The Shadow King (The Kings Book 7)

  The Shadow King

  Book 7 in the Big Bad Wolf spinoff series, The Kings

  by Heather Killough-Walden

  Copyright 2015 Heather Killough-Walden

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  Heather Killough-Walden Reading List

  The Lost Angels series:

  Always Angel (eBook-only introductory novella)

  Avenger's Angel

  Messenger's Angel

  Death's Angel

  Warrior's Angel

  Samael

  The October Trilogy:

  Sam I Am

  Secretly Sam

  Suddenly Sam

  Neverland Trilogy:

  Forever Neverland

  Beyond Neverland

  The Big Bad Wolf series:

  The Heat

  The Strip

  The Spell

  The Hunt

  The Big Bad Wolf Romance Compilation (all four books together, in proper chronological order)

  The Kings - A Big Bad Wolf spinoff series:

  (in their proper order so far)

  The Vampire King

  The Phantom King

  The Warlock King

  The Goblin King

  The Seelie King

  The Unseelie King

  The Shadow King

  (future The Kings books TBA; 13 total)

  The Chosen Soul Trilogy:

  The Chosen Soul

  Drake of Tanith

  Queen of Abaddon

  Redeemer (stand-alone)

  Hell Bent (stand-alone)

  Vampire, Vampire (stand-alone)

  A Sinister Game (stand-alone)

  The Third Kiss: Dorian's Dream (stand-alone)

  Note: The Lost Angels series (not including Always Angel) and the Big Bad Wolf series are available in print and eBook format. All other HKW books are currently eBook-only.

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  “The true sweetness of chess, if it can ever be called sweet, is to see a victory snatched, by some happy impertinence, out of the shadows of apparently irrevocable disaster.”

  - H.G. Wells

  A note from the author…

  You may notice the prologue of The Shadow King looks suspiciously like the ending of The Unseelie King. However, if you’re planning on skipping it because of this, I would reconsider. They’re not the same. There’s something new there – and it’s important. (sly smile)

  And there’s an introduction, too.

  So read up!

  Introduction

  Once upon a long time ago, there lived a man who was more than a man. But he lived in a time of secrets and danger. His particular secret was one he shared with all of the men and women in his pack. As their alpha, his power protected them all from the deadly, judgmental scrutiny of the human race. Year after year. Decade after decade.

  He kept them safe.

  But in his third decade, the man found his own woman. And she claimed him heart and soul, as he did her. Together, they led their pack, side by side, the alpha and his mate.

  Until the day he failed to protect them. There were too many. He wasn’t powerful enough to win this fight.

  His mate fell with the others, and as her tightened fists loosened their grips in the waning moments of death, they in turn released what they had until that moment been tenderly holding – his heart. And it floated away.

  Leaving him empty. And angry.

  The man survived the fateful day that took from him everything he loved. And when he did, he changed, vowing to become at all costs and once and for all, powerful enough to win any fight that ever again came his way.

  Prologue

  No one knew where she was. She was probably going to die here, in this absolute darkness. She could hear things moving around her. Slippery things. Maybe clicky, crawly things. But she couldn’t see them. And thank the gods, she couldn’t feel them either.

  For Dahlia, there was only the cold and the dark. And time.

  *****

  Violet Kellen stared into the surface of the liquid in the goblet and tried to keep down the revulsion she felt knowing it was blood. It was her blood. It had been the only way to complete this particular spell.

  Her reflection on the liquid’s surface was oddly clear for the blood’s thickness, but this was magic. She’d come to expect the odd things.

  Her face had always reminded her of those China dolls mortals kept, too smooth, too heart shaped, too perfect. She was a Tuath. Her sister had always tried to tell her that perfection was simply the Tuath way. But to Violet, it was distracting. Her lips were too symmetrical, too pink, her eyes too large and far too bright. They looked like smoky quartz to her that had been lit from behind by a candle’s flame. No one’s eyes were supposed to look like that. None of the girls in the books she read about looked like that. If she went out in public, she wore glasses to deflect the oddness of their light.

  Her hair was so thick, it could be braided into the width of a human arm, and it shimmered like satin – literally, like satin – in layers of dark brown to light gold. Long bangs framed her face like an actual frame, adding to Vi’s frustration.

  Still, even though her beauty was strange enough to Violet that she rarely looked in mirrors, she felt that her sister Dahlia was far lovelier. There was a mystery to Dahlia that added to her beauty. She was the dark one, black hair like a waterfall of night, eyes as green as Dorothy’s Emerald City.

  That was one of Violet’s favorite books.

  Concentrate, Vi, she scolded herself. Magic like this did not abide distraction. Warlock magic wanted all of your attention for itself. Hell, it wanted all of you. One slip, and its darkness slid past the boundaries of a spell to disappear out into the world. That was the last thing the world needed more of.

  But this spell was a particularly dangerous one. It had come straight out of the tome of Wolfram Lovelace, a warlock who’d lived millennia ago.

  Violet was unlike other fae in many ways, the use of non-fae magic being only one of them. Using warlock magic, in particular, was of course very different. But just as not all unseelie were evil, Violet knew that not all warlocks were inherently bad.

  In fact, she had heard of quite a few good warlocks, mages using their magic for the general betterment of the world rather than its detriment. The Warlock King was a good example, in fact.

  Violet had nothing against warlocks in general, and fortunately for her, her tutor in the magical arts, Lalura Chantelle, didn’t seem to either. The old witch had never given Violet a hard time for wanting to learn that branch of magic. She’d never judged.

  Violet was beyond grateful for this. Because warlock magic had an edge to it that she felt she could truly understand. It was dangerous, yes. But… it was also deep. Like a shadow at midnight, endlessly dark and filled with possibility. In fact, Violet often felt there was a kind of dark magic people hadn’t yet touched upon. She dreamed there was a spell out there somewhere in that darkness, just waiting for someone special to fi
gure it out, to bring it to life, and breathe it into magnificent existence.

  She wanted to be that person. She wanted to be that person so badly. It was what she knew she’d been made for. It was the reason she studied as she did, read as she did, and practiced as she did.

  She’d heard one of her Tuath friends say something once: “Darkness is the prettiest color.” She’d been talking about Tuath fae, of course. But Violet heard something else with those words. She saw the shadow they cast – and wanted to jump in.

  And so, darkness wasn’t bad, no. Not as such. But just like with anything, as warlocks went, some were worse than others. And Lovelace had been the worst.

  Using dark magic was always tricky but using Lovelace’s magic was a deadly gamble.

  Still, it was the only way to peer through the particular veils Violet needed to see through right now.

  She chewed on her bottom lip, narrowed her gaze, furrowed her brow, and leaned in – to see past the reflection on the blood’s surface. Slowly, another image took shape. When it formed fully, Violet very slowly straightened. A coldness swept through her, tightening her skin into goose bumps.

  “She’s in the Dark.”

  Few knew that she’d trained herself in various forms of non-fae magic, including the warlock spell she’d just utilized to locate her sister. A fae warlock. Was there such a thing? Well, she guessed there was now.

  Her gut churned. Her head began to throb.

  “The Dark, huh? You don’t wanna go there,” said Pi in his crackly voice from where he bounced in the hearth across the room.

  “No, you don’t want to go there,” corrected Poppy, Violet’s best friend, and the only other fae aware of Violet’s magical dealings. “No light, no heat,” Poppy shook her head. “No wonder. But we’re not fire elementals.”

  Poppy’s given name was Persephone, but because she hated being compared to the Greek goddess, and because she loved picking poppies, everyone had called her Poppy since childhood. She seemed stubbornly oblivious to the fact that picking poppies caused her to resemble Persephone even more.

  She turned back to Violet. “I’ll go with you, Vi.”

  Violet had known she would offer. But she also knew she couldn’t allow it.

  “The road to the Dark is paved with Shadows,” she said aloud, quoting an old fae nursery rhyme.

  “That means you actually have to travel through the Land of Shadow to get there,” came a new voice. Violet and Poppy faced the door.

  But it was Pi who greeted the newcomer first. “Good evening, Lalura!”

  “Good evening, Pi.”

  “Lady Lalura,” Vi greeted her tutor respectfully. She knew what the old witch was in the mortal realm: A magic user nearly unrivalled in power, and worth more respect than people normally possessed to give. She had an inkling she knew what she’d once been in the fae realm, as well.

  “Violet,” Lalura nodded, making her way into the room. “I hear you’re off to save your sister, or some such thing.” The old woman was utterly unconcerned, except that she looked from one piece of Violet’s furniture to another with an arched brow and a rather put-out expression.

  Violet jerked herself into motion, rushing to take a pillow from one hard wooden chair and place it over the cushion of her velvet loveseat. “Please, sit here,” she gestured, smiling hopefully.

  Lalura hobbled over to the chair, gave it the once-over, and then turned around and settled into it, setting her cane to the side.

  Violet sighed in quiet relief. Then she said, “I suppose you don’t think it would be wise for me to go.”

  Lalura laughed. It was an odd, dry sound that somehow got into Violet and felt funny. “Oh, I absolutely don’t think it would be wise,” she said, still smiling. Her blue-blue eyes twinkled in the low light of the fireplace where Pi still bounced, watching and listening. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go.”

  Violet’s eyes widened. She looked to Poppy, whose brows just about hit the ceiling. Poppy came around Violet and addressed the old witch. “You think I should go with her, right?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  Poppy’s mouth dropped open. “But… she has to travel through the Shadow Realm!”

  “I’m well aware, child,” Lalura said testily, moving a little bit to adjust the position of her rump on the pillow. “That’s exactly why you can’t go.”

  Now Lalura looked up and settled a very stern, very powerful gaze on Violet. The air in the room grew still, and Pi stopped bouncing. “Violet Arbora Kellen, you must make this journey alone. Something waits for you in those shadows.”

  Violet’s throat tightened. “Like… what?”

  “That’s something you’ll have to discover for yourself.”

  Time skipped, and the space between them shrunk.

  “I’d go so far as to say, it might just be your destiny.”

  Violet blinked. Destiny? But then, the ancient woman who was far more powerful than most of the supernatural population slowly stood up, pressed her hand to her back as if it was aching her, and then placed her fingers to her brow. Violet noticed her other hand trembling slightly where it clutched her cane.

  It struck her in that moment, just how very old Lalura Chantelle had become. And that made her feel a little odd inside, as if a foreboding were opening up in some dark space, like a black flower blooming, slowly unfolding its harbinger petals.

  “But you’ll need to prepare,” said Lalura in her scratchy voice. “There is much studying in your future.”

  A part of Violet felt like objecting. It was a natural reaction; her sister was stuck somewhere rumored to be highly unpleasant, and every second counted. But Lalura was right, of course. “Better late than never” was the old adage. No one simply went into the unknown without preparing.

  No one who wanted to come back, anyway.

  Chapter One

  “I hate these people.”

  Violet approached her friend from behind. She was seated at her computer, her shoulders hunched in frustration, and in the reflection of the screen, Violet could see she was glaring.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Have you ever noticed that any time you dare to say anything negative about the weather you’re experiencing, it ends up being nothing more than a goddamn invitation for everyone else to compete with you for ‘Worst Weather’ prize? I mean, never mind that you might be posting about the weather because it’s purely, horribly awful. Never mind that you might just be saying something about it because you’re hoping for a bit of empathy or even sympathy, at the very least. No, everyone just has to prove that what you’re feeling is nothing compared to what they’re going through.”

  Vi’s eyebrows lifted. “Okaaay. You are having a bad morning.” Obviously. Since she’d sent a text to Violet at 7:45 a.m., an hour of day that normally saw Poppy comatose. The text had read, simply: Mornings suck horse balls.

  “That’s truly beside the point,” Poppy said.

  Vi chewed on her cheek. “You know? You’re right.” It was beside the point. Bad morning or not, what Poppy was saying was actually true. “Yes. I have noticed that, if you must know.” She pulled up a roller chair beside her friend and looked at the screen. It was Facebook, of course: 3,477 “friends.”

  “You don’t hate these people and you know it.” Poppy was an online social butterfly. She loved her Facebook peeps. Was that right? Facebook peeps? Or was peeps for something else?

  “I do today.”

  “Not one of them felt sorry for you, huh?” Vi leaned forward to read her friend’s post. According to the post, the heat had given her a migraine. She glanced at Poppy side-long. No wonder she was in a bad mood. Migraine pain would do that to the kindest of souls. Not for the first time, Vi found herself wishing Poppy wasn’t human.

  Persephone Glacia Nix was her best friend, and had been for twenty years. But unlike everyone else she knew in the Unseelie Realm, Poppy wasn’t a Tuath. She wasn’t even an unseelie fae. In fact,
she wasn’t a fae at all.

  Poppy was, against all odds – human.

  She was simply one of the most strikingly talented human beings Violet had ever known, and just like Violet, she had apprenticed under Lalura Chantelle for years. Her capacity for magic was nearly unrivaled. Violet knew of a few other humans out there who were able to manipulate it the way Poppy did, but they were far between. Most mages were blessed with some other supernatural genetic tendency: Werewolves, Offspring, Akyri, Dragons, and so forth. Poppy was simply a mortal woman. Not that you’d ever know it from watching her perform what she’d learned under Lalura’s tutelage. And from what she’d taught herself in her spare time.

  “Of course not,” Poppy retorted hotly.

  “You know, I’ve often wondered if when it comes to comparing weather, it’s just that everyone else feels like misery deserves company. Sort of an outcry of solidarity thing,” she suggested helpfully.

  “No.” Poppy didn’t shake her head; that would have hurt. But her scowl darkened. “Why are you defending them? What the hell is the point of that? Do I look like I want you to take up for them? Do I seem to be in a particularly forgiving mood?”

  Again, Poppy was right. “Nope,” Violet shook her head. “No, you don’t. I’m sorry.”

  Poppy sighed in frustration, and most likely, pain. “Listen to this,” she hissed. She squinted at the screen and read one of the responses to her post about the 89 degree weather and her headache. “‘That sounds wonderful! Send that warmth this way! I’m so sick of this cold rain! You got it good, girl!’” She read the words with a nasal whine, clearly demonstrating her distaste for the statement, and probably, at that particular point in time, for the person who’d made it, too.

  Violet chewed on her cheek, then nodded. “Okay, you got me. People are apathetic sons of bitches when it comes to the weather. It’s a strange phenomenon. They just become jackasses.”