Lonesome Paladin, page 1
part #1 of A Fistful of Daggers Series
Lonesome Paladin
A Fistful of Daggers: Book One
S M Reine
Copyright © 2018 by S M Reine
LM1-v1.0
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.
Dear Reader…
Lincoln Marshall is a good guy, but he’s not exactly a good guy. I’ve been writing him since 2014, when he debuted in Sacrificed in Shadow as a sheriff’s deputy with questionable motives. He’s never been a main character, but I couldn’t get his complicated soul out of my head. I needed to write his story.
The result is sometimes gruesome and sometimes beautiful. Lonesome Paladin is an urban fantasy novel that feels like it was torn straight out of my chest, and I hope you’ll end up enjoying the ride with Lincoln.
For those of you new to my books, welcome! You’ve stumbled upon a world called “The Descentverse.” Characters in the Descentverse books overlap, much like with Captain America and Iron Man in the Marvel movies, but each series stand alone. Lonesome Paladin is a great place to jump in!
If you decide you’d like to spend more time in this “Descentverse,” you can find reading lists on my website .
For those of you who have already visited the Descentverse, welcome back! Lonesome Paladin takes place immediately after Genesis in the summer of 2015, meaning that it falls in between The Ascension Series and War of the Alphas. You don’t need to read either of those series to understand this one. It stands alone.
Draw your sword, turn the page, and get to the good stuff!
~ Sara (SM Reine)
http://smreine.com/
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
About the Author
He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.
— John 8:7, King James Bible
The reason men are so awful is because some woman has spoiled them.
— Larry McMurtry, Lonesome Dove
Chapter 1
Eloquent Blood was only one of a dozen bars in downtown Reno, but it was the oldest of them. It looked its age. Sulfur had long since crystallized on the tabletops and along the edges of the floor, then gathered dust atop that, and dirt upon the dust. Nobody had cleaned it since the world became new. There wasn’t even real staff anymore. It barely had a clientele.
That was the appeal for the few regulars. You could sink into Eloquent Blood and nobody would bother you. There weren’t a lot of places in America these days where the government wasn’t watching.
That was why Spencer had spent most of his days in the last month at Blood. His golden eyes marked him as one of the Rebirthed, so he couldn’t wipe his ass without the Office of Preternatural Affairs wanting a check-in. A blood donation. Another scan for emergent powers. Volunteer for Work Crew to help rebuild the infrastructure of the broken world.
Spencer had tried to show up for Work Crew a couple mornings after Day Zero. They’d had him sterilizing a hospital full of orphans. Hundreds of preternatural orphans with uncontrolled powers. Hundreds of crying children who didn’t understand why they’d died, why they’d come back, why they didn’t have parents anymore.
Eloquent Blood was better. Grimy, smelly, but better .
“Two drinks,” Spencer said, lifting a finger to the bartender. She’d confessed to him that she didn’t work for Eloquent Blood—nobody worked there anymore—but she had fun serving people.
“You sure you want drinks?” she asked. “You know what we’ve got to offer.”
“Yeah, I know. Pour it up anyway.”
“Suit yourself. So long as you don’t harass me for the selection again.” Cassandra winked and grabbed the least-dusty cans of beer.
“Yo. How’s it going?” Javi asked, sliding onto the barstool beside Spencer.
“Bad,” Spencer said. Cassandra cracked the beers open and poured them into glasses. He took one and gave the other to Javi. “It’ll be worse in an hour though.”
Javi squinted at the light shining from the surface. There used to be a casino above what the patrons called Blood, but while the bar had survived apocalypse, its surface-level structure had been flattened. The only way into Blood was through a crumbling, rebar-prickled crevasse near Fourth Street, which flooded every time it rained.
At the moment, Blood was dry, and the clear sky beyond was painted in tones of bright orange. Moonrise would come once the sun vanished. It was a shockingly regular activity these days. The moon came up when the sun went down, and they traded places in the morning. It was magic, no doubt about it, and a small nod toward order in a chaotic world.
Shapeshifters like Spencer and Javi had thirty minutes to get to a designated safe house. The nearest to Eloquent Blood was a five minute walk, inside The Aces Stadium on First. Plenty of time for drinks.
Javi lifted the glass to his mouth. Spencer’s hand shot over the rim before he could taste it.
“You didn’t give thanks,” Spencer said.
“It’s three-year-old Coors Light,” Javi said. “It tastes like stale water and beer can. There’s nothing to give thanks over.”
“We came back from the end of the world. We aren’t in one of those hospitals. We have something to drink, and a lotta people don’t. You think that NKF thinks we’ve nothing to be thankful for?”
“NKF’s not thinking about some pit of a bar where two asshole shifters are trying to delay going to a safe house,” Javi said.
“NKF is God. He can think about everything,” Spencer said.
Javi grew quiet at this, contemplating the foul yellow drink in his murky glass. “All right.”
They extracted wooden crosses from under their shirts. Spencer had gotten a matching pair from a gift shop on North Virginia, right next to the Little Nugget. It used to sell novelty t-shirts and shot glasses. Now it sold crosses, charms, and flimsy switchblades.
Spencer wrapped his hands around the cross, bowed his head to his knuckles. “We give thanks for this life, and what we’ve got in this life.”
“Amen,” agreed Javi.
“We also give thanks for—”
“Careful,” whispered Cassandra, passing napkins to them. Her gaze flicked toward a shadowy corner booth. Its table was missing a leg, so it was propped up by a cinder block. The guts of its cushion bulged through a slash in the cloth. A pair of crossed legs clad in tattered, mud-stained denim extended over the seat. The man owning those jeans was reclining so Spencer couldn’t make out a face.
Spencer didn’t see any reason to stop praying. “We’re supposed to give thanks to NKF every time we eat, every time we drink. Them’s the rules.”
“Skip this time,” she said.
“That shit’s how we got in trouble the last time.” If the gods hadn’t been pissed off at humanity, then humanity wouldn’t have died. The world wouldn’t have ended.
They’d still be human.
Cassandra lifted her hands in surrender. “You get into a fight with Lincoln over there, take it outside. I’ll be the one knocking heads together if the OPA has reason to investigate preternatural violence in here.” Nobody called the Office of Preternatural Affairs by its full name. They instead used its acronym like it was one word. OPA.
Javi waved her off. “Nobody’s gonna try to fight us. We look like enormous prats saying our prayers before drinking fucking Coors Light.”
“Javi,” Spencer warned.
“I give thanks for my fucking Coors Light,” he said, assuming prayer position again. “I talk crap but I’m happy for it. I’m happy for my life, this world, this ‘beer.’ So I give thanks to NKF, may he shine on us from Alfheimr.” He didn’t keep his voice down. He barked each word toward the corner of the bar.
“What in the hell was that supposed to be? A prayer?” The question came in a gravelly, angry voice.
The person in the jeans had spoken.
The man Cassandra identified as Lincoln straightened slowly, his jacket creaking, blond hair slanting across sharp eyes. An arm hung over the back of the booth. He was glaring at Javi and Spencer.
“We’re praying,” Spencer said. “Do you have a problem with it?”
“You bet I do,” Lincoln said.
“Fuck, not this again,” muttered a guy down at the end of the bar. He picked up his drink and relocated closer to the surface tunnel.
“Who are you praying to when all the gods are dead?” asked Lincoln.
That was one of the theories going around—that Genesis had been a result of war between gods, and that both sides lost. Men like Lincoln said that the gods were dead now. The glass wasn’t just half empty; the glass had shattered and they were bleeding on the shards.
Spencer drained his Coors, shoved the glass aside. “I take it you haven’t heard about NKF yet.” He l
“Is that right?” Lincoln pushed out of the booth and came upright. He looked like he hadn’t showered since Genesis. “How d’you know anything about what’s going on with the gods?”
“I’m just a follower,” Spencer said. “Javi too.”
Lincoln swayed as he approached, even though his scent was liquor-free on the stale brimstone air. He only smelled like human man, unwashed and unshaven and unmotivated. “God is dead.” Lincoln slammed an empty glass on the bar beside Spencer. “You disrespect the man by praying to false idols.”
“How do you know?” Spencer shot back .
“I dated the bitch who killed God and she told me all about it.”
Spencer exploded into laughter.
Lincoln wasn’t laughing.
After a moment, it didn’t seem funny. Spencer shot a questioning look at Cassandra. She just shrugged.
“NKF appeared as a vision to people in Genesis,” Spencer said. “There are witnesses. The sidhe gentry—”
“Magic fags, all of them.” Lincoln spat on the crusty ground of the bar.
Spencer’s hackles lifted. “The sidhe witnessed NKF. He’s reached out to them. He lives in a temple in Alfheimr, and this is a fact, whether or not you choose to deny it.”
“What the fuck is Alfheimr?”
“A sidhe castle,” he said.
“So it’s where the magical fags congregate,” Lincoln said. “Right. I’m convinced.”
Spencer dropped off his barstool, cracked his knuckles. He was growling deep in his chest and couldn’t help it. One of the side effects of having a beast soul. “You got a problem with fags?”
“Or just magic fags?” Javi asked. Now he was looming at Spencer’s side, equally offended. Shoulder to shoulder, they formed an imposing wall.
Lincoln didn’t back down. “I got a problem with disrespecting God’s law. Leviticus was real clear about men laying with men, and I bet it woulda extended to faeries if they hadn’t popped out of the ground in Genesis.”
“Can you believe this dick?” Spencer elbowed his friend. “You hearing any of the shit he says?”
Lincoln stepped even closer, almost chest to chest with them. When he passed through the last beam of fading sunlight, Spencer saw why he was swaying. The guy was bruised all over. He had a black eye. He’d already been in a fight, and recently.
But he didn’t smell like prey.
Spencer didn’t have a lot of experience as a shifter, but he’d run across enough injured people to know that weakness made them smell like prey. Didn’t take much. A broken bone in the foot, a mild flu. Anything that made them vulnerable. Just a whiff of it got Spencer’s animal stirring with frightening hunger, and sent him running to a community support group for shifters.
Sniffing Lincoln’s sweat and hair didn’t give Spencer any sense of weakness. Spencer’s animal liked greeting other shifters by smelling their necks, right along the hairline. And it liked how much tenser Lincoln got when Spencer’s nose got near.
“Are you smelling me?” Lincoln asked.
“If you don’t like gay people then I bet you don’t like me getting in your face like this, huh?” Spencer kept his tone tauntingly soft. “Am I gay? What do you think I’ll do, suck your dick? Or are you afraid you’ll wanna suck my dick?”
Lincoln shoved him.
Had Spencer braced himself, he wouldn’t have moved an inch. Lincoln pushed with human strength. But Spencer gave an exaggerated stumble.
“He pushed me!” Spencer cried out, as if surprised. His heartbeat rose with adrenaline. The excitement of the hunt.
“Looked like aggression to me,” Javi said.
“Take it outside!” Cassandra shouted again.
And Spencer would have listened to her, except Lincoln said, “If there’s still a Hell, I know at least two reasons you’re going there.”
So Javi punched Lincoln .
Lincoln dropped, and Spencer smashed his heel into Lincoln’s gut.
“Fuck!” Cassandra leaped over the bar, yanking linen ribbons along with her. Magic surged over the runes stitched into the cloth. “He’s human, you idiots!”
“Homophobic too,” Javi said, delivering a bonus kick to Lincoln’s jaw.
“He’s human !” She stood over Lincoln, forming a shield with her body. “He’s human, and it’s sundown, and you guys have places to be.”
There was no light left in the hole leading to the road.
“Shit.” Spencer grabbed his jacket, grabbed Javi’s arm.
“I already called the OPA,” Cassandra said as she checked Lincoln for a pulse. “I have to report preternatural crime against mundanes. You know I do. And I warned you. You better not be here when an agent shows up. Nearest safe house is—”
“I know,” Spencer said.
They ran.
Lincoln swam to consciousness with the bartender looming over him. Cassandra was slapping him gently across the face while her mouth moved, but he only heard ringing.
When his ears cleared, she was saying, “The ambulance should be here before curfew.”
An ambulance. Lincoln wasn’t getting in an ambulance. He shoved away from her, rolled onto all fours. His skull pressed down on his eyeballs and his stomach clawed his throat.
Gotta get upright.
“Help me,” he rasped .
Cassandra stepped back. “You shouldn’t move. They got you good this time. Better than Gutterman did.” Lincoln still had the bruises from that assault, and the injuries had a compounding effect. One beating atop another to scramble his neurons. “Hold still until the ambulance arrives, Marshall.”
“No ambulance. No way.” He leaned over the bar to get a water bottle, then fumbled in his pockets for cash. Lincoln had a dollar or two. He was sure of it. “Damn, Cass, can you find my wallet? I wanna pay up, but…”
“Just leave. Swear to God—whichever God, I don’t fucking care—you get into those fights because you want your ass kicked,” Cassandra said.
“Only a crazy man would want to get beat by shifters,” Lincoln said.
“Then what’s that make you?”
“Righteous.” He didn’t find cash in his pocket but he did find what he’d grabbed from Javi before falling. Lincoln lifted the chain so the wooden cross dangled at the end.
Cassandra flung her hands in the air. “You’re awful. Get your ass kicked in someone else’s bar once or twice!”
“Thanks, Cass,” he said. “See you next time.”
“Never again, Marshall! Never!”
He lurched up the tunnel, lukewarm bottle pressed to his forehead. He couldn’t see well enough to navigate the rebar and rubble without slipping. It took a long time to reach the street.
Emergency lights whirled a block away. He pitched the opposite direction, away from the ambulance, up the road toward Virginia.
It was Lincoln’s lucky day. Nine out of ten emergency calls didn’t get a response nowadays. Between first responders failing to return from Genesis, organizational collapse, and the frequency of crime, most people died without ever seeing those red-and-blue lights.
But Lincoln was so fucking lucky.
Everyone alive right now was lucky, because they were the survivors. Billions more hadn’t been nearly so lucky. The dead had left behind orphans. Unstaffed businesses. Empty homes and grieving widows.
It was too much all at once. The world couldn’t keep spinning. Civilization had stopped for survivors.
And they were the lucky ones.
Lincoln shivered inside his jacket even though it wasn’t a cold night. Felt like his body was shutting down. He might have passed out if he’d stopped moving, but he kept putting one foot in front of another. He kept going past posters for movies that had come out two years earlier, and shattered windows, and clusters of tents. Homeless had taken over a Subway lobby. They yelled at him when he passed, asking for help.
He kept moving. One step, another, and another.
He didn’t have anywhere to go except away .
On Day Zero, he’d come back into his skin in Reno, Nevada—a city far from his stomping grounds—and there weren’t enough working buses, trains, or planes to relocate people yet.
