Pure Awakening

  Prologue

  I have always loved him.

  Though that love has evolved, metamorphosed, transmuted over time (and sometimes it felt a little—maybe a lot—like hate), what hasn’t ever changed is that I love him.

  But I didn’t comprehend the depth of my love, the teeth and claws and desperate prayers of my love, until six hours ago:

  They say he’s missing.

  Ever since our base was hit two years ago, ever since I was abducted by a mysterious, deadly and beautiful creature, my fiercest protector hasn’t been the same.

  Physically, he remained at the Shield for a while, but mentally and emotionally he seemed to have checked out. So in some sense, he’s been missing for much longer than just a couple of days.

  But this is different.

  I haven’t seen the rest of the Elite, my personal guards, and the Circlet, my advisors, this worried before. Except for the time the Sentinel was taken.

  We never got him back.

  Since we confirmed his status—that Dalair is truly MIA, likely recruited into our enemies’ army like all the other Pure and Dark warriors that have been targeted in recent years—we’ve been preparing for another relocation, the second time we would move our HQ in as many years.

  Eveline and Ayelet are packing up the essentials, as well as the most critical artifacts of our Kind, including the Zodiac Scrolls, which record our history, and the Zodiac Prophesies, which record interpretations about our future as seen in the Orb. Seth is scoping out a new location for our base, as well as something temporary for an immediate evacuation.

  We can’t risk what happened two years ago to happen again—when the Turned Sentinel used his intimate knowledge of the Shield, our strengths and weaknesses, to target the destruction of our home and everyone in it.

  The Elite has been training for the past several hours since we’ve been on red alert. Valerius and Aella know Dalair’s fighting style the best, so they’re bringing Tristan, Cloud and the human Chevaliers up to speed. Rain, our Healer, and Wan’er, her ex-handmaiden, have been packing medical supplies and making sure we have enough emergency first-aid kits on hand in case…

  I try not to think about “in case.”

  The Royal Zodiac—me and my inner circle—hasn’t been complete these past two years since the attack. We still haven’t recruited the sixth member of the Elite and the fifth member of the Circlet. Every time we get close to a potential candidate, they disappear, the most likely scenario being that Medusa and her minions got to them first.

  And now she has Dalair.

  Apparently, Seth and Aella knew about Dalair’s disappearance as of two days before, but no one told me until six hours ago. They were checking into it, they said. But I know the truth:

  They don’t want to worry a useless, still-human Queen who’s self-absorbed and focused on living a “normal” college girl life.

  What was I doing before I finally found out? The very last person to know despite being the nominal Queen of the Pure Ones?

  I spent the morning seeing Tal, Ishtar and Benji off at the train station, where they’re taking the ten o’clock express from Boston to NYC. Their daughter, Inanna, and her Mate, Gabriel, adoptive parents to Benji, went back to the city yesterday after Inanna received an urgent call from her ex-comrades of the New England vampire hive under Jade Cicada’s rule.

  It appears we’re not the only ones hit hard by Medusa’s recent plots to stir up mass mayhem and destruction.

  In the afternoon, I idled the time away listening to new music on my iTunes and writing out a “Things to Do by My Twentieth Birthday” list since it’s right around the corner.

  In one sense, I’ve experienced more than most almost-twenty year-olds—having lived in many different cities in just as many countries, getting a world-class education, being surrounded by supernaturally beautiful, lethal, Gifted immortals who have the most amazing histories that span hundreds if not thousands of years.

  But in another sense, I’ve done less than just about every young woman my age. I don’t have parents to rebel against or siblings to fight and hang out with. I don’t have friends beyond my protectors and advisors. I don’t drink, smoke or do drugs.

  Never been to a prom. Never participated in a tailgate. Never had a sleepover.

  Never been kissed—properly.

  Never had a date.

  Never had sex.

  You can guess the kinds of things that top my birthday list.

  As I said: self-absorbed.

  Now, I just want one thing. For all the birthdays I will ever have:

  Please, dear Goddess, if you’re out there, if you’re watching over us, if you’re even real. Please bring Dalair back to me.

  Alive and whole.

  I’ll never ask for anything else as long as I live!

  Being useless, there was nothing I could do to help anyone with their tasks. Aella, my personal guard on rotation for the night, just told me to take it easy and try to relax. So, while she and the other warriors are knee-deep in grueling training, I’m “relaxing” by listening to my playlist of songs and going through my normal nightly routine.

  Taking a shower. Getting in my sleep T. Brushing and flossing my teeth. Putting moisturizer and zit zappers on my face. Dabbing a little orchid oil behind my ears and on my wrists (my one indulgence and attempt at being more “girly”).

  I start humming the new song Ere sent me to distract myself. Pretend everything is normal. Pretend like I don’t want to break down bawling over Dalair’s disappearance.

  I look in the mirror and almost don’t recognize the face looking back at me.

  Dark, chestnut waves rolling past my shoulders. Striking, full brows arching over dark brown eyes. Big lips that always look bee-stung no matter how I try to downplay them. A couple of discolored spots on my nose and forehead where I hid my latest pimples under some nude-colored zit cream.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that this was not always my face. This is only one of the many incarnations my soul has had. Well, I know of at least three incarnations, including my current form.

  I wonder whether I was somewhat more helpful or more Queenly in those other lives. I wonder whether I’d be wiser and more capable after I’ve had my Awakening.

  If I were a better Queen, if I had a stronger Gift, would I have been able to prevent Dalair’s capture? Is it all my fault that he’s been taken?

  Useless, pointless thoughts.

  And yet, I can’t stop them from churning through my mind.

  Finally, I open the door, step out of my bathroom, ready for bed. Might have to take a Tylenol PM to sleep, or maybe putting my playlist on an endless loop, max volume, will help drown out the desperate screaming in my ears—

  I gasp.

  “Dalair.”

  His achingly familiar, stoic face is the last thing I see before he clamps a hand over my nose and mouth, and darkness engulfs me.

  Chapter One: When He Found Me

  Distantly, I hear sounds of vehicles speeding past, as well as the bumps in the road under my own, as if I’m crossing a long bridge. Intermittent beams of light slide over my face, making my eyes roll restlessly beneath their lids.

  But they’re too heavy to open. And in any case, I don’t want to open them.

  I’m pretty certain I’m asleep or otherwise unconscious, because I’m having the most vivid dream.

  No, not a dream.

  A walk down memory lane, perhaps. Because I’ve been here before…

  I was sleeping in my crib when a loud cry wakes me.

  I rub my fat fists over my eyes and pull myself up by grabbing onto the bars of my “cage,” and blink hard to get a better look at my surroundings.

  The house is blanketed in darkness,
except for the pale moonlight sifting through my lacy window curtains.

  I can make out my stuffed animals sitting in their corner by a low bookshelf that’s just the right height for me. My chest of drawers with the changing table on top is pushed up against the adjacent wall. The rocking chair where Mommy likes to hold me when reading me Mother Goose Rhymes sits in front of the window invitingly.

  The wall next to my crib is painted with a fantasy mural depicting elves and fairies, dragons and unicorns, castles in the sky and rainbows over waterfalls. I like to stare at it every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to sleep.

  Sometimes, it feels as if I belong more in that fantasy land than with Mommy and Daddy in our white-picket-fenced house in a charming suburban neighborhood. I’m quite fond of Mommy and Daddy, especially Mommy, who stays at home taking care of me while Daddy goes to work.

  But to be honest with you, I feel like they’re not really mine.

  I mean, theirs were the first faces I saw when I came into this world, and theirs are the faces I see most every day. But I feel like I’ve seen many, many other faces before theirs.

  They’re not the only Mommy and Daddy I’ve had.

  A heavy thud sounds from behind the thin wall that separates my room and Mommy and Daddy’s room.

  I open my mouth to emit a questioning wail and concentrate on hearing more.

  A long time passes, and still nothing. All is eerily quiet in the house.

  I mewl again and add a couple of heartfelt staccato cries to get Mommy and Daddy’s attention. They usually don’t take so long to come comfort me.

  That’s when my door opens slightly with an ominous creak.

  But it’s not Mommy or Daddy who comes into my room. It’s a man with frightening black eyes, glowing red at the center.

  “Well, well, well,” the man says softly as I stare at him arrested, “this must be my lucky night. A succulent baby girl to feed upon. A perfect dessert to complete my feast.”

  He smacks his lips, smeared with something that looks like raspberry jam, and pulls them back in a gruesome smile, revealing two sharp teeth that are longer than the others, dripping with saliva.

  I stare unblinkingly at him, my eyes transfixed on those gleaming teeth, as he stalks closer to my crib, his hands outstretched to pick me up.

  No, no, no! Go away, bad, bad man!

  I want to run, but I haven’t even learned to walk yet. I only just started taking two or three steps unassisted yesterday. And even if I could run, I’d have to get out of my crib first.

  I grip the handle bar harder and try to hike my fat little leg over the top. I’ve done this before—escape from my crib. But the onesie I’m wearing isn’t letting me raise my leg high enough.

  I start whining a little as I panic.

  Somebody help me!

  But then the man’s eyes bulge as he gurgles, a dark red liquid leaking out of the corner of his mouth. His knees buckle, and his head slides forward, separated from his neck. But he never hits the ground.

  Before my wide, unblinking eyes, the man poofs into a cloud of gray confetti that flutters to my bedroom floor like dirty feathers.

  I look from the pile on the floor to the new man I didn’t see enter my room.

  He’s very tall, viewed from my midget height, even standing in my crib. Taller than Daddy.

  Dark hair, dark features, and an unsmiling mouth.

  He’s holding a large, shiny half-moon in each hand. One of the half-moons is smeared with the same red liquid that gushed from the other man’s mouth.

  As he holds my inquisitive stare, he folds the two half-moons together and puts them in a holder behind his back.

  “Shit. Just what I need,” he mutters beneath his breath.

  I tuck my chin in, offended.

  Is he talking about me? Is that scowl of annoyance for me?

  How dare he not love me on sight! I’m told very often that I’m the cutest baby there ever was. I can make the most adorable puppy dog eyes, and Daddy says I have a mouth just made for pouting.

  Well, I’ll show him.

  I release a particularly odiferous gas into my diaper and narrow my eyes at him.

  Just you wait, tall man. You’ll think twice before offending me again.

  His nostrils flare as the essence of my fart bomb floats his way, and his entire face blanches beneath the golden bronze.

  Ha! Take that!

  Instead of blackening his countenance further, a corner of his mouth ticks up in a reluctant smile as he comes to stand over my crib.

  “You did that on purpose, didn’t you, little mite?” he murmurs softly, a glint of respect in his eyes.

  I am so fascinated by what I see and the voice I hear that I forget about calling for Mommy and Daddy. I forget about my umbrage.

  I’ve heard that voice before.

  I don’t recall where or when. (After all, I’m only a year old.) But I know his face. I know his voice.

  He pinches something on his wrist and starts talking, presumably not to me, even though he’s looking at me consideringly.

  I cock my head at him, unafraid.

  This close, I can see him clearly despite the dark. He has the most amazing silver eyes. They sparkle brightly in my lightless room, like the glitter stars I have painted on my ceiling. He’s dressed all in black like the dark knight in my wall mural, the one that charges toward a fire-breathing dragon with a long stick under his arm.

  “I got here too late,” he rasps low. “Target eliminated, but not before…”

  He turns slightly away so I can’t hear the rest.

  “…baby…what am I supposed to…but…”

  I catch snippets of his conversation.

  Little does he realize that he doesn’t need to hide his words from me. I don’t understand most of adult-speak yet. I hear the sounds, but I haven’t learned their meaning.

  I do understand the emotions in the tone of their voice though. And I can guess pretty accurately their moods by the expressions they make on their face.

  There’s something else I’m good at: I can see people’s colors.

  Not in terms of the clothes they wear, their hair, their skin or their eyes. But the wavy, glowing rings that radiate from every person’s center, like the soft, fuzzy light around the tail of a lightning bug.

  People have all kinds of different rings of colors around them. I see them all. And yet, each person’s colors are different from the next, not just the shades of colors but the intensity and the way they blend and change over time.

  I stare transfixed at this man as he finally finishes his conversation and looks back at me with a dark, unenthusiastic expression, the kind of look Daddy sometimes gets on his face when I’ve had a blowout and he’s on diaper duty.

  I know this man’s face. I know his voice. I know his eyes. I know his colors.

  And suddenly I know everything will be all right. As long as he takes me with him.

  I raise my arms and reach out to him, letting out a loud demand.

  He grimaces at the high-pitched noise and rubs his ears as if I hurt him. Nevertheless, he picks me up and out of the crib, dangling me in his hands at arm’s length.

  “No need to shout, little mite,” he says softly. “Have a care for my sensitive ears.”

  I pedal my legs and wriggle my body to make him hold me closer. He obliges and awkwardly tucks me against his chest.

  Heaven.

  I sigh and snuggle closer, breathing in the scent of his skin where the notch at the base of his throat is revealed by his black shirt.

  I am comforted at last.

  Even though I will never see the two people called Mommy and Daddy again, I don’t feel sad. Even though I have only lived for a year, I feel as if I’ve existed for much, much longer.

  And all this time, I’ve been waiting for something, counting the days.

  Finally, in this man’s arms, I’ve found my home at last.

  Chapter Two: The Carefree Prelu
de

  I have the sensation of weightlessness but also of moving, as if I’m sleepwalking or floating through the darkness like a pale ghost.

  Except, my limbs are numb. My eyes are still closed.

  I inhale deeply, trying to draw enough air into my lungs and stir to wakefulness, but instead, I’m lulled deeper into dreams.

  By his scent.

  It surrounds me everywhere. This gorgeous, heady fragrance. Dark and earthy, decadent yet fresh. Like a rich chocolate soufflé baking in the oven, then sprinkled with mint leaves when it’s taken out to cool.

  It seeps into my pores, beneath my skin, into my veins. It tangles with my blood, wraps around my heart, enslaves my senses, and makes me breathe deeply and long, trying to absorb more of it, as if it were my personal oxygen, my drug of choice.

  Strong arms tighten around me as if they know I want to get closer. My face presses into a patch of heated skin.

  Ah, bliss.

  I sigh contentedly and settle into another stroll down memory lane…

  I have been living with a band of fairies and elves for five years now. They are more beautiful than the ones in the mural that decorated the bedroom I used to have. We live on a sprawling rural estate in the south of France, far away from the Big City.

  I know many things, being all of six-going-on-seven-years-old. I’m practically all grown up, though my caretakers still tower over me physically. Mentally, I feel very old. Certainly older than the three brothers who live on the farm down the road. The eldest is only five and a half, still a baby.

  And ever so annoying.

  My days are carefree and happy. I rise early in the morning when the sun is up to go out to the chicken coup to find all the eggs that the hens have laid. They all know I’ll find their eggs, so I don’t know why they bother hiding them. Perhaps they like the game as much as I do.

  Usually, I find eleven, one for every hen we have. Ayelet then cooks the eggs for breakfast, so that each member of our household gets one.

  Ayelet, Tristan, Aella and Seth like their egg poached. Orion, Eveline, Leonidas and Alexandros like their egg fried or scrambled. And Valerius, Dalair and I like our egg soft boiled.