Magic of Worlds (The Guardians Series Book 3) Read online

  Magic of Worlds

  Guardians Book 3

  By Lexi Ostrow

  Published by Hot Ink Press

  An Imprint of Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing

  This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Copyright 2016 Lexi Ostrow

  Cover by Dreams2Media

  Edited by CLS Editing

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  3 Years Ago

  “That’s the thing about endings. They’re always there, Alcott. But no one said they had to be happy.”

  The man in the trench coat put a hand on Alcott’s shoulder as if to comfort him. All it did was drag out a low growl.

  “I didn’t need to see that. I didn’t want to see that.” He pulled away from the man’s touch and stalked to the other side of the eerie white area he was in. It wasn’t a room, more a section of space that was stark white, save for the colorful swirls of every color that danced over the walls by magic.

  “You didn’t want to know she was happy? That she’d found her purpose in life?”

  The ball of fire magic crackled in his hand before he knew what he was doing. But Alcott didn’t release it. He just let it simmer and dance over his palm as he watched it. Power, so much power, and he’d never once done anything with it. The need to send it sailing towards the asshole who played his life like a deck of cards rode him hard.

  “That’s not what I meant. I’d forgotten. I wasn’t anyone for almost eight months. I was just oblivious to everything because I’d been slammed back into a book without a Word Speaker. So I was nothing more than a description on a page.”

  He finally turned then and let the ball of fire fizzle out, he’d never seen a reason to go head to head with this God, or Demi God, now was not the time to start. He closed the space between them and locked his eyes onto the man’s silvery grey ones.

  “But I was happy. I was who I was written to be. No crazy attacks, just the ones I was written to overcome. No remembering or thinking about how badly I’d failed Ciara. Just the life the author of my novel wanted me to have.”

  The smile that slid over the man’s lips was friendly but sent a chill of unease through Alcott. “You have nothing to worry about then because, as soon as you go on through your doorway, you become that once more.” The man waved his hand from left to right in the space in front of him and the doorway distortion began.

  The small town in Minnesota that he lived in began to come into focus the wider the doorway grew until he could clearly see the small log cabin he lived in; hid out in really.

  “A little reminder Alcott, there is always the notion that the ending with Ciara wasn’t for you, but for her.”

  The words sliced through him like a knife, leaving a stinging trail in his gut. He’d never even dreamed that Ciara would have wanted another meeting with him too. Her face, though her face had said she did. She’d run up to the doorway he stood behind even as he’d tried to run through it and found himself stuck.

  He grimaced at his own selfishness. Once again he hadn’t been the Guardian she’d needed him to be. He didn’t know anything about her new one, he never would because she gave up everything to be with him.

  His eyes focused on the log cabin, and he stared so hard he wondered if, sooner or later, he would be able to look through the doorway at the mystical white wall. His hands clenched and unclenched at his side. He may never have another chance at being a Guardian, and the idea of returning to his book was as unappealing as always.

  “What if I don’t want to go?” For the first time, he saw confusion in the powerful man’s eyes.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What if I don’t want to be the noble Alcott this time, what if I don’t want to just get back into the book? Do I have a choice?”

  The man’s face settled back into a mask of indifference. Any sign of humanity was gone. “I don’t think I need to tell you that you don’t have a choice.” His eyes flashed colors, to the blood red he’d seen a few times before.

  Determination rocked through his body. He would go back, only when he was good and ready. He’d failed at being the right Guardian, and sure, there were probably plenty of Guardians that weren’t “the one”. But he didn’t want to do this a second time unless the results were going to stick.

  “If I have a good reason?” He locked his gaze on the man’s eyes. Refusing to give in. Magic versus magic, he wouldn’t lose without a fight but he was pretty sure this man was immortal and he wasn’t.

  “I’d love to hear this.”

  Suddenly, they weren’t in the white room, but a normal looking living room. Minus the wall to the left that had millions of tiny windows on it, all with people moving. He walked up to them, curious as to why someone would have so many TV’s. It was incredibly boring actually, nothing of any consequence until his eyes landed on the redhead he’d seen with Ciara moments prior – only he was alone with a blonde female now. His hand reached out to touch the small picture.

  “I wouldn’t do that. And by that I mean don’t, or I’ll have to hurt you.”

  Alcott turned to see the trench coat hanging on a wall hook and the man casually sitting on a brown suede couch. “Those are Word Speakers aren’t they?”

  “Fantastic deduction, Sherlock.”

  Alcott had no idea who Sherlock was, and the man realized. “Oh son of a bitch you lived in a parallel world almost how did you not have Sherlock Holmes?” He growled and shook his head. “Fuck it, whatever. I want to hear why on earth you think I should keep you out of the book.”

  “I want to be ready next time. I want to train, to prepare. I want to learn everything I can from you. I want to hand pick my next Word Speaker.”

  The man’s only reaction was a bark of a laugh. He may have found humor in the situation but his tone of voice of deadly cold. “What makes you think you’d be able to pick your own Word Speaker Alcott?”

  “You can see them. When they enter this lifestyle and when they lose a Guardian. So I want to pick who I get.” He crossed his arms over his chest and continued to stare at the man. Names had power and if he could figure out why this man never told anyone his name, they’d be in business.

  “My, my. Bitterness has warped you a little hasn’t it? Good thing that heart of yours is still so pure or I’d be worried I’d have to kill you to avoid my brother gaining s
uch a strong Guardian.”

  “I wasn’t strong enough for Ciara.”

  “Well no, no one but Stryder or his brothers would have been. The real point is the bond is formed by an emotional connection by the reader. You’re a young adult character, what makes you think another young Word Speaker will come around that I can control their emotions?”

  “You control so much, I’ve seen it. So you put my book down when I pick the one. I’m convinced I can do the rest just the way I was written.”

  The man’s fangs slipped past his lips, and Alcott took a step back. He’d been positive this would end in a fight, but he had hoped otherwise. He closed his eyes, not to wait for an attack to come, but to find the man’s name.

  Alcott pushed his consciousness at the other man. He was psychic, all blood witches were but he had a feeling this man didn’t know it. The man’s mind was ancient, a seemingly endless loop of caverns and turns, all protecting who he truly was. He pushed onwards, still not feeling an attack, and stopped as soon as he hit the center of the maze. He wasn’t physically in the maze, so he’d only needed to locate the center metaphorically, to bypass all the history and events that were woven off the basic core of everyone’s memory – who they were.

  But he saw so many names he faltered in his confidence. This man had the power to change his identity, to realign the name that gave him power. He heard the man say something but ignored him as he continued to navigate until the last, most recent name on the chain of memories formed in his mind.

  A smile settled on his face as the bargaining chip fell into place, and he opened his eyes, prepared to do business with quite possibly the most powerful man alive. “How about we try this again, Ryce?”

  The mask slipped off, fear darted over every plane on the man’s face, and Alcott felt a little sick inside, but not enough to fight.

  Chapter One

  The voice barely permeated through Alcott’s deep slumber. In fact, his eyes never even fluttered open as he rolled over and slipped back into the dream. His mind was a wash of anguish and fury as he tumbled through the dream world that had become like a prison to him. He could see Ciara, his Word Speaker, as clearly as if he’d stared at her through the eerie barrier a week ago. It hadn’t been that way though. It had been nearly three years since that particular moment.

  Again a voice that didn’t fit into his dream echoed throughout it. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but the longer he tried to grab for dream-Ciara, the harder it became. He could see her, but smashing through the silken barrier separating her world from the world the brother’s occupied was impossible. He could hear her, even though he knew she was unable to hear him was. With a curse, he leaned forward, stretched his fingertips as far as physically possible and was halted by the words sound of words that didn’t belong. Words that came from a serene voice that was rapidly growing from a feather-light whisper to nearly as loud as a beating drum.

  Alcott didn’t think, didn’t dare to breathe as the ball of witch fire burned hotter than the sun in his hand. He could see his brother standing over their mother, driving an athame into her heart, but he couldn’t move. The binding spell that held him in place was too strong for him to break, too solid for him to strike through.

  Nearly choking on his breath, Alcott snapped awake. The searing pain of the dream blurred into nothing more than a dull ache as he realized what he’d heard.

  His past.

  Someone was reading his story. Someone was dredging up the only other moment in his life when he’d had the duty to protect someone and had failed. The voice began again, clearly a female’s but one that sounded sensual, far too old for a Word Speaker, or so he assumed. He closed his eyes and let the sultry sound bring the words of his greatest tragedy to life. It was almost as if the reader was pouring even more sorrow into them as she went.

  He sat, covers tangled around his legs and sweat beading over his body, as the voice read on. For just a moment, it was impossible to remember that he was in a room between worlds and not back at his home, locked in stasis.

  Feeling feverish, he bolted from the bed, tripping and smashing his knee into the bedpost as he went. Real pain, not the kind generated from a past emotion, flared to life. Snarling, he glowered at the bed as if the action could castigate it for the hurt it had caused him.

  As his story continued to be read, the tattoo that branded him an outcast and allowed him to be free of his book to gain power and pick his Word Speaker, seared the skin on his chest. Alcott’s eyes widened, and he looked down at the mark he’d been given. It was glowing, a brilliant white that covered the deep black ink of the marking. The tattoo that made it so he was not stuck in his book, but free to grow in power and even pick his next Word Speaker.

  The door slammed into the wall, and he whipped his gaze up, hating to tear it away from the cursed mark and what the white hot glow meant. A Word Speaker was coming. He nearly didn’t comprehend that only two beings — three, if he ever got to meet the divine Huracan — could have access to that door.

  Ryce stood with a smirk showing off his perfectly white teeth. His customary trench coat was not wrapped around him, and though Alcott was used to that, he’d expected it to be there — given the scenario before him.

  “Are you ready to try again?” Ryce asked almost gleefully and he obviously noticed Alcott’s complete lack of dress. “I see it pulled you awake rather quickly this time.”

  Alcott snarled and a ball of witch fire blazed in the space between him and the demigod. He wasn’t certain if he’d let the threat die out, or if Ryce had quelled it. “I hate when you do that, Ryce.”

  “And I can think of a million times I’ve informed you that my name is no longer Ryce.” The man’s voice held a deadly tone, one he rarely used, save for talking about his brother, Demus.

  “I’ve been living with you for three years, and I’m going to call you something whether you like it or not.” He quickly grabbed a pair of blue flannel pajama bottoms from the end of the bed and stepped into them. “Two years in which you’ve tried to get rid of me every step of the way. You allowed this,” he said tying the bottoms in place. “I will choose a Word Speaker when I’m certain I’ve found the only one I’d die to protect. None of the candidates were inspiring.”

  Ryce’s eyes flashed silver, and Alcott swore he saw the man’s fangs distend. He wasn’t a vampire, or so he claimed, but his eye teeth grew fucking long when he asserted his power. The room grew hot and Alcott wondered if he was going to go through another round of training with Ryce before he got to pass judgment on whomever the female Word Speaker was.

  “You’re wearing my patience thin. I allowed you to stay as a courtesy because you figured out something you should not have been able too. Push me, witch, and you’ll be frozen in time and back inside your book before you can blink.” Ryce turned and walked out of the room.

  Impatiently, Alcott followed, the tattoo still burning against his skin. Ryce could open a viewing window literally anywhere he pleased, as long as he was in the space between worlds — the strange dimension he and his brother shared. Still, he insisted on using the space in his living room, dining room or kitchen. Alcott had asked once, and he’d received a very fast and painful lesson on asking the man — or whatever the hell he really was — questions that didn’t pertain directly to his mission as a Guardian.

  He casually strolled past the torn fabric in time, ignoring the sterile lab environment that the rift opened up to. Another thing Ryce wouldn’t answer questions about, but he either worshipped or abhorred what he could see there with how often Alcott caught him staring into it.

  Alcott sucked in a deep breath as he stopped before the baseball sized viewing window and saw the Word Speaker. It was barely large enough to see the woman’s face, let alone her whole body. Which was purposeful on Ryce’s part, he claimed he didn’t want Alcott doing something stupid — like picking a Guardian based on a physical attraction. That wouldn’t really be an issue, but even Alcott co
uldn’t ignore the utter splendor of the woman he was looking at.

  Round, dark brown eyes looked at him, and he swore he could see himself reflected in their chestnut depths. Her skin was tan, but not in a way that indicated any ethnicity. The woman simply liked the sun. She was smiling, and it lit up her face. Bright white teeth, perfectly straight and set inside beautifully red lip-sticked lips that seemed to beg for his kiss. Her hair couldn’t have been longer than shoulder length, but it was the same lustrous brown as her eyes, with teal and purple streaks through it that made him think the woman was a bit of rebel — or trying ridiculously hard to act like one. None of her physical attributes had truly caused his intake of breath. It was actually the small, shiny pentagram hanging about her neck. This Word Speaker was Wiccan.

  “Does she know?” The rushed words spilled out of his mouth, making him seem like an eager high-schooler getting ready for a first date. Something he had experienced thanks to the author of his book.

  Ryce turned to him and gave a sharp, boisterous laugh. “I see that her affinity for magic has not escaped your notice.”

  Alcott tried to shove his hands into his pockets and shrug off his excitement at the idea. He’d tried to choose a Word Speaker eight months before, but she’d shunned him immediately, not interested in a pagan hero. But this woman? If she rejected him, that wouldn’t be why.

  “I noticed. I’m as eager to get out of here as you are to kick me out. I was born into this war nearly twenty years ago, and I’m tired of waiting for my place. I will never come to terms with what happened to Ciara.” He leveled his eyes on the other man, reminding him that had he told Alcott the sexual chemistry was not to be ignored. If not for that, he might not have lost the woman he’d fallen in love with. “But, I’m not going back into my book, and I’m sick of sitting on the side. Demus can’t hurt you, but that hasn’t stopped him from stealing two Word Speakers from your side with barely any effort. You need me out there as much as I need to be out there.”