Sheva (The Last Scribe Prequels Book 3) Read online

  SHEVA

  A Last Scribe Novella

  R. Lee Walsh

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  BEVERLY HILLS

  2014

  Copyright © 2014 by R. Lee Walsh. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  Story Merchant Books

  9601 Wilshire Boulevard #1202

  Beverly Hills CA 90210

  http://www.storymerchant.com/books.html

  SHEVA

  A Last Scribe Novella

  R. Lee Walsh

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  The Last Scribe: Book One

  Part I: For the Money

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  ~One~

  London, England

  There's a fine line between madness and controlled chaos. Tonight, unfortunately the former seems to be winning. Thorn Hawking watches from an upstairs window as a sea of people crowd around the entrance to his latest nightclub, Eden, all of them desperate to pack themselves into a dimly lit warehouse where they will drink copious amounts of alcohol and dance themselves into oblivion. It's not even ten o'clock and already there've been three fistfights—women no less. As of now they're over-capacity and the London police are threatening to call in the fire brigade. Sighing to himself, Thorn turns back to his bar manager, Galen, a half-breed he just learned has been dealing drugs to the patrons. Galen's under the impression he's been called up to the office to discuss a staffing issue, and he has. Just not the one he thinks it is.

  “It's getting out of hand down there,” Thorn says, returning to his desk. Upon hire all employees are warned about starting a little “side” business. The penalty is vague, but most comply without having it spelled out. However, once in a while he gets a renegade who fancies him or herself above the law or who thinks they can outsmart the owner. “I think it's time to shut her down.”

  “The club?” Galen asks, his eyes widening. “You can't be serious.”

  Ignoring him, Thorn pauses to check his cell phone for a text from either Tyrell or Barker, his personal security guards. Not that he's worried about his own safety, but these disciplinary meetings have a way of getting messy.

  Seating himself in the brown custom-made leather chair behind his desk, Thorn finally turns his full attention to Galen. Sandy-haired and mid-thirties, his hazel eyes radiate a restlessness that Thorn knows comes from a guilty conscience. Galen remains standing with his hands behind his back, his brow sweating profusely. “I don't understand,” he continues. “We're packed every night. Why would you shut it down? That's crazy.”

  Thorn raises one eyebrow and leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. “My business. My decision.”

  A light knock on the door announces Tyrell's arrival. He slips into the office, shutting the door behind him. Nodding at Thorn, he stands at attention next to the closed door, his muscled arms crossed over his chest. His glossy black hair is pulled into a smooth ponytail and his coal black eyes radiate the cold indifference of a soulless predator.

  There've been two major mob fights since they opened Eden. In both cases Tyrell and his twin brother Barker swiftly ended them with inhuman speed and brutal precision. No one knows where they came from or why Thorn needs their protection, but employees and patrons instinctively avoid them at all costs. To see either of them coming sparks a preternatural fear and there are whispers of them being part animal. Whatever they are, one thing's certain—Tyrell's presence here means Galen's in serious trouble.

  Galen eyes him nervously then turns back to Thorn. “What's this about?”

  “Rules,” Thorn replies.

  Frowning, Galen takes a half step toward Thorn. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  Shaking his head, Thorn opens his desk drawer, retrieving a cellophane baggie. Tossing it across the desk, he leans back in his chair again, weary of this same old song and dance. As an immortal he's seen just about everything. In fact, boredom is the chief complaint amongst his kind. Finding ways to entertain yourself can be a challenge. After all, forever is a very long time.

  “What's that?” Galen asks, glancing at it briefly.

  Phase one. Denial. “You tell me.”

  “How the hell should I know? It's not mine, if that's what you're inferring.”

  Thorn purses his lips, staring at Galen. “So you've never seen it before?”

  Galen blinks and a drop of sweat trickles down his temple. Thorn watches as it slides down his cheek. He can see the frantic wheels turning in his head as Galen tries to come up with a plausible lie.

  Phase two. Diversion.

  “This is a nightclub. Stuff like that gets passed around all the time. Want me to find out where it came from?”

  Thorn glances at Tyrell, forcing himself not to smile. “Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary. We know where it came from.”

  Galen reaches up to wipe the sweat from his brow, his pristine white shirt wet under the arms. No doubt this is not the way he envisioned his evening turning out.

  As a half-breed his existence alone is illegal. When humans and immortals mix, the result is almost always disastrous. Every urban legend, horror story and wives' tale of flesh eating creatures is based on the unfortunate exploits of a half-breed and for nearly seven thousand years the immortal Irin have made it a priority to exterminate them. After all, it was one of their own who first chose to procreate with a human, a tragic mistake that eventually led to an epidemic of violent half-breeds that threatened to wipe out mankind.

  For the last two centuries Thorn has given Galen and other half-breeds sanctuary, sheltering them from certain death at the hands of the Irin. In return he asks only that they abide by two unbreakable rules--rules designed to protect all of them from discovery. Never reveal your origins to a human and no criminal activity.

  A weighted silence stretches between them while Thorn waits patiently for Galen to speak first.

  “Look, it's nothing, okay?” Galen says finally, leaning forward to exclude Tyrell. “I got into a little financial trouble and needed some quick cash. But it's over now, see. I swear it won't happen again.”

  “I'm afraid that's not how it works,” Thorn replies. “Besides, if I let you off, before you know it everybody thinks they can just ignore the rules and that puts all of us in jeopardy.”

  Galen blanches, the dire nature of this meeting now becoming evident.

  Phase three. Bargaining.

  “Listen, I could just take off. I mean, nobody has to know and I'd never breathe a word. You could just tell everyone I quit.”

  “Unfortunately, we're past that. See, the video surveillance cameras we had installed when we opened have it all on tape. Not only that, but your 'customers' are well aware of your activities so right away we have at least a dozen witnesses. Now, I can't rightly punish all of them can I?”

  At the word punish Galen clenches his fists and his face turns an unhealthy shade of red. Tyrell clears his throat behind him. Thorn shakes his head slightly, staying him for the moment. He watches in fascination as Galen's remorse is quickly replaced by phase four. Anger.

  “I'm sorry, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I'm sorry I broke your pointless rules and I'm sorry I ever ca
me to you. The others warned me, you know. They said you were psycho and I should have listened. So I guess you're right. It's my fault and I'm the idiot.”

  Unable to help himself, Thorn snickers. In less than a minute Galen's gone from sorry to sarcasm with insults thrown in for fun. Sometimes, like a joke you've heard before and know how it ends, the punch line can still make you laugh.

  Insulted, Galen glares at him while Thorn struggles to regain his non-plussed composure. Straightening a pile of forms at the edge of his desk, he stands with a pointed glance at Tyrell. “Apology accepted and as your former psycho employer, I'll bid you good-night then. Tyrell will show you out.”

  Confused, Galen stares at him for a moment, his mouth open and closing. “That's it?” he manages to stutter. “We're done?”

  Taking a deep breath, Thorn drops his cell phone in his jacket pocket, nodding toward the window. “Like you said, we're packed. I should probably get down there and make sure the fire brigade doesn't close the place before I do.”

  Visibly relieved, Galen turns to Tyrell, his expression swiftly turning to horror. Refusing to watch, Thorn closes his eyes but cannot escape the sound.

  With his dying breath Galen wheezes one last word, the singular bane of Thorn's miserable existence and the humiliating secret he can never quite escape from.

  “Monster.”

  ~Two~

  Portland, Oregon

  The sound of hammers pounding nails and the smell of fresh cut wood is a soothing balm to Thorn's twisted soul. Holding a large cup of coffee he watches laborers and contractors scurry back and forth laying the groundwork for his newest establishment, a high-end bar and grill he's named Merde. Smack in the middle of downtown Portland, the location alone ensures plenty of foot traffic. Handpicked months ago, negotiations were stiff, but the city finally agreed that the last thing it needed was another Baby Gap.

  Over the last six centuries Thorn's opened hundreds of night spots, each one a work of art. Once they're up and running he sells them to the highest bidder then moves on to the next one. Wildly popular and unfailingly successful, he's known as the industry “Midas.” By constantly moving he avoids intense scrutiny, particularly about his age or where he comes from. Every couple decades he simply disappears for awhile, then reemerges with a new name on another continent.

  Talk radio plays somewhere in the background and the workmen banter good-naturedly with each other, acknowledging Thorn with an uneasy nod as they go by. While casually dressed, he's obviously not one of them, his designer clothing pressed and spotless. Much like Tyrell he is neither tall nor short, his jet black hair pulled into a stubby ponytail, his onyx eyes missing nothing. His smooth caramel skin smells of exotic spices and there are no callouses or rings on his manicured hands. To the workmen he looks like a young, arrogant foreigner—albeit an obscenely rich one. The materials alone cost a fortune and they'll make more money on this job than they have in the last three years.

  Thorn's cell phone rings and he cringes internally. He's been dreading this call all morning. Taking a deep breath before pulling it from his pocket, he turns and walks toward the back of the building where it's quieter.

  “Thorn Hawking,” he answers, as if the caller didn't know damn good and well who he is.

  “Saw the article in the paper this morning. What kind of name is Merde? If it's a joke, I don't get it.”

  “Yeah, well, you're not exactly known for your sense of humor.”

  “Not true,” his father huffs. “I had you, didn't I?”

  Seething internally, Thorn forces himself to remain calm. He pauses at the open back door to the alley, leaning against the doorframe. “These days people want something different. Something memorable. So I'm building the most expensive bar this town's ever seen and naming it crap. It's called irony. Besides, what'd you care what I call it? You've never set foot in any of my establishments.”

  “That you know of,” his father replies.

  Thorn narrows his eyes, staring at the brick wall of the building across the alley. He knows for a fact his father never came to any of his establishments.

  As the founder of the New Generation, a rapidly growing grass roots organization that preaches government accountability and freedom from religion, his father's become a prominent public figure. Unbeknownst to humans however, the man they know as Sam Prentice is also an immortal and one of the most hated Irin criminals of all time. “I'm busy. What do you want?”

  “You're in my town. There are some things we need to go over.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what your plans are.”

  Thorn hasn't actually seen his father since he was an infant. In fact, it was only recently Sam learned that Thorn had survived. Having his bastard son this close has to be making him nervous. After all, if humans were to discover his true identity . . . Thorn smiles to himself. All in good time.

  A shadow moves across the brick wall across from him, the outline of a man approaching from the alley. “My plans are the same as they've always been. Make money. Move on. I'll be out of Portland before the paint is fully dry.”

  “Why here? Why now?”

  “There are only so many major cities in the world. Sooner or later you had to know I'd come to this one. It's business not personal.”

  There's a long pause and Thorn relishes the anxiety his father must be feeling. For better or worse, Merde is his last club. This is where it all starts and ends. He just has to keep his father guessing for a little while longer.

  “Why don't you drop by sometime this week and see my new office building?” his father asks. “We could have lunch or something.”

  An auburn haired man emerges from the alley, lifting his chin in acknowledgement of Thorn. Dressed entirely in black and built like a greek statue of Hercules, he moves with a feline grace. Approaching the back entrance, he quietly ascends the three concrete steps. Pausing only an arm's length from Thorn, he leans casually against the wall, crossing his tree-trunk sized arms over his chest.

  Thorn raises an eyebrow in response, returning his focus to his telephone conversation. “You're asking me to do lunch? Am I missing something?”

  His father clears his throat. “Look, there are some things we need to talk about. In person. I think we might be able to help each other.”

  “Since when do you need my help?”

  “I don't. But that's not the point. Maybe it's time we, you know, got to know each other better.”

  The man next to him turns to look at Thorn, his sea glass green eyes squinting against the sunlight.

  “Sure. Why not?” Thorn replies. “Listen, I gotta go. I'll give you a call next week sometime.”

  Hanging up, he grins at the legendary Riley Storm, one of the most lethal Irin to ever walk the planet. He's also an Enforcer, one of only a handful of elite mercenaries who've been tasked with exterminating half-breeds. Or as humans like to call them, monsters.

  They should be mortal enemies. Instead, Riley's the closest thing to family Thorn's ever known.

  “You're early. I thought we were meeting at Stumptown.”

  “Had too much coffee already this morning. Thought we could grab a bite instead. They got a new barbecue joint over on Kingston.”

  “Wanna come in? See how it's coming?”

  Riley glances behind Thorn briefly. “Later. I'm starved.”

  Thorn pockets his phone then pats the front of his pants. “Just let me get my keys.”

  Turning to head back into the building, Riley halts him with a hand on the shoulder. “You gonna tell me what that call was about?”

  Thorn chuckles, turning to face Riley with a conspiratorial grin. “Seems dear ol'dad's getting nervous.”

  Riley purses his lips. “Anything I should know about?”

  Sam Prentice believes his son to be a rich, harmless playboy and even the Irin have no clue about his unique relationship with one of their highest ranking Enforcers. However, Thorn and Riley have one very important goal in
common: the ultimate destruction of his father.

  Thorn takes a deep breath, putting his hands in his front pockets. “Nah. If there were, I'd tell you.”

  Riley watches him for a moment then nods, pulling a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket. “Then let's go gnaw on some ribs.”

  ~Three~

  “Anything else?” the waitress asks, while blushing under the appreciative gaze of Riley. So far he's eaten three full racks of ribs and his adoring gaze has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the fourth rack she's just brought him.

  “And run the risk of endangering some other helpless cow?” Thorn chuckles. “No thanks.”

  The buxom brunette nods and scurries back to the kitchen while Riley tears into his meat. They've been here for two hours so far and the lunch crowd has dwindled down to only three other people. Thorn himself finished eating over an hour ago.

  “When's the last time you ate?” Thorn smirks. “1987?”

  Riley rolls his eyes, wiping the rich brown sauce from his cheeks. “Good barbeque is hard to come by anymore. Especially this far north.”

  “Yeah, well if you don't slow down you're going to put them out of business. Save some for the other customers.”

  Glaring at Thorn, Riley makes a point of noisily chomping on another rib. Shaking his head, Thorn turns his attention to the mostly empty restaurant. A converted one story house with the facing wall removed, there are cloth covered picnic tables scattered randomly. The backyard barbecue feel is welcoming yet tasteful. There are only two waitresses and one burly cook, a man he assumes must be the owner. If he's not mistaken this's a family operation and he'd bet money those waitresses are the owner's daughters.

  “So what's the deal?” Thorn asks after a moment, returning his attention to Riley.

  Riley eyes him speculatively and pauses to take a drink of water. “What'd you mean?”

  “I mean you didn't bring me here to watch you devour a side of beef. Out with it. I've got a dozen people to interview today.”

  Leaning his forearms on the table, Riley glances around the restaurant. Sam Prentice wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this and Riley'd never have brought Thorn here if there was even a slim chance they'd be discovered by another Irin. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Your hiring.”