Desires of the Otherworld 2: Darkest Hunger

Desires of the Otherworld 2:

Darkest Hunger

Aline Hunter

www.loose-id.com

Desires of the Otherworld 2: Darkest Hunger

Copyright © September 2011 by Aline Hunter

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eISBN 978-1-61118-555-3

Editor: Serena Stokes

Cover Artist: Tuesday Dube

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This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Forward

The Desires of the Otherworld series takes place in the mortal and Otherworld realms. In
Darkest Hunger
, the mortal realm is visited briefly on Samhain, the only night the portals open between the realms. However, in the first installment,
Eternity and a Day
, the portals are permanently opened. In an effort to clarify, a few definitions are listed below.

The Otherworld:
The first realm created by the gods where immortal beings exist. Although technology is more advanced, many immortals don’t rely on it. Large cities exist here, as well as castles and provinces in rural locations. The mortal realm is modeled after the Otherworld.

The Moirae/the Fates:
The hands of the gods. Their decisions dictate what souls will be reborn, who will die and when, and determine who will be Fated to each other in the mortal realm and the Otherworld.

Fated/Chosen:
Twin souls forced apart when the gods realized their creations didn’t appreciate the gift of their other half. The Fated connection is impossible to resist, as one cannot deny the need for the missing part of their soul.

War of Souls:
What mortals refer to as the apocalypse. During this time immortals fight for the souls of the mortals who will be reborn, to maintain the balance between good and evil. Immortals also perish during the War of Souls and may or may not be reborn according to the will of the Fates.

Prologue

The Otherworld

Arcadia Province

Walkyr Castle, 1587

She’s gone cold.

Bridon Walkyr cradled the body of his Fated in his arms, noting the changes in her delicate face that signaled the soul had departed and left the shell behind. Once rosy skin was now ashen, and her pink lips were shaded purple. The most radiant chocolate brown eyes he’d ever seen were hidden behind eyelids with long dark lashes that would never open again.

Death didn’t come easily to his kind, so he was not familiar with the tragedy that was human mortality. Unless he was felled in one of the few ways that could extinguish an immortal, his longevity would continue for an eternity.

An eternity—a time without end.

But the greatest of gifts had become a burden, curse, and leaden weight in his chest that would remain if he continued to exist. Immortals were only gifted with their Fated half by the grace of the Fates one time. The three gatekeepers of all the realms—the Moirae—decided when you’d live, when you’d die, and when you’d meet the other half of your soul.

Now his was gone, passed on to the ever after.

He gazed down at the woman in his embrace, feeling bereft and empty. She would have lived forever had he made the difficult choice and brought her to his kingdom and fully into his world. Instead he had played the lovelorn suitor, unable to deny her anything. Because of his failing, she was dead.

I never should have given her time. I should have forced her to return to Arcadia, changed her, and given her no choice in the matter.

“Bridon.”

Tearing his attention from Aislynn’s peaceful face, Bridon lifted his head and met the concerned gaze of his best friend, Ian Ariston.

“I have procured the best oracle in the kingdom. She is just outside.”

The moment of truth had finally arrived.

When his chosen drew her last breath, Bridon made the decision to follow her into the ever after. But Ian—telepathically following his train of thought—insisted the soul of mortals could be reborn and demanded Bridon return to Walkyr Castle to consult an oracle. After they fought for her body, took her from her father’s people, and brought her to Bridon’s home, Bridon had reluctantly complied. As the seers of the future were doomed with one trait many of them despised more than their visions—the inability to lie—he would know the truth soon enough.

“Bring her.”

Ian exited the room, and Bridon rose from the chair nestled in front of the fireplace with his Chosen in his arms. He paused in front of the bed before carefully placing Aislynn in the center. Her long blonde hair billowed around her shoulders and the pillows, shrouding her in flaxen waves. His eyes strayed to the large red stain over her heart, and his chest wrenched painfully, an agony he never believed possible consuming him.

An old hag stumbled through the door with Ian on her heels, using her thick oak cane to bear the weight of her lame leg. Bridon moved away from Aislynn when the elderly woman bumbled past, bent over the bed, and gazed down at his beloved.

“So young,” she muttered. Digging inside her tunic, she found what she sought, and produced a small pair of scissors. She snipped a strand of Aislynn’s hair before Bridon could protest, lifted the hair and studied it, and nodded.

After she limped to the side table, she threw her cane onto the wooden surface. She dropped the hair into an empty chalice and spit into it. Grasping a dagger from her cloak, she looked at her aged hands, sliced the tip of her finger, and deposited several drops of her blood into the cup. Then she snatched the gourd at her waist, pulled the cork from the end, and poured wine into the goblet.

“Your Fated is young, King Bridon. Let’s hope the gods see fit to give her another chance at the life that was stolen from her.”

Bridon narrowed his eyes at the old woman. “I have been warned not to put stock in your ability, oracle. Reincarnation is a myth.”

“What would vampires know of mortals and the will of the gods? You will live forever; we will not. I daresay you should respect those who will eventually look death in the eye and meet our maker.”

“You choose to remain mortal, witch. All humans brought to this hold are given the choice to be as we are if they so desire and adequate time and loyalty is proven.”

The hag snorted, lifting her wrinkled face, and shook her head. “Some of us accept the destiny that we were given. You can change fate, but it doesn’t mean you should.” She interrupted him when he began to rebuke her, raising a fragile hand into the air. “No more. We will see what your future holds. Mine was decided long ago.”

She staggered to the fireplace, threw the chalice inside the flames, and studied the hungry wisps of red that spewed forth and lashed out. Then she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, seeming to draw the smoke from the brew into her lungs. Her wrinkled lips curved, her eyelids fluttered, and she nodded.

“Ah, yes. I see now.”

“See what, witch? What do you see?”

Opening her eyes, she met his expectant gaze. “Her soul will be returned to this dimension in the exact manner she was given life before. She will be born of the same bloodline, but she will not be the same girl you’ve come to love, nor will she be the Chosen you always envisioned. The circumstances surrounding her death have altered both of your destinies and, as a consequence, the future.”

He didn’t heed any of the words apart from those he wanted to hear most. “She will return? I will have her again? You are certain?”

“Her soul will return.” She nodded. “But I cannot be certain you will have her again.”

He brushed aside her cynicism. Oracles couldn’t lie, so what she said was true. He was being given another chance. “If her soul returns, she will be my Fated. That is the will of the gods. There is only one other for each of us, our twin soul.”

“Twin souls born of enemies,” she mused. “A future may or may not be possible, regardless of what you or the Fates intend.”

“I don’t have time for your riddles.”

He dropped to his knee after he returned to the bed and grasped Aislynn’s chilled hand. He would have her again, and this time he would claim her as he should have done—with or without her consent. He wouldn’t be swayed. No matter the consequence. His other half would have an eternity to accept the will of the Fates.

Ian strode to the center of the room, his bright blue eyes visible through his battle-worn helm. “What do you mean, crone? We are not at war with the nobles, and we are not their enemies. Her father ran from us because of false truths spread about our kind.”

“Just as my kindred ran.” The haggardly woman sighed and returned for her cane. “Your king fancied himself in love with a human—
a mortal
—and ultimately found his Chosen among my people. Ironic, is it not, that she died because you should have stayed where you belong and left well enough alone.”

Ian’s renowned temper unleashed, and he snatched the helm from his head, allowing his long blond hair to flow over his shoulders. “Listen to me, wretch. The arrow that felled the lady was shot by one of her father’s archers, not by any of ours. Markus McKendry couldn’t bear the idea of his daughter running into the arms of a blood drinker. Instead he would seek sanctuary with those who grow fur and bray at the fucking moon!”

Ian strode to the bed and stopped on the other side. “There is still time for retribution, Bridon. We should hunt them all down and bleed them dry.”