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  Cursed Seer

  Hollows Ground book 4

  J.A. Culican

  Cursed Seer © copyright 2019 J.A. Culican

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written consent from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. Trademark names appear throughout this book. Rather than trademark name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

  The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarities or resemblance to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  Books by J.A. Culican

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  "Hand me the packet already, so we can dose this guy and go." My eyes are locked on our target as I hold one hand out to Birka, former queen of the Wraiths, now a mere resistance fighter like the rest of us.

  Today, my target is the doctor in the cafeteria with his coffee cup conveniently sitting near his table's edge.

  Birka shoves a small, stiff-papered packet into my waiting hand. "Are you sure about spiking the doctor’s drink? He might save people's lives today, but only if you haven't knocked him out for the next twelve hours."

  Her tone is sour, and I can almost feel the distaste oozing from each word as I imagine the scowl on her face. I don't care, though.

  She adds, "Why do you care about this old guy so much? He's only a mortal, and you don't even know him."

  "I'll tell you in a minute." I step out from behind a fake potted plant and head toward my target. He's engrossed in his cell phone and doesn't even see me approaching. The hardest part is not letting my nervousness cause me to miss a step, drawing his attention before I can dump the powder into his coffee, but ten seconds later, I'm leaving the cafeteria with a smile. Mission accomplished. It's actually kind of thrilling, this "covert ops" stuff.

  Birka stops me. "You never answered me. If you want me to keep helping you, tell me why you care about one elderly, dying mortal?"

  It's an effort of will not to hiss between my teeth as I take a deep breath, but I can't let my hard focus get in my way. So, I breathe out steadily before replying. "I don't care about that doctor’s patient, not personally, but I saw the old man’s death in my visions, and it was one I couldn't change no matter what I do to help him. Fated.”

  I pause, unsure how to explain the idea behind today’s adventure.

  Birka jumps into the empty space and fills it in, though. "So you think that removing the cause of his death indirectly will change his fate, where trying to save him directly failed?"

  "Yeah, that's pretty much the idea I'm testing." It’s vital that I figure out how to change even the fated, unchangeable deaths I see, if I want to have any hope of saving either of the two men I’ve loved, because as things stand, they’re both going to die in an explosion, and soon.

  I continue to fill in the blanks for Birka’s sake. “Every time I thought of doing something to the old man to stop his trip to the ER, the vision changed but the end was the same. Then, I'd thought of stopping the ambulance, but that, too, left the old man to his deadly destiny. But this idea of removing the doctor that killed him was different—my visions never encompassed that idea.”

  I haven't yet told her the real reason for all of this, though. If I'm right, if I can learn to do what no one ever has done before and change a doomed person’s fated demise, I just might be able to save our home, sparing the mighty, magical city of Mortals Landing from Luna's schemes—and get Birka’s son, Prince Talon, back from the mad-science prison into which she abducted him. Well, she and the President’s advisor, Dawson—that poor bastard thinks he rules all our kind now, Shade and Wraith alike, but he’s as much Luna’s pawn as Talon is.

  “I see.” Birka looks at me with an inscrutable expression. “And if it doesn’t work?”

  “Either this idea will work or I'll have found one more that doesn't, but whatever happens, I'll learn something. I won’t give up.” Old Ella, the timid and terrified runaway, might have quit and consoled herself that at least she tried to save Mortals Landing, and Talon with it, but New Ella won't stop trying. Not ever. Since joining this magical world-within-the-world, I’ve been trained by the best warriors alive, and I’ve been through the furnace and come out the other side alive—and harder.

  Birka nods, her brow furrowing in thought. "If you take out the thing that killed him in your vision, though, won't something else just kill him?"

  "I guess we'll see," I reply, my pace quickening as the old man's time of destiny speeds toward him.

  When Birka and I 'port back to our latest hideout since abandoning Luka's old mortal-world place, an odor hits my nose like a baseball to the face. I glance at Birka, embarrassed, but her expression is what I imagine mine looks like, wrinkled nose and everything.

  "What is that? I smelled a bit of it right before we left, but it got stronger."

  Birka grabs my arm as I reach for the enchanted, woven-cloth drape hanging just inside the door, which keeps us from being discovered by our hunters. I wish it had some of those pine-tree air fresheners stapled to it. Her face has become a stony mask in an instant, and my frivolous thoughts about air fresheners vanish as she stands staring at me.

  I shift uncomfortably. I know what’s causing that stench, but I don't want to hear her say it out loud. If she says it, then it must be real, and I can’t handle that truth right now.

  She doesn’t spare me, though. She touches my shoulder hesitantly, then withdraws her hand. "That smell is coming from Luka, dear."

  So much for her famed cryptic demeanor. Why'd she pick now to be conversational? I shouldn't have asked what the smell was. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

  But, I do. I just don't want it to be true.

  She looks away, taking a deep breath. "Go ask Luka yourself. I think you can guess."

  Damn her.

  I fling the flap aside and stride into our hideout, a pair of ten-foot by ten-foot storage units with the connecting wall broken out. Makeshift steps lead to another pair upstairs that we’ve converted to bedrooms. From this regular doorway to the garage door on the far end, the floor is stained and pitted cement, and there are no windows. The only fresh air comes from under that drafty garage door, which gives us no real insulation from the cold at night. Along both walls are two sets of bunk beds, occupying space we pay for but aren’t much using, since no one can sleep very well in here.

  But Luka can,
nonchalant about the deadly straights we find ourselves in—and about everything else in life, too, since Dawson and Luna resurrected him. He's lying in a lower bunk, just like he was when we left, but now his shirt is off and his breathing looks shallow. Pasty skin, sunken chest... and black spots have appeared over his arms and probably elsewhere.

  He's leaning up against one end of the bunk, with a knife in one hand, gouging at a black spot on his arm. He has half a dozen or more little gaping wounds, now, where there were none before I left on my probably-frivolous mission. I shouldn’t have talked myself into leaving. I should have stayed with him, dammit—I knew how badly he was doing, or thought I had.

  Rushing to his side, I snatch away the knife. "What on Earth are you doing? You'll get infections," I shout, before remembering our neighbors. Quieter, I ask him, "Why are you carving yourself up like a turkey?"

  Birka snorts. "Appropriate analogy," she mutters.

  I pointedly ignore her.

  Luka does, too. He looks me in the eyes—his beautiful, mesmerizing eyes. "I think it's pretty obvious what's happening. My body is rejecting the life energy that Dawson stole from Talon and used to bring me back as this… this zombie."

  "Rejecting it? What, like an organ transplant?"

  He smiles at me, and the world around me fades, though I know it shouldn't anymore. I immediately think of Talon and look away, my cheeks feeling hotter.

  I hear the smirk in Luka’s voice as he replies, "Basically. You know that all matter is only energy, right? That's all magic is, too. Just energy.”

  “Yeah, so? You’re allergic to energy, or something?”

  “Don’t be silly. The problem is, I’m dead—but Talon’s energy isn’t. They mix like oil and water. Where my body is pushing out that life energy, it's going back to its dead state, only without the freezing vat of slime Dawson kept me in to prevent my decomposing.”

  I shudder, remembering that vat we found him in after the one battle we’ve ever truly won against Dawson and Luna. “Great, but stop carving yourself.”

  He pauses a heartbeat before replying, “I have to cut those spots out to avoid sepsis, necrosis, or whatever else nature will do to me."

  I stare at him. I can't believe he's so calm about this. I will lose my mind if I lose him again. And yet, I know there's more. The "other shoe" hasn't dropped, yet. Plus, something doesn't make sense. I meet his level gaze and take a deep breath. "Luka, what happens when your body rejects the magic in some spot you can't see and so can't just cut out?"

  For a long moment, he just stares at me, and his eyes that were so gorgeous a moment ago are suddenly cold, alien. One word comes to mind: soulless.

  But as quickly as it came on, the reptilian expression disappears, replaced once again by his half-smirk, half-smile. "Mirella, I have plenty of time before that happens. I'm already feeling better, actually. The bad times come in waves, and I think that over time, each wave will last longer and come on faster than the one before.”

  I can’t stand to hear it. “You said you were feeling better. Let’s focus on that.”

  “I am, yes. But you have to come to grips with this, Mirella, because eventually, this body is going to die again—"

  "You mean you are going to die. You, Luka. You sound like you're wearing someone else's meat-suit and don't care what happens to it, but I do care. You’re giving up. Tell me I'm wrong." My voice rises at the end as my throat tightens. "But you can’t give up. We can find a way. We could put you back in the machine, maybe. Like a refill on your life energy."

  Yet one more reason why I have to save Mortals Landing, and with it, Talon. Too much is at stake to give up on that impossible idea, and somehow I’m certain that my death-oracle Gift is the key. If I can learn how to control it better, how to overcome what others call fate, then I can save them both.

  Luka must have seen the sudden steel in my eyes as those thoughts raced through my mind, because he pats the side of his bed. "Come on, sit down." He flashes a winsome smile.

  I owe him that. How can I say no, knowing he might be dying? After a moment's hesitation, I sit on the bed’s edge beside him. "Are you going to tell me a fairy tale to make everything all better?" I can hear my bitterness through my attempt to hide it with humor, and I'm sure he does, too.

  He puts his hand on my back, lightly brushing his fingertips over my shirt fabric. It sends goosebumps up my arms, and the corners of his mouth turn up for a moment. "No fairy tales. You need to know that I'll do everything I can to help you, in whatever time remains to me."

  "Don't talk like that," I reply, muttering. "I'd miss you too much, so you can't leave us."

  "And yet, I'm not fighting to live anymore." He pauses, but before his words even sink in, he adds, "Ever since Dawson used Talon’s magic to bring me back to life, this body doesn't feel right. Not anymore. You called it a 'meat-suit,' and that's a great description. I belong somewhere else now, and when I go there, I'll welcome it."

  An overly-dramatic cough comes from behind me. I turn and find Birka looking at us with her lips pursed.

  I mirror the expression. "What?"

  She shakes her head slightly, almost imperceptibly. "This conversation is touching, and I understand it's an important one for you to have, but we're working on a hard deadline. We have to leave soon, if we still want to sneak back into Mortals Landing. I shouldn’t have to sneak in, though, dammit. I’m the Wraith Queen."

  I clench my fists hard enough for my fingernails to hurt my palms, angry at her self-absorbed view of things—but she's right. Our smuggler to get back into Mortals Landing won't wait one minute past the time he gave us, and he won’t care one bit about my personal problems. If he could only feel what I'm feeling, he'd wait as long as it took, I'm sure.

  Mortals Landing is nothing like what I remember. Where before there were happy-yet-haughty faces everywhere—magical people with magic power, money, and no real worries in the world—now the atmosphere is somber. The once-bustling gilded streets are practically empty.

  As we travel, with Birka wearing an oversized black hoodie to mask her features, I see that every street corner seems to have a giant poster with brutally un-clever propaganda. Many of the posters have stylized pictures of Dawson himself, while others have similarly striking pictures of families, people shaking hands, or standing together against some off-picture threat. On each one, the slogans either promise a bright, unified future or extol the virtues of obedience to the cause and to Dawson himself as the visionary leader of that cause.

  I look at Birka, since Luka hasn’t been talking much since our arrival. "This is depressing."

  "You don't want peace?"

  I laugh, but it's a bitter sound. "No. Not because the idea of peace is so terrible, but because his brand of it is anything but peaceful."

  She steps around a lamp post, though given how empty the streets are, she might as well just walk down the center lane. "It's clear from all I see here that his peace came only from the threat of 'righteous' violence against anyone who disagrees with him or his method."

  "Righteous? You think he's righteous?"

  "Ha. No, dear. But think about it. If he thinks everyone who opposes him is dedicated to keeping the Wraith-Shade War going, then they don’t merely disagree with him, they’re evil."

  "So, then, whatever he does to them is justified in his mind." I shudder at the thought of Dawson permitting Luna free rein to treat captured Wraiths as she wishes.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Luka nod in response, though he doesn't say anything. Maybe he's thinking back to his own brush with that sort of thinking from Luna and her psychotic father, Kasik, once-king of the Shades living at Hollows Ground. Or maybe he's just watching my butt as he follows us.

  Birka grimaces. "Walking down these streets, I can just imagine his agents going door to door asking, 'Pardon me, sir, but do you support endless war or do you support our glorious leader?' As though there's no third option."

  I'm getting angrier jus
t listening to her. "Well, for me, there is no third option. I have to save this city from him and his twisted puppet master, Luna. It's the only way I can save Talon."

  Birka looks at me sharply. "How will coming here save it all?" For a moment, the expression behind her eyes changes. Was it respect? It's gone so fast that I can't be sure.

  But that's the question, though, isn't it? I'm not really sure how coming here saves her son. "I only have to change the future just enough to make that happen. I don't think the odds are in my favor, but I have to try. We have to find some people, though." I have to find someone who will be there when he dies, or know of it first-hand, and that's unlikely with everyone barricading themselves in their homes.

  "What about that man, over there?" She points at a lone pedestrian crossing the street to our side.

  He doesn't look like the sort who knows what I need to find out, but he’s a Shade, so it's worth a shot. I shift our course and pace a bit, trying to get to the corner at the same time he does, and it works, but he's facing us. I can't touch him without him knowing.

  Maybe I don't have to, though... I walk right up to him, grinning, and stick out my hand like I want to shake his. "Oh, man! I haven't seen you in ages. Not since that one thing at the bar. How’ve you been?"

  He hesitates, but shakes my hand as his eyes roam over me in a snap, taking me in. He must like what he sees, because suddenly he's smiling. I throw my arms around him in a friendly hug, like I know him—the better to search for visions.

  "Wow, I know, right? How long ago was that?" He's fishing for information, because we've never met. His hug is a little too tight and lasts a few seconds too long, just enough to start feeling creepy.