Read Scorched Fury: A SkinWalker Novel #5 (DarkWorld: SkinWalker) Online
Authors: T.G. Ayer
Scorched Fury: A SkinWalker Novel #5 (DarkWorld: SkinWalker)
T.G. Ayer’s Full List of Books
Copyright 2016 by T.G. Ayer
All rights reserved.
Find out more about T.G. Ayer at
http://www.tgayer.com/
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Cover art by T.G. Ayer
Cover art © T.G. Ayer. All rights reserved.
Edited by J.C. Hart
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Kindle Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
CHAPTER 1
I
REMEMBER
MY
PARENTS
TAKING
ME
to see the Great Tree for the first time when I was four years old.
I remember thinking at the time that the tree was an incredibly wondrous thing. How was it even possible that any living thing could grow to be that big? For a kid, most things seemed enormous by comparison, but I recall marveling even then at the very size of it, even then understanding that I was witness to something incredibly special.
The Great Ash Tree; mystical, magical, symbol of hope to all supernaturals in the EarthWorld.
Decades ago, after a black night in which lightning storms and bitter rain fought like embattled gods, the tree had taken silent root. At the edge of the inner city, where the skyscrapers of the concrete jungle gave way to older, more staid architecture, a whip-thin seedling appeared as if by some inexplicable magic.
Even to a paranormal like me, such a beginning encompassed that which a normal mind cannot unravel. And the people watched in wonder as within mere months the seedling rose to the skies, and little branches reached further and further out.
Not long after the tree had gained its majestic height, it had dwarfed even the tallest skyscrapers in Chicago. With its pale, almost ivory bark, and gigantic branches that spread out hundreds of yards from the base of the tree, and leaves whose colors ranged from deep emerald to dusky brown, the gigantic white ash tree towered over the city, reigning supreme, albeit in such a serene silence that it became an accepted, welcome sight. And one that we soon became so used to that it drifted into the background of our thoughts.
Not taken for granted, but rather accepted as part of our lives.
No season affected the tree, no leaves fell when winter came, no branches stripped bare as the snow fell. The Great Ash bloomed all year round, decade after decade.
Until now.
Sixteen years after that first visit, I found myself standing, again, in front of the Great Ash Tree, without a parent holding each hand, and with awe and wonder the furthest emotions from my mind.
The Ash had been turned into a monument of sorts, and people came regularly to visit. The city had ensured an entire block was dedicated as grounds around the tree were manicured, and planted with seasonal flowers which tended to confuse the gardeners by blooming all year round.
I stood still, squinting up at the tree, the sun high in the sky and casting little shadow. To the other visitors who milled around the grass at the base of the tree I'd appear to be just like them. I'd dressed in black jeans, a gray long-sleeved tee, rugged biker boots and a leather jacket that was warmer than it looked, though not warm enough. I didn't exactly blend in with the humans around me, but neither did I call unwanted attention to myself.
I shivered, pulling the lapels of my jacket closer and giving the ruddy-cheeked woman to my right an answering nod and smile. The weather had turned colder, with four weeks to Christmas, and the volume of tourists visiting the tree had thinned, with only one group of gawkers here today besides me. A gust of icy wind encouraged the woman and her party of three to return to the warmth of her car.
Leaving me alone to inspect the tree.
I was here as an agent of the Supreme Elite; Kailin Odel, agent for the Elders' newly instated investigative arm. The Elders were the most venerable, most respected of all supernatural races. Some say they preceded all races and were even older than the gods. Some even made whispered suggestions that they were the last of God's first children – the Angels.
Whoever they were, to us they were the lawgivers and the lawkeepers. They oversaw the laws across all the planes, acting as a respected senate of sorts. All the High Councils answered to them, no paranormal would dare to defy them.
Not that there were never factions who disagreed with the old ways. Such dissatisfaction spawned Omega, an agency which rivalled that of the Supreme High Council's Sentinel.
Until recently both Omega and Sentinel had worked under a banner of inter-agency cooperation. But with Omega under investigation, charged with crimes against supernaturals – some of which I'd seen with my own eyes - Sentinel's agents had trouble coping.
The Elders put together a cadre of high-level agents known as the Elite, using only the best, most powerful supernaturals from around the world to handle the most sensitive cases. Logan, Saleem – our djinn friend who also happened to be a prince - and I had been recruited a while back. Only now, Logan was in a coma, and Saleem was on a personal mission.
That left me to perform my role, alone.
In the human world, I'd be the equivalent of the CIA or sometimes even the FBI. I even had a license to kill. Just like good old Bond himself.
A suspicious call had come through on the Elite's hotline an hour ago from a concerned citizen: the Tree is dying. That was it. Had the call been traceable, and had the voice not been digitally masked, the call centre might have ignored it. They didn't.
My boss Horner's demeanor on the phone was the first sign that something was wrong. The tight edge to his voice as he'd left his message had me on alert because Supreme High Councilman David Horner was never flustered, never stressed.
I could picture him, all geeky, thin and bespectacled, his face seriously bland, his voice controlled and neutral. Flustered and stressed were two words so not in his repertoire.
Despite his obvious concern, I'd spent my entire ride here unconvinced that it was a legitimate problem. How could anything bad happen to the Great Ash, anyway? It didn't make sense to consider the tree as vulnerable. I'd never known the Chicago skyline without the silhouette of the Tree.
So, any suspicions regarding the health of the Ash were easily brushed away as some madman's ramblings, or a crazy Shaman's mixed-up prophecy.
But now, I stood a scant foot from the pale bark of the tree, my boots carefully placed between desiccating roots that rose from the ground like curling waves turned instantly solid. The smoothness of the pale bark was marred by dozens of ragged gashes, as if someone had taken a broken hatchet to it, long thin jagged slashes penetrating deep into the wood. Where the surface lay split open, a dark ominous substance pooled.
The trunk of the Great Ash cried ebony tears.
I had to force myself to move, to loosen the stiffened muscles in my arms. No matter how shocking the tree's condition, I had work to do. From my satchel, I withdrew two small tubes and a narrow wooden spatula - one of those tools that resembled an ice-cream stick but had a much loftier purpose than aiding in refreshment.