-sized minion a pat. Baby-fine black fur poked out from between the white, armor-like scales covering his back from his nose to his thick tail. George let out a gurgle of pleasure.

  She had a right to look awful. They’d spent the last hour fighting the Watc
her—a fallen angel—they’d exorcized from her mate, and the Nephilim the Watcher had conjured to fight with him. Well, more specifically the Original had fought the Watcher and the rest of them had destroyed his children, the Nephilim.

  “Right back at you, tough guy.”

  Dirt and ash smeared Harrison’s handsome face and his hair stood up at angles. “If I never see another Nephilim, it’ll be too soon.”

  The creatures were humanoid but twisted with bulging muscles. While once human, they behaved more like animals, running on an instinct to kill and feed.

  “Look, Kat, now that all this is over, I thought maybe you and I could . . . you know . . . .” He laughed. “Gods, I don’t even know what vampires do on a date.”

  She shook her head. “You’re asking the wrong person. I’ve been a vampire for . . . .” She grabbed his hand and twisted it around to look at the watch on his wrist. “About fifteen hours.”

  “Which means I’ve had an adult body for eighteen hours, twenty-two minutes, and”—he glanced at his watch—“fifty seconds.”