Sinner: Feathers and Fire Book 5 Read online

  Sinner

  Feathers and Fire Book 5

  Shayne Silvers

  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.

  Shayne Silvers

  Sinner

  Feathers and Fire Book 5

  A Temple Verse Series

  © 2018, Shayne Silvers / Argento Publishing, 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.

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  BOOKS IN THE TEMPLE VERSE

  CHRONOLOGY: All stories in the Temple Verse are shown in chronological order on the following page

  FEATHERS AND FIRE SERIES

  UNCHAINED

  RAGE

  WHISPERS

  ANGEL’S ROAR

  SINNER

  BLACK SHEEP (BOOK #6) - COMING SOON…

  NATE TEMPLE SERIES

  FAIRY TALE - FREE prequel novella #0 for my subscribers

  OBSIDIAN SON

  BLOOD DEBTS

  GRIMM

  SILVER TONGUE

  BEAST MASTER

  TINY GODS

  DADDY DUTY (Novella #6.5)

  WILD SIDE

  WAR HAMMER

  NINE SOULS

  HORSEMAN

  LEGEND (TEMPLE #11) - COMING 2018…

  PHANTOM QUEEN DIARIES

  WHISKEY GINGER

  COSMOPOLITAN

  OLD FASHIONED

  DARK AND STORMY

  MOSCOW MULE

  WITCHES BREW - COMING 2018…

  CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER: TEMPLE UNIVERSE

  FAIRY TALE (TEMPLE PREQUEL)

  OBSIDIAN SON (TEMPLE 1)

  BLOOD DEBTS (TEMPLE 2)

  GRIMM (TEMPLE 3)

  SILVER TONGUE (TEMPLE 4)

  BEAST MASTER (TEMPLE 5)

  BEERLYMPIAN (TEMPLE 5.5)

  TINY GODS (TEMPLE 6)

  DADDY DUTY (TEMPLE NOVELLA 6.5)

  UNCHAINED (FEATHERS… 1)

  RAGE (FEATHERS… 2)

  WILD SIDE (TEMPLE 7)

  WAR HAMMER (TEMPLE 8)

  WHISPERS (FEATHERS… 3)

  COLLINS (PHANTOM 0)

  WHISKEY GINGER (PHANTOM… 1)

  NINE SOULS (TEMPLE 9)

  COSMOPOLITAN (PHANTOM… 2)

  ANGEL’S ROAR (FEATHERS… 4)

  MOTHERLUCKER (FEATHERS 4.5, PHANTOM 3.5)

  OLD FASHIONED (PHANTOM…3)

  HORSEMAN (TEMPLE 10)

  DARK AND STORMY (PHANTOM… 4)

  MOSCOW MULE (PHANTOM…5)

  SINNER (FEATHERS…5)

  Chapter 1

  The penthouse overlooked the glittering streets below. I watched the people walking from storefront to storefront, taking advantage of the cool evening air. Expensive cars cruised past, likely blaring music to attempt to impress any single females walking by—like a bunch of hairy fishermen running a large trawling net across the ocean floor to pick up some crabs.

  Pun intended.

  Other cars cruised by shining with only opulence and elitism, showing off the size of their bank accounts—or the weight of their monthly lease as they struggled to compete with their uncaring neighbors in the never-ending contest played by most Americans.

  I took a sip of my champagne, envying their ignorance. They had no idea that a horde of monsters in tuxedos and dresses was hosting a ritzy party high above their heads, discussing how best to slaughter the humans with impunity. That every single one of the attendees behind me was liable to rip their ignorant human throats out for the slightest offense.

  Or just for fun.

  And…like right now, I seemed to be the only one standing between the two parties—between the would-be Lords and their cattle. I grunted at coincidence. Then I took another healthy sip of my champagne, hoping to absolve myself of the responsibility for at least a few more minutes. Like any good Catholic, drinking was a healthy coping mechanism.

  I sighed wistfully, realizing my glass was now empty. Before I could find some depressing symbolism in that, a waiter with a hint of Asian descent whisked by like a ninja to replace my glass and then slip away so as not to disturb me too greatly. If he had been one heartbeat slower, I would have told him I preferred the champagne over the rosé he had given me. But I didn’t want to be that girl, so let it go, resigning myself to accept the unasked-for new experience with the grace of a Lady.

  I gasped as the pink alcohol touched my tongue in an explosion of crisp, sweet strawberry. It was shockingly good, much better than the champagne had been. Bastard waiters, able to read into my alcoholic soul without even a word, broadening my horizons with their demon-juice.

  I shook my head in begrudging appreciation of the posh service. The monsters knew how to throw a party—that was undeniable. The gentle sounds of violins behind me and the smells of the savory food lining the catered tables—raw oysters, lobster bisque, and dozens of other expensive dishes meticulously parceled out into bite-sized samples so as not to stall conversation from the tuxedo and gown-wearing crowd—was enough to make a girl momentarily forget about her problems.

  I didn’t want to be here, but it was an unfortunate requirement of my recent self-inflicted punishment—a small job I had undertaken. Rather than turning back to the firing squad of socialites, I continued staring through the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling window before me, envying those fishermen and crabs on the streets far below. That was where I belonged. In the trenches. The front lines—

  “Against stupidity, the very Gods Themselves contend in vain,” a voice said from beside me.

  I turned to see an exotic beauty studying me over the rim of her own champagne flute. She wore a cute little black dress that hung below her knees and her black hair was done-up in a perfectly tight bun. She lowered her glass, smirking playfully. Her big brown eyes flicked over the room in a swift assessment, indicating the guests huddled in groups of three or four drinking, talking, and likely making deals.

  “Friedrich Schiller?” I asked, surprised to hear someone quote the abstract German poet.

  She nodded, giving me an impressed once-over. I wasn’t that familiar with Schiller, but he was a favorite of my mentor, Roland Haviar. It was his favorite way to unwind after a stressful day of slaughtering monsters—seated in his favorite chair, reading Schiller by the fireplace at Abundant Angel Catholic Church. Well, it had been a favorite pastime.

  Before he’d become a vampire and been relieved of Shepherd duty for his conflict of interest.

  “It may have just begun, but I’m certain it will all be over soon,” the woman added with a playful grin.

  “What will all be over soon?” I asked, masking my instinctive trepidation as idle curiosity. Because I was standing in a room full of monsters, thank you very much—non
e were card-carrying members in my ever-so-small circle of trust club. Thankfully, the woman’s playful tone appeared to be mocking but authentic, not setting off any rational reason to alert my mental alarm bells that she was really some sociopath casually informing me she had poisoned the buffet tables. But I remained hyper-aware just in case. Because paranoia was a card-carrying member in my circle of trust. The bitch hardly ever lied to me.

  And one never truly knew what one faced with these types of crowds. And I’d assumed wrong before. Been played before by an innocent smile.

  Fuck happy, smiling people. That was a good mantra. They were often lying about something.

  “Materialism,” the woman replied with an easy shrug, showing off a delicate collarbone. I cocked my head at her answer, and used the motion to quickly scan the room full of guests behind us. There was a lot of money represented here, but there was mostly power. Magical power of some flavor.

  Many of the guests had acquired other forms of power over the years, as well, hedging their bets—whether it was political, monetary, or a vast number of followers. And no one knew every single secret their fellows held up their sleeves. Like a game of poker, they were all bluffing, calling, raising bets, folding, and using social cues to feign ignorance, to mask their true machinations, or to find an advantage to capitalize on.

  Not a single one of them looked truly happy. Momentarily pleased, yes. But that was it. With all the power at their disposal, I still sensed a frantic desperation in their eyes, and a profound emptiness in their souls.

  It was all so…trivial.

  But I kept my face blank as I turned back to my new friend, the pretty scholar.

  She was beautiful in a fashion, her black dress more professional than alluring. She wore delicate golden bands on her biceps that glittered with semi-precious stones. Her bronze skin seemed to glimmer in the light—likely some kind of lotion to subtly attract wandering eyes. Her face was long and narrow, and her harsh cheekbones stood out in the dim lighting, making it almost impossible not to stare. And her choice in makeup told me she had seen the dreaded smoky eye YouTube video.

  “Materialism…” I repeated, neither confirming nor denying I agreed with her comment.

  The woman jerked her chin out towards the street below us. “As above, so below,” she said demurely.

  “As above, so below. As within, so without…” I quoted. It was one of the seven principles of Hermes, and had been adopted in the Catholic arena, like most clever quotes had over the centuries. Roland had often used the phrase in my weapons training as well as my meditations.

  The woman nodded appreciatively, the flash of excitement in her eyes telling me that I was now officially adopted into her nerd-herd where we would change the world with cryptic quotes, one bored college kid at a time. Her plan was flawed, though, because my ability to recognize her was just a coincidence.

  Or…

  She was playing me, knowing more about me than she let on, tossing out specific quotes she knew would be familiar to me—like laying out a trail of small candies to lead me to her gingerbread house of death in the nearby woods.

  Paranoia made a girl feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

  “As above, so below,” the woman repeated. “They just don’t know it. Everyone competes in this unspoken game to prove how much better they are than their colleagues. Of course, there are different levels to the game…” she said, glancing back at the room around us. “Some more beneficial than others. But no one openly talks about those things. They just dance back and forth, back and forth, side to side, all along for the ride. There should be more to life than this.”

  I found myself nodding thoughtfully, wondering what flavor of power I was talking to. Some bored socialite looking for thrills? Or perhaps she was a powerful witch or shifter angling for a crumb of influence in Kansas City.

  “You sound like a friend of Dorian Gray,” I told her, taking another sip of my delicious rosé.

  She scoffed gently. “Hardly. Different circles.”

  I watched her eyes for any sign of deceit, but all I saw was amusement. Dorian seemed to have good relations with the witches through the Hellfire Club parties he hosted, so if she was being honest right now, she likely wasn’t a witch. “I’m sure he would love to meet you. Would you like an introduction?”

  “It isn’t necessary…but I wouldn’t turn it down,” she admitted with an interested grin.

  Chapter 2

  I realized I was still gauging her response, wondering if the entire purpose of our conversation was her angling for an introduction. Or maybe it was to avoid an introduction with Dorian. Circles within circles. I knew I hadn’t met her before and I couldn’t decipher what kind of supernatural—or Freak, as we were sometimes called—she was. She wasn’t a wizard like me. And she wasn’t from the Heavenly crowd. Maybe she was a witch of some flavor and was lying about knowing Dorian. She could have also been a shifter.

  That was the problem with a peace party like this between the local supernatural families in Kansas City—the first of its kind, I might add, thank you very much. It had taken some heavy negotiating on my part, but it all seemed to be working out. I’d petitioned enough different parties to chip in that it truly was a collected effort to bring everyone together. Much better than having one party set it all up—which would have resulted in everyone else acting standoffish and suspicious of a trap all night.

  Admitting that you didn’t know who someone was could be the equivalent of opening a vein to weaken yourself before a potential enemy. Your ignorance seen as a weakness to be exploited.

  Or it could be seen as disrespectful—immediate grounds for a coincidental violent crime to be inflicted upon your person on your way home after the party.

  Couldn’t have that, now, could we?

  The entire point of the evening was to get to know each other, and since everyone had unanimously voted no on wearing nametags, it was a pond full of Great White Sharks.

  Which led me to wonder. Was my new friend a potential enemy, an ally, or a third party just hoping to survive the tension between the various other families?

  Because there was definitely tension, and I had caused a big portion of it. By now, most had heard of my activities in recent months—taking out a couple Demons and, allegedly, an Angel. The Demons had been subtly angling the families against each other to start a civil war of some kind. Or to unite the families against an enemy that the Demons had never specifically mentioned. I was personally of the opinion that any enemy of a Demon was probably a good drinking buddy to have.

  The Angel I had taken out had made poor life decisions and had Fallen from grace as a result. Fallen right onto my thumb, as a matter of fact. But I didn’t want to draw attention to that, so kept the ring of shadows circling my thumb out of view as discreetly as I could. No one wanted to talk to the girl with a Fallen Angel wrapped around her finger. She was probably super creepy.

  But since no one really knew what had been false, true, or anywhere in between, no one really knew where they stood with their neighboring families. Had the werewolves really done that thing that made the vampires so furious? Did the bears really hate the Vatican Shepherds? Were the witches really friends with the Faerie Chancery? Is that why they weren’t attending tonight? To hide their backroom allegiances with the witches? Or was it the wolves?

  Essentially, this was prom night for the monsters. And the kids were a’gossiping.

  With a sigh, I smiled at my new friend. “My name is Callie,” I told her.

  “Oh, how precious. Everyone knows who you are,” the woman said with a smile. “I like women who take a stand against our hairier, self-proclaimed overlords. The world could do with a mother to keep these children in line. You wear the mantle well.”

  I found myself smiling at her gibe at men, but also because it equally applied to monsters and Demons. Equal opportunity discrimination in action. I didn’t entirely agree on the black and white comment, but I understood what she meant.
I didn’t think men needed to be in charge of everything. I didn’t think women needed to be in charge of everything. As in all things, balance was necessary. It had nothing to do with what biological toolkit one was given at birth, but with what that person did with their tool.

  Considering how that sounded, I let out a sigh, accepting my depravity with grace.

  “Oh, my name is Cleo,” she said, blushing slightly.

  I smiled, but my heart might have fluttered a little. Cleo as in…Cleopatra? Or was that just some kind of coincidence? However, asking such a question could make me look either disrespectful if she was Cleopatra, or childish if she wasn’t. “Nice to meet you, Cleo,” I said, lifting my glass in cheers. “Let’s go find the center of the moral depravity.” I turned my back on her, wondering if this fit into my plan for the evening or if it would hinder it.

  “I thought you were introducing me to Dorian?” Cleo asked from behind me.

  And that right there hinted pretty strongly that she did not know Dorian Gray.

  Unless…she was playing games, feigning ignorance. I really needed to drink more. Otherwise I would soon begin avoiding people altogether to become some crazy cat lady. Severe inebriation sounded much more pleasurable as a lifestyle choice. Cats were assholes.

  Speaking of…

  “Have you ever visited the Great Sphinx?” I asked Cleo over my shoulder. I had recently met Phix, the actual Sphinx, and she had taken a shining to me—self-admittedly adopting me as her plaything. Spending more than ten minutes with her at a time left my brain feeling like swiss cheese because her every comment was cryptic, a riddle, or spoken in a tone that let you know she was leading you towards a specific conclusion or statement. That—in her mind—the conversation had already ended and she was merely following the dance card for propriety’s sake. Thankfully, she was out on some errand for Darling and Dear—the mysteriously powerful, self-proclaimed Armorers of the Apocalypse, as they’d taken to calling themselves.