Storms and Shadows Book 2: The Storm's Shadow

The room is drenched in darkness, the heavy snowfall outside the large floor-to-ceiling window blocking out what little light penetrates the thick clouds.

But Nazarius isn’t bothered by the darkness, sitting in the corner of his office with a book open in his lap. The couch he’s sprawled out on is a deep red, the pillows as black as the room.

He should be meeting with his Inner Court or tending to his duties, but recent events require him to place his focus elsewhere. Narayan, his second, is taking care of the mundane tasks while he spends hours poring over books.

A verethar taps its beak against the window, perched on the stony ledge with a look that conveys its displeasure at the weather. Its dark coloring tells Nazarius where it is from, the place where winter never comes.

He glares at it, waiting for it to flee. But it persists, tapping its beak again.

Slamming the book shut, he waves a hand to lift the ward on his office, the bird hopping through the glass as though it’s just mist. It raises its head, offering the scroll strapped around its neck.

He shakes his head as he reaches for the scroll, but rather than removing it, he covers the tiny slip with ice, careful to leave the bird’s feathers untouched.

“Go,” he commands roughly. He watches as the bird hastily exits the room, quickly portaling before too much snow can land on it.

The Sun Court has been sending messages almost every day—or more accurately, demands. Nazarius finds it difficult to conduct any kind of investigation with Aurelius wanting updates every moment.

He knows they’re upset about the dark creatures crossing the border. He isn’t too pleased about it himself. But what do they want him to do? There are wards in place to deter them, they are forbidden to leave, and aside from that, he has little power over the dark creatures. They don’t answer any more than a fish in the creek.

He is already spending every spare minute searching for a way to keep them within the Dark Kingdom, an old magic or ward that might aid him in restraining them. Aurelius is convinced there is something they’re after in the Mortal Realm, which could very well be the case, but Nazarius cannot go there any more than the Lord of the Sun Court.

So instead, he has resigned himself to looking for alternative ways to keep them in line.

There is, of course, a storm ward, which with enough layers could be calibrated to keep pretty much everything in. But storm wards are high maintenance and require a Storm Fae.

Only one is known to be alive, and he is safely hidden in the Vampire Court, beyond the reach of even Nazarius.

He settles back onto the couch, thumbing through the book as he searches for the information he needs. He knows the quickest way to get answers isn’t in the library, but in the living history book that is the Votharothern—Vampire Prince—who is locked safely behind such a storm ward, yet another headache in Nazarius’s life at the moment.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, casting the thought aside. The Votharothern has been playing his game for centuries now; it’s hardly Nazarius’s most pressing issue.

If that issue were resolved, however, he might have the answers he needs right now. Or at the very least, access to the very Fae and vampire pair that could solve this problem.

The book in his hands hits the wall with a loud sound, falling to the ground below with a second thud.

The histories include lots of bragging, many victories, but no Narvazkar—no answers. Only one solution appears to exist, and he hasn’t the means to pursue it.

Aurelius and the rest of the Sun Court will just need to manage or get out of the way of the creatures.

But what are the chances of him doing that without the bitching and moaning?

He paces his office, Žydrūnas stretching out in the corner, one eye peeking open and watching Nazarius. His paws flex, sensing his frustration, claws scraping against the wood.

Žydrūnas’s solution to the problem is simple: eat anyone who continues to argue. While Nazarius isn’t fond of the idea of consuming the flesh of other Fae, he isn’t entirely opposed to the merit of it.

Nazarius stops short in the middle of his office, an odd feeling radiating through him. Wind whispers by his ear, a near-silent plea that he feels rather than hears.

And it feels…ancient.

He glances at Žydrūnas, who tilts his head curiously but gives no other indication that he senses anything.

“Someone is calling,” he murmurs, turning to stare out the window. The snow is falling heavier now, thick clusters of flakes pressing against the glass. “Should I answer?”