Catalyst Moon: Breach (Catalyst Moon Saga Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty.

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Catalyst Moon: Breach

  Lauren L. Garcia

  Copyright © 2017 by Lauren L. Garcia.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is published by Inkitt – Join now to read and discover free upcoming bestsellers!

  More books in the Catalyst Moon saga:

  Catalyst Moon: Incursion

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty.

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  One

  Kali took a deep breath to bolster her courage as the pain in her knee sharpened to a sear. Tears pricked her eyes; she twisted her hands in the bedclothes and bit her tongue to keep from whimpering. Beads of sweat trickled to the small of her back and although she knew better, she could have sworn that the other mage had pressed a burning coal against her skin.

  At last the pain ebbed and Kali opened her eyes. Her vision swam with black specks, but she could make out the other mage, a Zhee woman named Sadira, kneeling before her in the detritus of worn tunics and mismatched socks, regarding Kali's bare knee with knitted, moonstone-pale brows.

  A shaking inhale brought Kali some composure, but it would be hours before the pain receded fully – or as fully as it ever did. Kali managed to clear her throat and laughed weakly. “So much for being ready.”

  In one fluid motion, Sadira rose from her kneeling position and sat beside Kali on the sleeping pallet, smoothing out her colorfully embroidered dress as she settled. Kali had only met one or two other folks from Zheem in her lifetime, but they all had a certain grace to them and a refined edge that made her feel that much more awkward.

  Afternoon light poured into the window of Kali’s room in Whitewater Bastion, glinting on the hematite torc Sadira wore around her neck. The spiraled ends each rested several inches apart, just above the Zhee mage’s collarbone. Sadira’s skin, the color of terra cotta, contrasted with her pale hair and light blue eyes, and her accent added a lilt to each word. “The wound is very deep.”

  Kali frowned at her left knee, where there was no trace of a scar. “We’ve been over this. I was born this way. It’s no wound.”

  “Perhaps you do not remember getting it.”

  “I think I’d remember getting stabbed in my knee.”

  Sadira’s reply was calm. “As I told you when you first came to me, your condition is such that it will take a long time for me to ease your pain.”

  A familiar, unpleasant feeling squirmed in Kali's belly, and she began to toy with the end of her dark brown braid. “And you’re still sure that’s all you can do?”

  The Zhee mage looked at Kali’s knee again, her gaze growing distant. Kali took the opportunity to lean back on her hands and study her room – her own room. The concept was still difficult to wrap her mind around. But in the fortnight she had lived here, she had made the space her own. Perhaps too much her own, as clothes, books and scrolls now littered the small area. Only her viol was safe from being lost in the clutter, leaning upright in one corner.

  “There is a…” Sadira frowned in thought. “Minor flow of blood to this area.” She pointed to Kali’s knee.

  What in the stars does she mean? “Minor…?”

  “Not as much,” Sadira said, her brows knitting further. “Lower? No… Mess.” When Kali still looked at her blankly, she sighed. “What is the Aredian word?”

  Kali considered. The Zhee woman was still learning the finer points of the language. At this stage, Sadira’s Aredian was either impeccable or inscrutable; there was rarely a middle ground. “Do you mean ‘less’?” Kali asked at last. “There’s less blood flow to my knee than there ought to be?”

  “Less,” Sadira repeated, seemingly satisfied, though she still spoke with deliberation. “Yes, that’s it. As such, the… padding for the bones has not been able to properly heal. I believe the most I can do is… move some of the blood, which will eventually help ease some of your pain. But it won't truly heal the injury.” She sighed deeply. “I am regret.”

  “Sorry,” Kali corrected idly as her heart sank.

  Sadira nodded. “I am sorry.”

  The entire journey from Starwatch Bastion was for nothing. No, Kali reminded herself firmly. Not nothing. But in this moment, even the few pleasant memories from her trip faded in the wake of such news. Foolish though it was, she'd hoped that maybe one day she could live without pain. How many nights had she lulled herself to sleep with visions of dancing to her heart’s content?

  Kali tried to keep her disappointment from bleeding into her voice. “Don’t be sorry. You’ve done a lot for me, more than anyone else has been able to. I just…” She sighed. “I hoped that I could be healed all the way.” She ventured a glance at the other mage. “Perhaps, if you removed the torc…?”

  “No,” Sadira replied.

  “The fact that you can do magic while wearing it at all is extraordinary,” Kali pressed. “You must be very powerful. Surely, if you took it off, you could–”

  “Magic cannot fix everything,” Sadira interrupted.

  “I know that,” Kali said. “A little too well, perhaps. Anyway, thank you.”

  She tried to say the final two words in Zhee, though her accent was terrible and she may have called Sadira something unflattering. A smile curved upon Sadira's mouth, but it was faint and faded quickly as she offered a gentle correction.

  Kali’s knee still throbbed, but she tried to ignore the pain as she pointed to the nearest stack of books. “You know how this goes: it's time to even the score. Shall we continue your torture with poetry or prose?”

  Sadira wrinkled her nose. “Please, no more Aredian epic poems this afternoon.”

  “Prose it is.”

  The Zhee mage grabbed the book she and Kali had been working through and
stood up from the sleeping pallet. Kali, meanwhile, struggled upright, fighting back a grimace at her knee’s protests of the simple movement. When she was standing, her head swam and her vision pooled; only after a few deep breaths did she set herself to rights. Sadira stood by patiently without offering assistance and Kali shot her a grateful look. The other mage inclined her head and they slipped out of Kali’s quarters and into the stone corridor that would lead them to the common room.

  The mages’ living quarters consisted of a rounded, two-story stone building. The center held a spacious common area with multiple hearths, each with small vents into the mages’ rooms to allow heat inside. Mages filled the common area: bustling in and out of the double doors that led to the kitchen; playing cards or sipping tea at the several long tables that served as a dining hall; or, like Kali and Sadira would soon be, seated before one of the massive hearths, reading books or scrolls. Quiet conversation lingered alongside the pleasant warmth of the fire and the scent of baking bread that emanated from the kitchen.

  Kali and Sadira crossed the room. What few mages were in their path turned away at once, giving the two women a wide berth. Kali tried to catch someone’s eye, if only to smile or offer a mundane greeting, but as was becoming the norm, no one met her gaze. She and Sadira settled on a padded bench beside one of the crackling hearths, opposite two male mages, Cai and Marcen. The two men spoke in low tones; Cai, tall and wiry, was gesticulating to Marcen, who laced his slender fingers together in thought. When Marcen noted the two newcomers, he offered Kali a faint smile, which she returned, perhaps a bit too eagerly. Cai, though, looked at Kali and Sadira, scowled, and turned his back to them, urging Marcen to do the same as they continued their conversation.

  “They don't trust you, either,” Sadira murmured.

  Kali hefted the leather-bound book into her lap and glanced at her fellow mage in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  But Sadira only shook her head and nodded to the book. The volume was as thick as Kali’s spread palm, with an embossed oak tree on the cover, and when Kali plunked it between herself and Sadira, it gave an audible thunk against the bench. Cai shot her another annoyed look, which she pointedly ignored.

  Instead, she looked back at Sadira, and her voice sounded too small and too soft for her liking. “It was like this at Starwatch, too.”

  “Why?”

  Because my father was one of their jailers, she thought. Because I don't hate the sentinels like I should. To say nothing of Stonewall, whose face she saw in her mind's eye each night as she lay down to sleep and whose voice she heard in her dreams. Could the other mages sense such feelings, as they could sense the void left by hematite's presence?

  Of course she could reveal none of this to Sadira, so she only shrugged. “Not sure. Perhaps it was because I was much younger than most of the others, except when Eris was there.” She opened the book to the ribbon she’d left as a marker from their last session. “You've been at this bastion for a few years. How long did it take the others to accept you?”

  “I cannot say. It hasn't happened yet.”

  As if on cue, Cai glanced their way again, muttered something to Marcen, and the two men rose and slipped off, leaving the two women alone before the fire. Sadira did not watch them go, only tapped the book again, drawing Kali's attention. “What is this word?”

  Kali glanced at the page and gave a humorless laugh when she read the title of the next myth they'd come to. If the One god existed, the deity had a twisted sense of humor. “Tor. He's an Aredian god,” she explained at Sadira's confused look. “The patron god of many sentinels.”

  Sadira nodded and continued to read. Kali tried to pay attention, but her gaze wandered to where she could barely make out the bastion wall beyond the common room windows. Stonewall was out there, somewhere. Regardless of where he'd gone after they had arrived at Whitewater City, he was still a sentinel. He would go where he was sent; he would do his duty.

  Though Kali held no room in her heart for the gods, Stonewall did. In this moment, that was enough. Tor, protect him.

  ***

  Stonewall burned. Fatigue dragged his limbs and threatened to pull him down, but hematite still ran hot and fierce through each vein. He slammed his weight behind his sword and into the demon's chest. Eyes that glittered like stars met his own, blinding him in the dim light before the unholy thing screamed one last time and collapsed at his feet. The sound reverberated through the surrounding forest before cold silence settled.

  Breath fogging the air, Stonewall blinked into the darkness, searching for the rest of the squad. His squad. Two weeks into being an officer, he still wasn't used to the notion. “Damage?” he asked.

  Flint and Milo, the young burnie twins, stood over two Canderi men whose bodies lay like fallen trees across the forest floor. Dirt and gore covered both newly-made sentinels, but they shook their heads at his question. “I'm fine, ser,” Milo added, stepping away from the dead men. “Well, in one piece, anyway.”

  “Flint?”

  “The same. Ser.” She turned away from Stonewall, heading for their horses, which they'd left out of harm's way while they ambushed the thralls. The risk of a broken leg in the growing darkness and dense overgrowth posed a greater threat than the advantage of being mounted against the unholy creatures. Besides, the thralls could outrun any beast.

  Nodding, Stonewall looked at his mender, who knelt beside a Canderi with an arrow lodged in his throat. “Beacon?”

  “Present.” Beacon grimaced. “Sorry, ser. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

  “Good luck,” Stonewall replied as he came to the other man. “He's not alive, is he?”

  “No.” Beacon removed his helmet, revealing a head of short copper hair and a neatly trimmed beard, and surveyed the fallen Canderi. “Though I wondered, for a moment, despite Rook's good aim. Thralls don't go down easy.”

  Stonewall knew that – too well, perhaps. A gust of wind tore through his thick leather armor and he shivered, but it was not entirely with cold. Sometime during the fight, afternoon had descended into dusk, and the darkness was growing. The demon's screams still echoed in his ears, but otherwise, the clearing was too silent.

  Alarmed, he looked around again. “Where's Rook?”

  A petite woman dropped out of a nearby tree, light as a cat, and stowed her bow as she approached. “I'm here, Sergeant.”

  Sergeant. He tried not to wince at the title, though it rested upon him more heavily than his gear. Instead, he gestured to the three fallen demons. “I lost track of the fourth, the one in Aredian armor. Did you see where he went?”

  “Bolted like a hare, I think,” Rook replied, frowning.

  “I saw him take off into the woods,” Milo added. “Should we search for him, ser?”

  Though his words were chipper, the poor kid sagged in his gear. He looked about as rough as Stonewall felt, but duty was duty. The creature might very well be circling back around. Stonewall opened his mouth to reply, when–

  “Ea's balls!”

  Flint's curse was nearly lost in the thrall’s shriek. Stonewall whirled around in time to see a man in Aredian armor, eyes burning like twin stars, leap at her from the shadows, scattering the horses and knocking the young woman to the ground. The thrall raised its sword in preparation of a killing blow. Unthinking, Stonewall slung one of his daggers at the creature. The blade landed within the thrall’s shoulder, but that was enough to dissuade the unholy demon, for it backed away from Flint and darted into the darkness.

  Stonewall swore and sprinted for his own mount, Frost. All thoughts of his squad dropped out of his mind as he clambered into the saddle and urged Frost after the demon. The dapple-gray mare was Greenhill bred and sturdy, but was not as fast as whatever unholy thing had taken hold of that poor soldier. Even wearing a set of plate armor, the thrall was swift as a winter wind.

  It was treacherous going through thick forest like this, more so as darkness descended, so Stonewall
kept Frost to a game trail and prayed to Tor she would not stumble. The ground sloped upward and when they crested the hill he caught a gleam of armor not too far ahead.

  “Come on, girl,” he murmured to his mount. His voice sounded thin against the drumming of hooves and his own heart.

  Frost plummeted down the hill's other side, scattering small stones. They passed beneath a fallen tree trunk that had been caught against another; it hung low across the trail and Stonewall ducked to avoid being knocked to the ground. When he righted himself, his quarry was gone.

  He leaned his weight back in the saddle, signaling Frost to a halt. No sign of the demon-possessed man. In Tor's name... the thrall couldn't have vanished. Frost shifted beneath him as he drew his sword.

  “Easy,” he told the mare, though his heart still raced. Dusk had just fallen, but no crickets were singing.

  The familiar shriek pierced his skull and spurred him to action. Stonewall turned and raised his sword in time to meet another blade, a military-issued sword, heavier than his own. They struggled; being mounted, Stonewall had better leverage, but the thrall was stronger. With a single shove, the demon knocked Stonewall to the cold, hard ground. Frost galloped off, leaving Stonewall scrambling to his feet before his foe fell upon him.

  Stonewall met the thrall’s blade again, barely in time to prevent a slice at his side. The last traces of the day showed him that the thrall did indeed wear the skin of an Aredian soldier – a royal one, judging from the fine plate armor engraved with the royal sigil of an intricate star. Stonewall’s dagger was gone and no blood poured from the wound it must have left. Though far stronger than he, the creature was clumsy; it wielded the fine sword like it was chopping wood. Stonewall parried the blow, and then faced the armored figure whose helmet had been lost. Twin stars burned back at him, the only light in the falling darkness.

  They faced each other for a breath before the thrall lunged. Stonewall avoided the blow, but barely. He met the next with his sword, though his arm trembled at the unnatural strength behind the creature's swing. There was nothing human in the enemy he faced. The demon pressed forward again, driving Stonewall back several steps. He twisted out from under the demon's sword, but he was not fast enough this time. A deep, sharp pain burst from his left side but he could not spare breath for a curse as the demon reared back and prepared to strike again.