Down A Twisted Path

  A Soulbound short story

  Hailey Turner

  Copyright © 2018 by Hailey Turner

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Cover design by AngstyG

  Professional Beta Reading by Leslie Copeland: lcopelandwrites@gmail.com

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Coming Soon

  Connect with Hailey

  Also by Hailey Turner

  Preface

  This freebie is a short prequel that occurs three years prior to the start of my Soulbound series, coming September, 2018.

  Chapter One

  Patrick

  Patrick Collins knocked on the imposing black door in a restricted hallway within the Pentagon. At the age of twenty-six, he’d donned his Mage Corps uniform as an active duty mage for the last time before arriving at the Department of Defense that morning. Patrick didn’t look out of place within the Pentagon but he felt as if he no longer belonged.

  “Enter,” a gruff voice called from within.

  Patrick squared his shoulders and pushed open the door, stepping inside the large office belonging to three-star General Noah Reed. He strode across the room and came to a stop opposite the wide wooden desk, snapping off a salute before settling into parade rest.

  Reed was in his early fifties, a short, barrel-chested man with a gruff voice, salt-and-pepper hair, and who always carried a faint whiff of smoke on his persona. He was a chain smoker, but Patrick was one of the few who knew that habit was more a cover than anything else.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” Patrick asked.

  Reed waved expansively at one of the two chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat, Collins.”

  Patrick sat, hiding his apprehension. He didn’t think the Mage Corps would try to get him to change his mind, not after what he’d gone through in the Thirty-Day War, but one never knew. As a ranked mage, the military wasn’t keen on letting him go.

  Except I’m a mage in name only now, Patrick thought bitterly to himself.

  Two months since hell had briefly reigned on earth before allied forces pushed those demonic forces back across the veil and Patrick was still getting used to the wounds on his soul. No longer capable of tapping ley lines and nexuses for external power, Patrick’s magic would never be the same again.

  To be a ranked mage in the Mage Corps was to wield a certain level of magic. Patrick could no longer do his job to the best of his abilities to keep his fellow soldiers safe. It’s why he was leaving the Mage Corps, and the military, for good.

  “I’ve signed off on your honorable discharge. It’s in the hands of the people in administration now, but I don’t anticipate any issues with your paperwork,” Reed said.

  Patrick nodded. His discharge was a foregone conclusion at this point, no matter how long the people working an admin desk in the U.S. Department of the Preternatural took to push it all through.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Reed tapped his fingers against the desktop near his keyboard, the sound a sharp click in the air. Human fingernails didn’t sound like that, and Patrick reminded himself not to draw attention to the general’s claws.

  Dragons could be notoriously defensive about their human appearance sometimes.

  “This is not how I anticipated losing you, Collins. I was hoping you would stay in for the full twenty.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, sir,” Patrick said.

  “You aren’t a disappointment.”

  Patrick knew better than to argue with a superior officer. “Yes, sir.”

  “The past few months have been difficult. I wish the outcome had been different. I know it’s our loss and the Supernatural Operations Agency’s gain where you are concerned. I hate to see you go, but I’m glad you aren’t leaving the fight for good.”

  Patrick had to choke back a laugh at those words. He doubted he’d be able to leave the fight even if he was dead. “Thank you, sir.”

  For now, he had a job offer with the SOA as a special agent. The federal agency was keen to put him to work and Patrick needed something to distract himself from his grief.

  “In the event the Mage Corps needs further clarification on your actions during the Thirty-Day War, we’ll reach out to you,” Reed told him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Look at me, Collins.”

  Patrick dragged his attention away from the distant point beyond the general’s shoulders, meeting the older man’s gaze. His brown eyes flashed metallic gold for a second, the pupils shifting to a reptilian slit before the general’s humanness reasserted itself.

  “Sir?”

  “We thank you for your sacrifice,” Reed said, voice coming out low and gravelly.

  Patrick swallowed thickly, mouth suddenly dry. He had nothing to say in the face of that acknowledgement. He’d lost parts of himself in the field during the Thirty-Day War, lost members of his team as well. Patrick didn’t know how he was going to rebuild his life, but he had no choice.

  The meeting didn’t last much longer, and by the time Patrick was dismissed, he couldn’t wait to leave and find a drink. His search for alcoholic comfort was momentarily derailed by Captain Gerard Breckenridge.

  “What are you doing here?” Patrick asked, staring at where the half-fae officer stood near the desk manned by Reed’s secretary.

  “Like we’d see you off alone,” Gerard retorted, his silver-eyed gaze meeting Patrick’s and not looking away.

  His team captain—former, a little voice reminded Patrick—gave him a tired smile that didn’t do much to hide the strain they’d all been under the past few months. War, then coming home, attending the funerals, and patching up the pieces that came along with all of that. They’d lost three-quarters of the Hellraisers in that last bloody fight, and while Patrick wasn’t dead, his team was losing him as well.

  They might not be folding a flag at a gravesite, might not be sending him off with a rifle salute, but Patrick was still leaving.

  “Is the Old Man done with you?” Gerard asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then come on. Let’s find ourselves a drink.”

  Gerard was four years older than Patrick and the only hint of his half-fae ancestry was in his silver eyes and ridiculously good looks. Patrick knew he wasn’t the only person on the team who’d secretly crushed hard on their captain over the years—most people couldn’t help lusting over the fae—but the friendship they’d forged was way better than a relationship.

  Leaving the Pentagon took some time, both having to give up their restricted-access day passes and have the magical tracker peeled out of their auras. Gerard was given back his handgun and Patrick received his dagger. He’d only been in possession of the blade for a couple of months now but he felt better with it in his hand.

  They crossed the protective threshold wrapped around the Pentagon and were finally free of the building. Gerard led him towards the parking lot, veering off to where day guests were allowed to park. Patrick heard Sergeant Keith Pearson before he saw him, the team’s demolitions specialist having an argument with his girlfriend about food, as always.

  “But why can’t you add Fruit Loops to the cupcake frosting? You’ve done Bailey’s with sprinkles before, how is breakfast cereal any different?” Keith complained.

  “Is it experimenting time at the bakery again?” Patrick asked.

  “Yeah. Sienna is a little behind schedule,” Gerard said.

  Keith’s long-time girlfriend owned a bakery in Los Angeles. Her care packages had been the team’s favorite while on deployment. She’d spent the last two months sending care packages instead to the families who’d lost a loved one on the team instead of planning out new monthly specials.

  “Wrap it up,” Gerard ordered.

  Keith spun around, blinking at them. “Gotta go, honeybunch. Smooth Dog is getting growly. Think it’s time we feed him. Fruit Loops. Make it happen.”

  “Breakfast cereal belongs in a bowl, not on a cupcake,” Patrick said tiredly.

  Keith hung up, eyeing the both of them with serious brown eyes. “Heathen. You just don’t know what good desserts should taste like. We in the clear, mon capitaine?”

  “Cleared and out,” Gerard said a little wistfully. “So let’s go.”

  Patrick would have preferred his original plan of hiding in his hotel room with enough alcohol to drink himself into unconsciousness. Gerard was too good of a team leader to let that happen. It’s how Patrick ended up at a dive bar in DC, drowning his sorrows in cheap beer and decent whiskey with what was left of the Hellraisers.

  Out of the sixteen men who’d gone into that last fight, only five had made it back alive.

  “Sorry,” Patrick told Gerard when it was just him and his captain sitting at the rickety corner table. Keith had gone off to get another round for the table while Arthur and Darren played a round of pool.

  “Don’t know what you’re apologizing for,” Gerard said.

  “You know why.”

  “I don’t stand for stupid in my team, so shut up about that and drink your beer.”

  Patrick followed that last order to the letter and downed his fourth pint. Before he even drank the dregs, Keith was setting another glass down in front of him.

  “Can’t believe you’re gonna leave us,” Keith grumbled. “You didn’t have to go.”

  “You guys need a mage and I’m not that anymore,” Patrick said, shoving his empty glass aside.

  “We’d have made it work,” Gerard told him.

  Patrick shrugged, curling one hand around his new drink. “We had a good run.”

  “Don’t think just because you’re heading into the civilian world that doesn’t make you one of us anymore. You’re still gonna be a Hellraiser. We’re still your family.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Keith said.

  Patrick let Keith tap his glass in a toast, but he didn’t immediately drink his own beer. “I have my reasons for leaving.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Gerard said. “I just don’t like the thought of you alone without one of us watching your six.”

  “Been alone outside of you guys for most of my life. That’s not new.”

  “I’m with Smooth Dog. You need someone, at least for right now. We got another week here before we hit some R&R. I could be your wingman,” Keith said.

  Patrick shook his head, finally raising his glass to his mouth. “Don’t do me any favors, Chatterbox.”

  “Hey, I found my girl! I can find you a guy.”

  “Sienna found you in high school and you’re a crappy wingman. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Think you aren’t worth someone?” When Patrick didn’t answer, Keith let out a gusty sigh and shoved his chair back. “I’ll get more whiskey.”

  “You are, you know,” Gerard said in the quiet between them as the ancient jukebox ended one song and started another. “Worth more than you think you are.”

  “Not worth getting someone else killed,” Patrick said through clenched teeth.

  Silver eyes stared at him without judgment. “You’re worth fighting for, and I say that as your friend and your captain. One day you’ll find someone who believes in you the same way we do.”

  Patrick was of the opinion the only thing he’d find someday soon was a grave. “All the hells will freeze over first.”

  “Let’s not talk about hell,” Keith pleaded as he came back carrying five shot glasses full of whiskey. “For fuck’s sake, every single hell is off limits. Now let’s drink.”

  “We’re already drinking,” Gerard pointed out.

  “Let’s drink more.”

  Patrick reached for a shot glass. “I like this plan.”

  He didn’t like it the next morning when he woke up hungover in his hotel room, smelling like stale beer, and still tasting whiskey on his tongue. Patrick didn’t know what had woken him up until he saw the notification light flashing on his phone. Reaching for it jarred his head, and he winced.

  “Don’t puke, don’t puke,” he muttered as his stomach roiled.

  Unlocking the phone, Patrick stared down at the text message on the screen from the Supernatural Operations Agency director.

  Time to get to work.

  Patrick reached for his magic, the rawness of the soul wound still sharp to his senses. Despite his hangover, Patrick still pushed magic out of his soul, spinning it into the mageglobe that denoted a rank he felt he no longer deserved. His magic cast dull blue light over the scratchy white bedding, the power burning at his fingertips an extension of his soul.

  “Right,” he said tiredly, closing his fingers around the mageglobe and snuffing out his magic. “Let’s do this.”

  Patrick wasn’t used to working alone anymore, but he knew he’d pick up old habits just fine. It didn’t stop him from wondering what his life would be like if he had someone else in it.

  Chapter Two

  Jono

  The Black Knight was a shitty pub that catered to the supernatural set who made their living on the dole. It smelled like old bacon grease, stale bitters, piss, and puke. Jonothon de Vere figured he was the only bloke in the pub who could smell everything on that list. He’d leave, except it was his job to serve up customers and Jono couldn’t afford to lose his spot behind the bar. The owners were a pair of witches who had hired him to pour pints as much as to help keep the peace during raucous football matches on the telly, but they wouldn’t pay him if he weren’t there.

  As a god pack alpha werewolf, there should have been other options for him in London proper when it came to employment, they just weren’t open to him. Jono wasn’t part of the London god pack despite his wolf bright blue eyes. The eye color marked him for what he was, and usually that was enough for the curious or drunk to piss off.

  Not so the Yank who’d been staring at him all night.

  “We’re closed,” Jono said gruffly.

  The bloke held up a finger as he continued texting with one hand. “Just a second.”

  Jono scowled. “Bugger off. We’re closed.”

  The mobile was set down and hazel eyes lifted to meet his. The bloke looked to be around Jono’s age of twenty-seven, but he dressed better by far, and the banknotes he’d flashed in his money clip earlier were all one-hundred pound notes. He smelled human though, and Jono had pegged him as a rich trust fund kid on holiday.

  What he didn’t expect was for the American to be so well-versed in his life’s story.

  “Jonothon de Vere, right?” he asked, waving one finger close to his own hazel eyes. “You’ve got the eyes I was looking for.”

  Jono pushed away from the bar counter. “I don’t know you and I don’t want to know you.”

  “I think you do. In fact, I know you do. Or, you will.” He reached across the bar, offering up Jono his hand. “My name is Marek Taylor. You might be familiar with a little website I own and run called PreterWorld.”

  Jono’s eyebrows crept towards his hairline at the mention of the premier social network platform for the preternatural and supernatural communities across the globe. He would have called Marek a liar except for how the only thing Jono could smell on him was the truth.

  Jono glanced around the pub, seeing that Finley was carefully ushering out a pair of drunk witches who wouldn’t have been out of place on an episode of Geordie Shore. Marek was the only customer still left.

  “Not a huge fan of putting myself out there,” Jono said.

  Marek pulled his hand back with a shrug. “I’d be insulted if I didn’t know you’ll become a convert in about four weeks.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “I have a proposition for you, Jono. And you’re going to say yes.”

  Jono shook his head and turned his back on the other man. “Door’s that way. Get moving.”

  “The London god pack still won’t let you join their ranks and won’t let you form your own pack. You’ve spent ten years as an independent werecreature and you’ll stay an independent if you remain in London. But if you come with me to New York City you’ll find a better future.”

  Jono froze at Marek’s words, his stomach swooping uncomfortably in his stomach.

  “I don’t know when, or who, but you’ll find them across the ocean on America’s shores,” Marek continued quietly. “That I can promise you.”

  Jono slowly turned around, struck by the intensity in Marek’s gaze and the subtle change to his scent that smelled almost electric. “Fuck. Off.”

  Marek downed what was left of his beer, grimacing at the taste of it, before shoving himself off the stool. “I’m hungry. You’re having dinner with me.”

  “Like fuck I am.”

  Thirty minutes later, Jono was hurrying down the street for the nearest kebab shop where he normally stopped to get an after-work meal because the djinn who ran the place didn’t mind serving werecreatures.

  Marek came because Jono couldn’t seem to say no.

  “The usual?” Ahmed asked when Jono approached the till to order. The djinn eyed Marek curiously, his scent surprisingly apprehensive to Jono’s nose.

  “Make it two,” Jono replied.

  “I’ll pay,” Marek said, stepping up to the counter.

 

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