The Shadow: The Original's Trilogy Read online

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Other Books by Cara Crescent

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  We all know the friendship hierarchy, right? You’ve got your acquaintances, your girls, your bff, and, if you win life’s lottery, your “person”—courtesy of Grey’s Anatomy. Your person has been around a long time. She’s seen you ugly cry. She’s been there through births, deaths, litigation, surgery, marriage, divorce, you name it. She’s the one that helps you up when you fall down—she’s usually laughing so hard she’s crying when she does, but, you know, she helps you up and that’s what matters. She’s probably used your PIN at some point. Her name is on legal documents somewhere in your home. If you’ve ever done something a bit dodgy…your person was there. She helps herself to items in your fridge and if she discovers she took something you wanted, she begins to eat with relish, smacking her lips and moaning in pleasure. Your person may even have bitched for a two hour car ride because you gave her catch phrase to the hero instead of the heroine—all right, maybe yours doesn’t do that, but mine does. And you put up with it because your person “sees” you—the real you without your social polish. She sees you and she still chooses to be your friend. Not only that, but she allows you to see the real her and that’s a blessing because then you know you’re not the only crazy person in the world.

  I’ve never been too lucky in most things, but I did win life’s lottery.

  To Yelena Stock—my person.

  “It’s all about perspective.”

  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

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Other Books by Cara Crescent

  About the Author

  Copyright

  When the Original is no longer cursed

  She’ll come to thee as three.

  All as humans first,

  Then as daemons are set free:

  The Beacon burning bright,

  The Shadow hidden from sight,

  The blighted, damned Knight.

  —The Black Book of Daemonology

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  Duncan Sinclair wasn’t a firm believer in rules—they tended to complicate the hell out of life—but he did have three. Three rules and a vague sense that he’d landed himself here because he’d broken them.

  Rule one: Never let true emotions show. With his hands stacked behind his neck, he leaned back into the head of the Vampiric Council’s chair, propped his booted feet on the table, and whistled the “Arsenal Anthem.” With a little luck, he looked like a male without a care in the world. A far better state than the turmoil crawling beneath his flesh.

  He sat alone in the cavernous chamber where the Vampiric Council held court far below London’s streets. Thirteen high-backed leather chairs surrounded the table, one for each Council member. The room was a mix-match of modern-technology and gothic-vampire-chic with flaming wall sconces situated between vast displays of monitors—telly, computer, security, and infrared. From the look of things, the Vampiric Council appeared intent on staying in the know and that made his ass clench.

  An ignorant Council could be a dangerous thing, but a well-advised Council was the stuff of nightmares.

  He’d always done his best to avoid the barmy bastards even while being indelibly attached to them. It was a shitty position to be in. Akin to being chained to a rabid lion, dragging him along in the wake of its destruction. And while he couldn’t outright beat the system, he did fuck with it behind their backs, making his own decisions when the Council’s directives didn’t mesh with his ethics.

  He hadn’t had cause to enter this room in almost five years because he’d followed his bloody rules and stayed off the Council’s radar. Guardians never came to the Council—not unless they’d fucked up or were owed a favor. Which brought him to Rule Two: Do the job and do it well. He did his job, assassinated those on his kill orders and kept his damn emotions to himself.

  Well, most of the time. He’d mucked up the last job Leopold had sent him on. Leopold, the head of the Vampiric Council, had called in a favor five years ago. Duncan had taken the job, didn’t have much option not to but when he’d discovered his target was a fourteen-year-old lad with the same coloring as his own son, he’d allowed his emotions to guide him. He’d saved the lad instead of ashing him. Recently, he’d begun to realize he’d gotten as attached to the lad as his own son. God knew he’d tried not to. Love was a messy, thankless emotion which is why Rule Three was simple: Never love.

  Not surprising to his mind, then, that he’d ended up here, the last place he wanted to be. That’s what he got for breaking every last damn rule for that ungrateful little shite.

  Unfortunately, in Harry’s case—the lad he’d been sent to dust—his rules had conflicted with a vow he’d made centuries ago to his own son. He’d promised to never again walk away from a problem just because it was easier.

  So, he’d helped Harry . . . was still helping Harry. And now he had a sneaking suspicion the Council had sussed out their secret and intended to make him redundant in a permanent way.

  The sharp raps of footsteps on stone echoed in the chamber as someone approached. Duncan forced himself to remain still, even closed his eyes, as if he might be napping. With his hands stacked behind his neck, his fingertips brushed the hilt of the knife holstered between his shoulder blades. He was prepared to fight his way out of the room should things go south.

  Only one set of footsteps approached, coming around to stop in front of him. “You know, they say that table was made from the scale of a dragon.”

  Well, shite. Leo himself had come up. Duncan sighed and opened his eyes to scan the iridesce
nt surface he’d propped his boots on. The table was beautiful: The dark surface changed color—blue, green, purple, pink—as he tipped his head this way and that. He’d always been partial to the thing. “Been ’round three-hundred years and never seen the like. I’m more apt to believe it came from a mutated abalone shell than some fancy dragon,” he muttered.

  He turned his attention to Leo. The head of the Vampiric Council had been transformed at a young age. He couldn’t have been more than twenty with his slight frame and soft hands. In contrast to his youthful appearance, his hair was as white as the handkerchief sticking out of the pocket of his dark blue suit.

  The corner of Leo’s mouth tipped up. His hand shot out, knocking Duncan’s feet to the ground. “Show a little respect, Sinclair.”

  Slowly, with an amused twist to his lips, he unfolded himself and stood. He’d always been a big brute of a man—a fighter in his human life—with a mug to match. He’d learned from experience people rarely found him approachable at first glance—his jaw was too square, his forehead too high, his neck too thick. He canted his face down to look Leo in the eye. “You all right, Leopold?”

  “I’m well.” Leo crossed his arms. “You?”

  “Good as gold, luv.” An old Cockney expression that had more to do with his state of being than his general health—Don’t fuck with me, guv, I’m the genuine article. No fakery here.

  Leo’s lips quirked in an expression that could indicate irritation as easily as humor. He’d much prefer Leo’s annoyance. He was a sick bastard, so anything he found amusing was likely right dodgy.

  “I suppose you’re anxious to know why you’re here.”

  Duncan stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Thought maybe you missed me.”

  “Funny. You always were.” Not even the corner of his lips curved. His expression remained flat. “I have a job for you.”

  He froze for half a second. This wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d been set for a row—the kind only one body walked away from. “Go on.”

  “I need a woman killed.”

  Duncan didn’t so much as blink. As an assassin, he didn’t have the option to be picky in his targets, but this was unusual. “A woman. Not a female?” He’d never been asked to kill a human before.

  “There are two.” Leo waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I don’t think it matters which one you kill.”

  This time, he couldn’t help it when his brows drew down and his nose wrinkled. “Usually, when someone orders a hit, guv, they’re a bit more specific. Do I pick a woman at random?”

  “Don’t be an idiot.” Leopold started pacing.

  When he brushed his hair from his forehead, his hand shook. Interesting.

  “There are two women in Washington—the state, not the Capitol. My secretary will give you their last known address.”

  “How old is your information?”

  “Twenty-four hours.”

  “Who’s your informant?”

  “Julius Crowley.”

  “Fuck’s sake.” Duncan snorted. He wouldn’t trust that slick git any more than he’d trust a card sharp holding all the aces.

  Leopold whipped around, pinning Duncan with his stare. “Did I ask your opinion?” He turned, his long white hair whirling around his shoulders. “You know, it’s odd. I knew the Watchers would send someone, but I’m curious why they chose you.”

  Lovely. This just kept getting better. The Watchers—the two-hundred angels fallen from grace—gave the Guardians—assassins like him—their orders. They saw and heard everything, everywhere, and punishment for failure was swift and irrevocable, making it impossible to duck their orders. The reason he’d gotten away with helping Harry was because that kill order had come from Leopold, not the Watchers.

  In the grand scheme of things, while the Vampiric Council rode herd on the Guardian, Duncan and the others had no problem skiving their more . . . questionable orders. The Watchers on the other hand, no one disobeyed. That put him in a precarious position. He wasn’t allowed to kill humans, yet here they were ordering him to do so. This whole thing was sketchy.

  “The Watchers’ve been giving me plenty of work.” He shrugged. “Me feelings won’t be hurt if you’d rather send someone else.” In all honesty, he’d prefer it.

  “I suppose they have their reasons.” Leo narrowed his eyes. “I’m surprised they chose you, is all.” His cold green stare raked over him.

  You. A Cockney bastard who’s IQ had always been measured on looks and quality of speech.

  Duncan jerked his head to the side to crack his neck.

  “I suppose after what you did to your family . . . .” Leo sniffed. “This should be routine.”

  Adrenaline spiked through Duncan’s veins as the urge to destroy the little fuck almost overwhelmed his common sense. He needed every ounce of discipline to keep his temper in check. Like everyone else, Leo had made an assumption based on his looks. No one ever bothered to ask for the facts. “Anything else?”

  “The women are under the protection of a Guardian gone rogue.”

  Yeah, right. Guardians didn’t go rogue. He damned near rolled his eyes before he remembered sarcasm wouldn’t help the situation.

  “It’s the women affecting him, I’m sure.” Leopold waved his own spurious reasoning aside. “Kill one. Bring the other to me. If the Guardian gets in the way, dust him, too.”

  “Who is he?”

  “James Pasquino.”

  Yeah, Leopold was feeding him a load of bollocks. Though he’d never met him, Pasquino was the one Guardian the Vampiric Council had always held up as an example to all the rest.

  This was like the situation with Harry all over again. The Council must have bunked something up and they were using him to sweep the evidence under the rug. But he hadn’t cleaned up the last mess. He’d taken Harry home.

  And the Watchers bloody well knew that. They knew everything. So, why’d they pick him? If they’d wanted to punish him for disobeying Leopold and hiding Harry, they could’ve tipped off the Council ages ago, having both him and the lad dusted. But the Watchers hadn’t.

  He pursed his lips, kissing his teeth. More likely they chose him because they knew he’d protect the innocent. Damn, things must be bad if even the Watchers were plotting against the Council. “You know, I think I got the gist of the job now.”

  Leo tipped his head to the side, studying him. “Maybe you’re not the right Guardian for this job. I need to think. I should ask for confirmation. I may have misinterpreted their message.”

  Duncan opened his mouth to argue, but before he could reply, the electronics in the room came alive, beeping and humming. All the screens read: Duncan Sinclair. Some flashed his name, others ticked the letters across the bottom of the screen. The Watchers had their minds set.

  Leo turned a slow circle, taking it all in before his glare returned to Duncan.

  He smiled. Shrugged.

  “You have three days, Sinclair.”

  Duncan turned on his heel, moseying out of the room, whistling as he went.

  Nobody disobeyed the Watchers.

  Not even Leopold.

  *****

  Leopold closed his eyes, pulling his consciousness back into his real body. His doppelgänger—the projection of himself—still stood in the Council chambers ready to respond with rote answers should anyone come upon him.

  He opened his real eyes. His body sat in the same position he’d left it in, seated in the chair next to where he’d left his mate sleeping. She’d been up for some time, though.

  Evelyn stared back with one clear eye. The lid sagged over the left. She smiled, but only the right side of her mouth curved up. A thin line of clear spittle ran from the other corner of her mouth, down to pool on the rise of her breast.

  She’d been trying to dress herself again. She wanted so much to be as strong on the outside as she was on the inside.

  He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “I see we’ve been bu
sy, dearest.” He leaned forward in his chair, tugging the sides of her blouse closed; the material had been caught under her useless left arm. “Let me help.”

  She sighed. Her right hand fisted, but she didn’t fight.

  “I know. I can’t imagine how difficult this is . . . all these years.” He kept his gaze focused on hers while he buttoned the top. “But it won’t be long. We’ll have them soon. The ones who did this to you.”

  “C-c-c-” She swept her right hand out to the side. Started rotating her hand. She always did that when concentrating. “C-c-co. Co. Cov-Cove.” She nodded, her one eye bright. “Coven.”

  He smiled. Corrected her pronunciation. “Coven.” He grabbed a napkin off the nightstand and wiped away the spit leaking from her mouth. “Not the coven, but the Original. The two of them, the important ones, but we’ve got them this time.”

  “Bet-b-b-better.”

  “Yep. You’re going to get better. They did this to you; they can damn well un-do it.”

  “Cro-o-o—”

  “Crowley?” He shook his head. “The bastard disappeared again.” Julius Crowley . . . well, the thing inside Crowley, excelled at fuckery. He must be planning to take the two women for himself. To use them to get free from his fleshy prison. Once free, the son of a bitch would be uncontrollable.

  He refused to allow that to happen. Crowley hadn’t upheld his end of their bargain yet. While Leopold couldn’t force the issue, he could ensure the bastard didn’t have access to the Original or her powers any time soon. “I sent Duncan to kill one of the women and bring the other to us.”

  Her eye widened. “Wh-wha?” She shook her head. “W-w-why?”

  Because he didn’t have a choice. The Watchers had taken an interest in his activities. While he wasn’t sure whose side they were on, he didn’t dare disobey them. “The Watchers insisted I send him, but they didn’t oppose my orders.” Perhaps they had their own reason for wanting the Original out of Crowley’s grasp. He slipped his hand under the hem of her skirt where the prying eyes of the Watcher’s couldn’t see and squeezed her thigh, letting her know more was in the works than what he could say. “It’s all part of the plan.”

  What he wasn’t sure of is why Crowley—the thing inside Crowley—hadn’t tried to stop him. Somehow, he had the sinking suspicion the bastard approved of his move. But why? Perhaps he didn’t want to deal with the power of both women together, either.