PROLOGUE
Archive: The Order of the Tempest
Are you sure we’re in knob-knocking Amster, Jax?” Wayra Waters whispers as he stands watch by the door. It’s dark in the command center control room they’ve just broken into. He rubs a scrap of cloth over his throat, wiping the sweat from the black tribal tattoos that mark him as a Rafe soldier.
“We’re in the north corridor of the abandoned city.” Jax Roule’s deft fingers conduct the virtual keypad of the holographic screen with military precision. As he sifts through hundreds of holographic image files, a sliver of light falls on his violet eyes. “This place is a decaying skeleton with modern innovation wired into it.”
Wayra ignores the crumbling Gothic architecture. His focus is on his job as watch. “I bet you can’t even get venish here,” he mumbles. His lips twist with scorn. “How long will it take you to infiltrate their technology?”
“I’m in,” Jax replies. “How are we?”
“We’re clear. Their patrol is at midcycle. Did you locate Kricket?”
“No.”
Wayra’s fierce stare turns sharply to Jax. “Stop messing around. We have to find and extract her.”
Jax’s grim expression is half in shadow. “She’s not here—”
“It’s true then? That band of Alameeda half-breeds who raided us gave her to Kyon Ensin?”
Jax nods. “They traded her to him for her sister, Astrid Hollowell.”
“That’s messed up—I didn’t even know Kricket had a sister.”
“I don’t think Kricket knew either. You want to hear something worse? I think I just found her father.”
“You’re lying!” Wayra accuses, his nostrils flaring in anger.
“No, I’m not. It’s Pan Hollowell. He’s alive.”
“Where has he been all her life?”
“Here.”
“On Ethar?”
“In Amster.”
“What’s he been doing here?”
“It looks like he’s been building an army of rebels.” Jax searches some more. “I found something.” he hisses. Wayra takes another long look outside before joining Jax by the hologram projector.
“What is it?”
“It’s a training tape—it’s for these half-breed soldiers who run this city—they call themselves the Order of the Tempest.”
“What a bunch of nims!” Wayra scoffs and comes closer to the virtual image.
“Here, watch this hologram. It’s Pan in Amster before they rebuilt this fortress several floans ago. He’s explaining the Order of the Tempest—and Black Math!” Jax tugs the earpiece from his ear and hands it to Wayra, who puts it in his ear as Jax replays the message.
Pan Hollowell’s larger-than-life image walks on air in the holographic channel. Filmed amid the ancient ruins of the city of Amster, Pan looks every bit like a military officer in his black uniform.
“He’s one of us!” Wayra whispers. “He could’ve been in our unit!”
“He’s ex-Cavar, you can tell by his tat—he was a Rafe Triclone in the war before this one.” Jax points to the concentric triangle tattoos that cover the side of Pan’s throat.
“How old is this recording?” Wayra asks.
“Almost as old as Kricket. Shh! This is the part I want you to hear!” Jax says.
In the recording, Pan’s piercing eyes scan the devastation surrounding him. “Black Math had its origins here,” he says, “in the once-thriving metropolis of Amster. This plague destroyed most of Ethar a thousand floans ago.” He walks among the desolate shells of buildings. “Many people believe that it was a naturally occurring epidemic, begun by chance. They’re wrong. Black Math was inflicted on masses of Etharian citizens by a man named Excelsior Ensin, to seize power from established nations and to form the five Houses of Ethar: Rafe, Comantre, Peney, Wurthem, and Alameeda.
“For centuries, Excelsior Ensin has been creating an enhanced race of female Etharians known as the Priestesses of Alameeda. Through genetic manipulation, these females are all born with extrasensory gifts. These gifts range from telekinesis, to soothsaying, to mind control and more. My consort, Arissa Hollowell, inherited one such gift: the gift of prophecy.
“The Alameeda Brotherhood has made it illegal for males with the same abilities to exist. They hunt them because they fear them. It’s why we’ve formed our secret society here in the abandoned city of Amster. We will save them because they are the future of Ethar.
“This is the origin of the Order of the Tempest. Our mission is to protect the true priestess of the prophecy: the priestess, born of two worlds and two Houses. She will become our Empress of Ethar.”
CHAPTER 1
PULLED UNDER
Kyon’s lips against mine are coaxing. With aching gentleness, he attempts to ease the resistance he finds in my tight-lipped response to his kiss. “Kricket,” he whispers.
His lips should be cold, I think, a mirror of his ice-blue stare. I try to turn my head and escape the curves of his mouth. My lips skim lightly over the stone rigidness of his jaw, tasting the saltiness of the sea air that settles there. His lips hunt mine, finding them again—claiming ownership by covering them once more.
The pleasure he finds at having me in his arms is unmistakable. His heartbeat drums against my hand on his chest. I gasp as my fingertips feel the small, raised scar on his skin—the only indication that I’d stabbed him. Kyon wastes no time in seizing the opportunity my parted lips present. His tongue delves into my mouth, stroking against mine. A shiver trembles through me. He feels it. It prompts him to pull me tighter to his body.
My thin nightgown is no protection from the heat of his bare chest. It seeps through the cloud of white fabric. I’m dwarfed by the size of him. He holds me with his hand against my lower back while his other hand traces a delicate path to my shoulder. Continuing on, his warm fingers splay against the nape of my neck. He can snap it without even trying, my mind whispers.
The warmth from Kyon’s hand causes goose bumps to spread over my flesh. His kisses turn demanding—restless against my lips. I listen to the soft, lapping water pushing its way onto the white sand near us. The sea breeze lifts my hair from around my shoulders, scattering long blond strands of it across Kyon’s masculine cheek. He moves his grasp to my jaw. His thumb caresses my earlobe as strong fingers entwine in my hair.
While Kyon’s lips continue their assault, I’m a ghost in the darkness, waiting while my mind works out what to do. My knuckles must be white and bloodless—my fingernails pierce my palms. He won’t allow me to pull away.
With a growl, I bite down hard on Kyon’s bottom lip, tasting his blood. My knee comes up in an attempt to connect with his groin. I miss.
He seizes my wrist, twisting it behind my back, forcing me to let go of his lip before he breaks my arm. I’m pinned to him. My cheek presses against the brutal solidness of his chest. It’s no haven from pain. His huge fist twists in my hair at the base of my skull. He jerks it and makes me look up until our eyes meet.
He’s furious. Blood seeps from his bottom lip. I match his stare with a defiant one of my own.