Shadowblade Academy 1: Darkness Calls Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2022 by KC Kingmaker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  Cover art by MiblArt

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Shadowblade Academy 1: Darkness Calls

  Chapter 1 | Coralia

  Chapter 2 | Coralia

  Chapter 3 | Coralia

  Chapter 4 | Coralia

  Chapter 5 | Venn

  Chapter 6 | Coralia

  Chapter 7 | Coralia

  Chapter 8 | Sunny

  Chapter 9 | Coralia

  Chapter 10 | Coralia

  Chapter 11 | Coralia

  Chapter 12 | Coralia

  Chapter 13 | Coralia

  Chapter 14 | Dax

  Chapter 15 | Coralia

  Chapter 16 | Venn

  Chapter 17 | Coralia

  Chapter 18 | Coralia

  Chapter 19 | Coralia

  Chapter 20 | Sunny

  Chapter 21 | Coralia

  Chapter 22 | Coralia

  Chapter 23 | Venn

  Chapter 24 | Coralia

  Chapter 25 | Sunny

  Chapter 26 | Coralia

  Chapter 27 | Coralia

  Chapter 28 | Coralia

  Chapter 29 | Coralia

  Chapter 30 | Venn

  Chapter 31 | Sunny

  Chapter 32 | Dax

  Chapter 33 | Coralia

  Chapter 34 | Coralia

  Chapter 35 | Coralia

  Chapter 36 | Venn

  Chapter 37 | Coralia

  Chapter 38 | Coralia

  Chapter 39 | Coralia

  Chapter 40 | Coralia

  Chapter 41 | Coralia

  Chapter 42 | Coralia

  Chapter 43 | Coralia

  Chapter 44 | Coralia

  Epilogue | Dreamwatcher

  About the Author

  Books by KC Kingmaker

  Briarwitch Academy:

  A Whisper Before Dawn

  A Dream Before Dawn

  A Journey Before Dawn

  A Storm Before Dawn

  Dragon Shifter Dominion:

  Passion of the Summer Dragon

  Serenity of the Autumn Dragon

  Cold Heart of the Winter Dragon

  Vibrance of the Spring Dragon

  Rapture of the Sun Dragon

  Shadowblade Academy:

  Darkness Calls

  Chapter 1

  Coralia

  MY TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY was supposed to be the “beginning of the rest of my life” and all that happy shit. It was supposed to be the start of something new and inspiring as I looked toward my bright future.

  So why did my future feel so dim? Why did I feel like an uninspired failure?

  When you were born into a family with one superstar child, but that child wasn’t you, I supposed the feeling of inadequacy was par for the course.

  I mean, I loved my older sister. Hell, Myria was the only family member I still spoke with. No matter how often we had been pitted against each other when we were younger, we came out of it closer because of our tribulations. I thought fondly of her. I hoped she would call on my birthday, since we hadn’t spoken in a while. If she didn’t call, well, I couldn’t blame her—she was probably off doing superhero shit.

  Suffice to say, the jealousy ran deep. There was a reason for that: There was no denying that Myria Hargrave’s life was exponentially better than mine, due to her “discovery.” While she was out living her best life, I was a misguided, misanthropic washout. I guess that was what happened when one child was put on a pedestal and the other lived as an exiled nomad over the past three years.

  How’s that for the beginning of the rest of my life?

  Despite all my existential woes, I had things to be grateful for. I thought of them as I woke up on the morning of my twenty-first.

  My mouth was parched, tongue like sandpaper as it stuck to the roof of my mouth. A wet, bumpy feeling slimed over my cheek and brought me into consciousness, pulling me out of murky sleep. When I opened my crusty eyes, I stared into brilliant yellow slits. Little toe beans fell on my nose, swatting me.

  I gave the culprit an angry pout, wrapped my arms around his furry little body. I raised him Simba-style above my head. “What have I told you about slapping me awake, Brucey?”

  The white cat said nothing. In a world full of abnormal creatures and supernatural weirdos, I had always hoped Bruce would one day speak to me. But alas. The little bastard didn’t even have the decency to look guilty after I chided him.

  “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” I said, “or I’d have to boil you in a stew.”

  His yellow eyes widened. Even if he couldn’t respond with words, he understood me, which had always been a mystery to me.

  Bruce’s little legs wheeled in a flurry. I chuckled and brought him down to hug against my chest. “I’m just kidding, old boy. I would never.”

  The first thing I was grateful for: Bruce Kittenson. Every extra day I had with him was a miracle in itself. If there was anything supernatural about Bruce, it was the fact he’d been alive as long as me. The twenty-one-year-old kitty had been around since I was in the womb. Still kicking, he was always by my side.

  Explain that one, science.

  A jarring voice carried into my room from the hall, coming from the “kitchen”—calling it that was being generous—of the little two-bedroom shotgun house.

  “Wake up, birthday girl!” A second later, a cheery face popped in through the door.

  Bruce hopped off my chest and scrambled into hiding. If there was one thing Bruce Kittenson was afraid of, it was my roommate’s constant chaotic energy.

  I found her rejuvenating, especially in contrast to my doom and gloom personality.

  “Birthday breakfast in bed!” the girl wailed, flashing a gigantic smile and scary-white teeth. Her pink-and-turquoise hair flapped wildly on her shoulders. “No work! No worries! Just pancakes and bacon.” She folded both hands in front of her and bowed like a parishioner in prayer. “And tonight, young Padawan, we rage.”

  Before I could react, the bundle of energy invaded my room and besieged me with a tray of yummy, doughy, crunchy, syrupy goodness.

  The second thing I was grateful for: my best friend, my only friend, the insatiably bubbly Marlow Thompson.

  Having no work for the day also made it onto the grateful list. When I bit into a gooey pancake and let out an orgasmic moan, and then munched the crunchy, smoky bacon and almost made Marlow blush because I was having such an intimate moment with my food, I knew how high on the list pancakes and bacon also belonged.

  I gave her a demure smile. “Thanks, Marlow.”

  She giggled and headed for the door. “I’ll let you have your, uh, alone time in peace.” Before leaving, she winked, making my pearl-white cheeks flame red. Marlow’s screechy voice carried down the hall. “Be ready for Madame du Mond by three! We have an appointment!”

  “Wait, what? I thought I got to spend the day in bed!”

  “You can’t live in New Orleans and not have a psychic read your future on your twenty-first birthday, Coralia!” Marlow’s voice was getting further away, but still louder somehow.

  I threw my hands up. “I’ve never hear
d that rule!”

  “Google it!”

  Our shouting match across rooms died. I shook my head. I swear, the neighbors probably think we’re murdering each other on a daily basis.

  A white fluff-ball caught the corner of my eye, Bruce’s tiny face appearing from under my dresser. He meowed, clearly asking a question.

  “Don’t worry, Brucey. She’s gone. You’re safe now.”

  He scurried up to me in a flash—still had moves for such an old man—and perched himself on my bosom.

  I let out a tsk. “Such a lecher, Mr. Kittenson. Are you comfy?”

  He said nothing, deciding instead to curl up and take a nap on my boobs. I rolled my eyes and popped another bacon slice in my mouth. My eyes rolled back in a different way as the crunchiness filled the depths of my dark soul.

  Truth be told, despite my woe-is-me attitude and often feeling like my situation was less than ideal, at least I had a good friend, a cute cat, and a plateful of pancakes and bacon. That was more than a lot of people could say.

  I gently petted Bruce and felt his rumbling, sleepy purr against my body, which always calmed me. “I guess it’s not all bad, huh Mr. Kittenson?”

  I STARED ACROSS THE small table at Madame du Mond, whose eyes were closed. She had a crystal ball in front of her, a tarot deck that had yet to reveal its secrets to me, and incense that wafted sage all around us, embalming us in smoke. All she needed was to start an “om” chant to hit all the stereotypes. Though I guess “om” was more of a meditating hippie vibe, while du Mond was firmly in the witchy camp.

  My eyes swung over to Marlow, a skeptic expression on my face.

  She whispered, “It’s a Crusty tradition, Cor.”

  “Silence, children,” Madame du Mond snapped, eyes still closed. “I must reach deep to find your future, Coralia Hawthorne—”

  “Hargrave.”

  “—and that takes concentration.”

  I sighed and crossed my arms under my chest, leaning back in my creaky seat. When Marlow narrowed her eyes at me for creaking the chair, I gave her a sheepish wince. “So . . .” I began, unable to help myself, “is this magical divination going to come from the crystal ball, the incense, or the tarot cards? Like, will my future just float into the ball like rolling fog?”

  Her rheumy eyes slowly opened, a scowl etched deep in her lined face. The woman had bags under her eyes big enough to hold my wallet and phone.

  When she said nothing, I eked out a small “Sorry,” and averted my gaze to the burning sage. It was hard to take all this seriously when I had seen actual magic from my sister Myria.

  I was also not a gullible person, at least in my opinion. Add those together and you got a cynic who was always on the lookout for con artists. I thought Madame du Mond hit the mark quite well.

  “Your interruptions and childishness have cost me, child,” she croaked. “Now I’ll have to start over.”

  Her eyes closed again and I let out another exaggerated sigh.

  “Yeah, Cor, they’ve cost me too,” Marlow chastised. “Hitting me right in the wallet.”

  I ran a hand through my red-streaked black hair. They’d already gotten one apology from me. That was more than enough.

  I blinked. Strangely, the dimly-lit room started to darken. It was like shadows had crept in through the walls, the ceiling, the floor, hemming us in until I could hardly see Madame du Mond through the murk.

  “Uhh, Marlow?”

  The relentless smell of sage faded. I could smell nothing, as if the creeping shadows had cut off all senses from reaching me. My heart started to pump faster in my chest, worry taking root in my stomach.

  Madame du Mond’s eyes snapped open wide, startling me. Only pristine whites showed in her orbs, piercing through the shade and turning my worry into fear.

  I instinctively reached over and gripped Marlow’s arm with a gasp, reeling in my seat.

  “W-What the fuck is happening, Cor?” Marlow rasped.

  Before I could come up with anything, the psychic’s mouth opened. A low, guttural sound tumbled from her mouth. It was inhuman and grating, like ancient words spoken in a foreign language.

  Her back cracked and she sat up straight as a board. She looked like a possessed witch from a movie—a demon ready to vomit frogs out of her mouth.

  I could understand her next words, though they still grated. Her alabaster eyes aimed at me, drilled into my soul, and she spoke as if in a trance:

  “Six dark ways to reach the abyss.

  Five knuckles to complete the fist.

  Four years’ time to slit the wrist.

  Powers and troubles come in threes.

  Two twin souls miss the forest for the trees.

  One dark day to be tainted and free.”

  After the cryptic omen left her lips, Madame du Mond’s body slumped forward. The black sludge surrounding us began to dissipate. I could smell the rich aroma of sage once more. Shadows scattered as if fleeing the room, and with them went the slick fear creeping up my spine.

  The Madame slowly sat up. She winced and faced us with a vacant expression, like she’d been lost in a dream and had no idea where she was, what year it was, or who was president. “Does . . . does that answer your inquiries, dear child?” she asked weakly.

  I shared a wide-eyed, freaked-out look with Marlow.

  My bestie opened her mouth, stammering. “What the fuck the what? What was that, lady? Twelve Days of Christmas for neurotic big titty goth girls?!”

  The Madame tilted her head, confusion knitting her brow. “What ever do you mean, dear girl? All I said was that this spritely young lady has troubles aplenty before she’ll find peace. But she will find it.”

  Peace? I thought, still utterly confused. Fuck peace. What about love? What about understanding? What about a future where I don’t feel like a deadbeat all the time?

  Marlow jolted up from her chair. She grabbed me under the arm and started profusely shaking her head. “Nope. Nope. Nuh uh. That’s not what you said, Madame. Let’s go, Coralia.”

  I gulped, nodded, and let her drag me out of the psychic’s shop.

  The humid New Orleans air started to moisturize every crack and crevice of my body before I’d made it three steps outside.

  I opened my mouth to complain, but Marlow sliced a palm through the air to silence me. “Before we try to unpack whatever the fuck that was, I say we start drinking. Like, immediately. Posthaste.”

  I aired out my rapidly-dampening long sleeves. Whose idea was it to dress me like a reserved Evangelical on a 95-degree day? My eyes narrowed on Marlow, who had an air of snobby esteem, as if she wouldn’t be satisfied on my birthday until she was good and hammered.

  I realized I couldn’t blame Marlow for dressing me like a slutty nun. I blame you, Bruce Kittenson. You saw me and let me leave the house like this!

  I scoffed at my Scarlet Letter garb and then let it go. “Um, it’s only like four in the afternoon, Mar. If we start drinking now, we won’t make it to eight o’clock.”

  “Fuck it,” she said indignantly, and started marching down the sidewalk. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”

  I scampered to keep up. “Yeah. In Virginia.”

  Chapter 2

  Coralia

  “THREE DARK DAYS TO get into the abyss, or something,” Marlow recited, poorly, swishing her beer around as she stared at it. “Sounds like a doomsday clock.”

  We were three hours into drinking and Marlow was sloshed. She’d gotten her wish. I was slightly buzzed, but I liked to pace myself so I could keep my wits about me.

  Learning from past experiences and all that.

  We had relocated to Jose’s Ranchero, down the street from Madame du Mond’s. It was divey, stank of stale beer and popcorn—which I had fruitlessly tried to find on multiple occasions over the past three hours—and most importantly for Marlow, had cheap beer.

  Even on my birthday, we weren’t big spenders. We were both just scraping by.

  “Six d
ark ways to reach the abyss, one dark day to be tainted and free,” I corrected, then took a sip of my beer.

  “Pfft,” she snorted. “Whatever, Miss Photographic Memory.” She shuddered then downed her beer. “I’m trying my damndest to forget whatever the hell we just saw. That was creepy with a capital C.”

  “Then let’s drop it. We’ve been trying to decipher that silly riddle for hours. My brain hurts.”

  She raised her empty glass and gave me a lopsided grin. “Your brain hurts ‘cuz you haven’t had enough booze. Come on, birthday girl, I’m lapping you.”

  I chuckled and crossed my legs. I sat across from her on a too-high stool at a too-high table, smack dab in the middle of the bar. Even with my Scarlet Letter dress on, a crafty creeper could get an upskirt shot if I wasn’t careful.

  When we had first come in, we were two of the only four patrons in the place. As the sun went down, more people started to mosey in. I got a good look at each one who entered, positioned facing the front door.

  “Yeah, I’m trying to avoid taking a dirt nap,” I said. “It’s called pacing myself.”

  “It’s called being a pussy.” When she saw my face fall, she reached out, eyes gentle as she rested her palm on my knuckles. “Sorry, sweetie, that was mean. I take it back. You pace your pretty self and I’ll drink enough for the both of us. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Good. Then the next round’s on you.” She beamed.

  I guffawed. “But it’s my birthday!”

  A couple off to my left heard my fake outcry and drunkenly shouted, “Ayeee, happy birthday!”

  I smiled at them, raised my half-full glass—not half-empty, dammit—and said, “Thanks, y’all.”

  A moment later, Marlow blinked with a blank expression, as if she had forgotten what we were just fake arguing about. “Do you not want to talk about the creepy riddle because it reminds you of your sister?”

  I puffed up my cheeks and let out my breath in a long exhale. “Pretty much.”

  “She’s an . . . Abnorm, right?”

  Damn, here we go. “Abnorm is kind of a slur.” Supernatural beings didn’t like being called abnormal. “But yes. That’s pretty much it.”