Restoration: A Historical Novella (The Path to Redemption Series) Read online

  RESTORATION

  THE PATH TO REDEMPTION SERIES HISTORICAL NOVELLA ONE

  KIMBRA SWAIN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Kimbra Swain

  Restoration

  The Path to Redemption: Novella 1

  ©2017, Kimbra Swain / Crimson Sun Press, LLC

  [email protected]

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. 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 express written permission from the author / publisher.

  Cover design by www.ts95studios.com

  Formatting by Serendipity Formats: https://serendipityformats.wixsite.com/formats

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  1. Lincoln

  2. Lincoln

  3. Lincoln

  4. Abigail

  5. Lincoln

  6. Abigail

  7. Lincoln

  8. Lincoln

  9. Abigail

  10. Lincoln

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Author Links

  Coming this Fall

  Intuition

  PREFACE

  The Path to Redemption novels begin close to present day 2017 along the time line in this universe. When we meet Abigail Davenport, she has already lived on the earth for over 100 years, and much of that time she spent fighting monsters and evil.

  My idea for the novella series would chronicle the events of Abigail’s life leading up to Abomination when she joins forces with Tadeas.

  Lincoln is a character that is dear to my heart. Being able to write his story is important, and essential to understanding Abigail. The mythologies of the Americas are not as prevalent as those of the Greeks, Romans, Norse and Celts. Native American folklore is full of great stories, and as part Cherokee, I am excited to tell small parts of those stories.

  Restoration is mostly in Lincoln’s perspective starting from the night Abigail died, July 4, 1917 in New York City.

  Restoration should be read after reading Abomination as there are spoilers for the main storyline. However, reading it as a stand-alone story is possible without having read book one.

  Two days ago, I rode a camel into Aba el Lissan to help rout the Ottomans out of the areas around Acaba. The officers who we traveled with preferred camels to horses. Therefore, we rode camels, and I hated every minute. Jasper Samara, my longtime friend, convinced me to aid him in the damned war because the opposition had acquired the services of several sorcerers. We encountered multiple reanimated corpses which in turn led us to several necromancers. Supernatural beings really turned the tide of the war, and we faced them head on without hesitation. We tracked them, and from what we could tell, we eliminated every single one. Afterward, we left the desert and the awful sand behind and returned to Paris. As much as I hated Paris, it was better than the wretched sand and camels. Before we left, Samara gave Lawrence, a British chap advising the Arabian forces, instructions on how to reach us if they encountered any other supernatural beasts.

  I walked out into the cool evening air and pulled my coat tighter around me. Samara and I stopped by a small pub in Paris for celebratory drink. Gazing into the night sky, I took out my pipe, struck a match, and puffed a few times. The smoke exited my nose and wafted around me. Samara exited the pub and shivered at the coolness of the night. The sounds of the crowd muffled once the door was closed. The moon illuminated the night in its full glory.

  “I believe the young lady in there wanted to spend more time with you,” Samara teased.

  “Yes, for the right price,” I replied, and puffed on my pipe.

  “I wonder what the right price is,” he joked, and we shared in his laughter. He had aged slower than most humans and lived much longer. However, I knew his days of entertaining young ladies had ended over a century ago. If he wanted to pay her for some companionship, who was I to judge?

  “Wish this smoke signaled the peace for this global war. It’s gone on far too long,” I said.

  “The Americans have arrived. So, it won’t be long now. The war will end.” Samara said. “I appreciated your help in Arabia.”

  “Shik’is, I enjoy a good fight, and many thanks for the invitation to join you,” I responded. “I should return to my earlier assignment though, because have a klavasi to find.” The Agency sent me to Paris to track a new vampire who killed without remorse in the city. He turned many into ravenous vampires, and consequently, the foul beasts expanded their numbers. My brother and I fought too hard last time to let it slip into darker hands again. My brother and I had fought too hard last time to let it slip back into darker hands. I abandoned my mission to aid Samara in Arabia, and now I needed to return to my original task.

  “You’ve killed hundreds of vampires. What makes this one special?” Samara asked. He focused on the moon above us.

  “This one has a particular lust for blood, and his actions are rash. Day by day, he’s expanding his influence,” I said.

  Samara pondered my response and said, “The time has come.”

  “Time?” I asked. The night grew darker. Shadows lengthened and disappeared as the whole world turned to an inky black. In pure reaction, I turned toward the moon. Only then, I realized it was an eclipse, and I winced away from it.

  “Superstition,” Samara chided.

  “The Diné traditions forbid me to look upon an eclipse. It is an omen to my people. The sun and moon are sacred to us, they must not die out,” I explained, and put out my pipe. I stuck it into a pocket inside my coat. My father, the sun god of the Navajo, and my mother, Changing Woman, produced a set of twins to fight the monsters of the world. Mother named me Monster Slayer, and my brother, Thomas, she named Born for Water. Together we eliminated the beasts in our homelands so that man could live without the fear of being eaten or killed by those creatures. Later in life, we found ourselves under the command of Hyperion, who ran the Agency. Jasper Samara, one of the original three Magi in the Bible, did not work for Hyperion, but we often fought on the same team. Plus, I enjoyed his company, because he knew where to find the best battles.

  “Since we are discussing the sun…,” Samara began.

  “I have a whole week before I have to return to watch over Hyperion’s favored offspring,” I said. “Please do not ruin a good couple of days of killing by mentioning her.”

  He chuckled, “You protest too much, Lincoln!”

  “Fuck you,” I returned, and he laughed. I smiled at him. He enjoyed whenever he could annoy me. It was a rare occasion that I lost control of my demeanor.

  Abigail Davenport irritated me for every moment we spent together, and many of the moments we didn’t. She possessed a special talent for it. Sometimes, I even regretted saving her from the exorcism in England. I wished Hyperion had sent someone else to rescue her, because she’s plagued me ever since that day. She spent five years training and honing her magical abilities with Samara, and instead of coming back as a powerful, controlled wielder, she returned arrogant and impulsive as ever. Her instincts for the craft were excellent, but her judgment in the specifics were less than desirable. Gregory Theodoard
, Hyperion’s common name, forced me to work with her. He thought I might be able to teach her humility and discernment. Instead, we argued over tactics, timing, and everything else. I growled at the mere thought of her.

  “I thought there were no swear words in the language of the Diné?” he laughed.

  “It’s a good thing I know English,” I grumbled. The eclipse cleared, and the light illuminated our way once again. We started up the cobblestone streets toward a small flat that The Agency owned, to rest for a few hours. I turned to him and asked, “Why did you not teach her the control that she needed to be more effective and less annoying?”

  “Because you will teach her control,” he replied.

  “I don’t want to try to teach her, because she is absolutely unteachable. If she continues along her current path, she will lose control,” I explained, exasperated.

  His amusement over my frustrations ceased and his tone turned serious, “She will learn, Lincoln.”

  I sighed. Abigail possessed special gifts, and the Agency could use her in many varied capacities, if she could just settle in her power. She reminded me of a tornado sweeping across the plains. Powerful. Beautiful. Deadly.

  As we walked in silence, I listened to the night sounds around me. I concentrated on ways I might reach the haughty child.

  “You shouldn’t think of her as a child,” Samara offered.

  “Stay the hell out of my head,” I shot back at him. I guess my thoughts were overt enough for him to pick up on them. Jasper Samara visited the Christian God’s child upon his incarnation on this earth. In my many days on this earth, Samara was the wisest of all the men I’d met. A powerful and knowledgeable shaman. “She is a child.”

  “Everyone is a child to you, old one,” he replied.

  “You are not a child to me,” I retorted.

  “No, I am not a child. But your perspective needs to change, and your approach to her,” he suggested. As my anger rose, I stopped walking and looked at him.

  “You should have taught her these things. It is only a matter of time before she ruins herself or gets herself killed.” He scowled at my harsh and inconsiderate words. I’d let my opinion of her take over my tongue, and I absolutely regretted it the moment I said them.

  I heard someone behind us approaching in a hurry. We turned to see a young man racing toward us. He waved a piece of paper in the air. Samara pulled in power, and I prepared to repel an attack. The man spoke in French, and his voice was frantic. “S'il te plaît, arrête. Je cherche les mages,” he spoke between heavy breaths.

  “I am the one you seek,” Samara responded. He took the piece of paper from him, but continued to watch him. We did not lower our guard until he disappeared out of sight.

  As Samara read the paper, his eyes darkened, and his body swayed.

  “What does it say?” I asked.

  He placed the paper in my hand and trembled to keep his emotions steady. The telegram read, “Samara, please come. She is dead. Jay Stafford.”

  I suspected that I knew the answer, but I asked, “Who?”

  “Naag,” he replied. He affectionately referred to her as the Viper.

  The words I’d just spoken haunted me. “Forgive my words, Shik’is.”

  He waved his hand at me. “I must go.”

  “I will go with you, and help you,” I responded. He nodded and grabbed the edge of my coat. He spoke a word, and we shimmered immediately into a circle in the basement of a safe house in New York City. In the room, a large clock on the wall proclaimed it to be just before midnight on July 4, 1917.

  The rain drizzled over my coat in the city. I hated New York City even more than Paris. The Italians controlled most of the city politically. They ran most of the eastern seaboard, down to the simple shops in outlying towns. Abigail and a team had arrived to quell the upheaval resulting from a false endorsement by Tammany Hall in the next mayoral election. She came here to show support along with Brian Trevant, a light magical talent, on behalf of the Agency. In matters such as these, she excelled. Relations with our vast contacts were eased under her natural charm and wit. Her stunning features distracted humans, especially males, and before too long, she would have them eating out of the palms of her hands.

  I had encouraged Samara to go into town and speak with Charlie Murphy to find out if he knew anything regarding her death and the events leading up to it. It might be best if I went to her first and let Samara divert his attentions until he processed what happened to her. He cared for her deeply, and I feared this would devastate my friend. Therefore, I told him I would meet Jeremy Stafford at their hotel, and maybe I could assess the situation before he got there to save him from the heartache. I believed the Agency owned the hotel, therefore we had no fear of anyone from local law enforcement disturbing the body before we got there. There was another threat. An enterprising being could use her blood or skin to destroy Hyperion. If that were the killer’s intention, I was too late already. I stepped into a dark lobby as the storm outside swelled. Jeremy waited for me next to the lift.

  “I came as soon as we received the telegram,” I said to him. He looked plagued. Grief oozed out of his pores, and he reeked of pain and alcohol. He pulled out a silver flask from his pocket, taking a large swig. I jerked it from his hand. “Now is not the time for that!” I growled.

  “Sorry, Lincoln. When you see, you will understand,” he responded wearily. He opened the door to the lift, and we stepped inside. “You were with Samara?”

  “Yes, we spent a few days in Arabia, and had returned to Paris for a drink and a reprieve. He is downtown talking to Charlie Murphy at Tammany,” I explained. “Is he here?”

  “No, I haven’t contacted him. I’m afraid that he will kill me,” Stafford cringed. Gregory Theodoard needed to be contacted.

  “How long?” I asked trying to determine if there was anything I could do supernaturally to help her, to return her soul to her body. I had the ability to shift into the spirit realm. I had no doubts that Abigail would stay by her corpse hoping that one of us could aid her. Despite her arrogance, she knew magic. She knew the possibilities.

  “Too long,” Stafford said quietly. I hoped he was wrong. He opened the doors to the lift, and the stench of blood assaulted me. I’ve smelled blood all of my days, but I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming smell of it this time. I slowly approached the door reaching out with my senses and hoped I would find her spirit there waiting for me. I felt nothing except emptiness. I took a deep breath and entered the room.

  Brian Trevant laid face down in a pool of blood in front of a sofa. His skills were obviously outmatched by whomever attacked him. It looked as if he hadn’t even put up a fight.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “The bedroom,” he said and nodded toward an open door. “I, I, I can’t go back in there, Lincoln. I put the sheet over her, but I didn’t touch anything else.”

  “Very well. Please remain close by,” I responded. Jay had been in many fights with us over the years. He'd worked at the Agency for about 20 years, so he was no stranger to death and blood. Something about this disturbed him enough that he refused to re-enter the room. I suspected he liked Abigail the last time I saw them together. However, I dismissed it as a flirtation, because Jay had a reputation of being a cad. He boasted of his conquests far too often, as young men do. Perhaps his feelings for her were deeper and I just didn’t realize it at the time.

  I felt the abiding power of the wizard as I walked toward the bedroom. He left some time ago, but his residue lingered. I also felt the warmth of Abigail’s power. Its remaining signature paled in comparison to the might of his magic. The pain of remembrance rushed over me. Her power had a unique sense of warmth, and I had felt it many times when we fought together. She did know how to fight, and not just with magic. Perhaps if I had been less annoyed by her immaturity, we might have made a formidable team.

  As I slowly walked into the room, I found four men laying in various forms in death. One against the
wall on my right looked like he hit with such force that his neck snapped. I hoped she took at least one of them with her. Two others to my left bled out from deep cuts on their throats. I nudged the last one over, since he was laying on his side facing under the bed. His body slumped over to reveal white eyes with absent life.

  “Oh no,” I said. I shifted to the spirit world. I saw two ch’jjdii. One hovered over the man with the broken neck, and the other hovered over the white-eyed man. I sighed in relief. A corpse with white eyes meant one of two things. Either his life force was separated from his body by magical means or someone had consumed his soul. Thankfully, his life force hovered over his body. Abby had not resorted to necromancy in an effort to survive. I spoke a quick Diné prayer for each of them, and their souls faded into the afterlife. I shifted back into reality, and approached the covered body on the bed.

  Deep red stains puddled at the top of the bedding, and ran down the sides of it onto the floor. Blood spray splattered the headboard and wall above the body. I had faced death many times in my life. However, after my hastily spoken words tonight, I cursed myself for having to look upon this one. My penance for speaking them forced me forward to look at the damages. Abigail angered me at every opportunity, but I never wanted her dead. In fact, I couldn’t imagine this world without her.

  My hand trembled as I reached for the edge of the sheet. I pulled it back, and the light from her face and eyes that I had always known had faded into the paleness of death. Her once ivory skin had darkened and turned to pallor. The deep gash across her neck dug down into her skin. The knife’s jagged blade left her once delicate skin shredded like raw meat. I looked around the room for the knife, but I didn’t see it. The sorcerer must have taken it with him. The other two men with slashed necks didn’t have souls waiting to be dismissed into the afterlife. Their souls must have been trapped in the knife as it cut through them. I knew of several necromancers who had done this in order to charge a weapon with power for a more formidable foe.