Chapter One

An Uneasy Peace

The landscape, just an hour south from the city of Minneapolis, stretched under the waning light of dusk, revealing remnants of corn stalks, brittle and broken, jutting from the soil. Their once golden hue was now faded to a mournful brown.

Ian crept slowly, his wavy dark hair playing lightly upon his forehead. His chestnut-colored eyes scanned the darkness ahead and behind him, a small group of men and women from the Brotherhood followed in close formation.

They weren’t there to marvel at the vastness around them. They were mercenaries; trained to do what many wouldn’t have the courage to do.

Ahead Ian saw an old home, its timbers rotted by time. He halted and once mercenary, braver or perhaps foolish than the rest, took the lead. His hand reached for the broken door and before he could grab onto the handle, it burst open with violent force.

A blur shot passed them and soon screams filled the air. Ian quickly dropped to the floor, realizing that the sounds came from the mercenaries around him.

He swept his hair away from his eyes and surveyed the area around him. The Deamhan moved impossibly fast.

“Pull back! Pull the fuck back!” Once mercenary, cradling a weapon to her chest, heaved. “We need back up!”

Ian frantically motioned for her to hit the ground but she remained on her feet.

“I thought you said those Deamhan were coming!”

“They are,” Ian replied.

Their numbers thinned and now only four mercenaries remained. Just as frantic as it once began, everything went silent except for her heavy breathing. Ian slowly rose to his feet and looked around.

“We’ll all be dead by the time they do,” she now whispered.

In the distance, a figure materialized under the gaze of the moon. Its eyes glowed with a cold, white fire. The glint of razor-sharp canines caught the moonlight.

“Estrie,” he growled.

It was a rare sight to see one.

In the beginning there were only eight variations of Deamhan. Now, there was just seven. They were called demons, hell spawns, and even vampires. Centuries ago, researchers in Ireland finally settled on the name Deamhan, due to their licentious behavior. Based on their feeding habits, they then split the Deamhan into separate categories: Ramanga, Lamia, Metusba, and Lugat. Soon, three more followed: Estrie, Ekimmu, Empusa, and Adze with the later three being the rarest and the only ones who could feed on not only vampires, but other Deamhan.

Through blood and with sharp teeth, the Ramanga drained every drop of blood from their victims. Being the only Deamhan with retractable fangs, they relied on the psychic energy within the blood to survive. Estrie were

The always conceited Lamia fed by draining the same energy through the mouths of their victims. They had no need for fangs. All they needed was a viable opening and a willing or non-willing participant.

Metusba, the quiet of all the Deamhan, fed off the psychic energy contained in their victim’s auras. They took what they needed, nothing less and nothing more.

Lugat fed off the leftover psychic energy by using their hands. They could feed off almost anything; where a person sat, what a person touched.

There was a good reason why these supernaturals remained in the shadows. Not only was remaining unknown to the world around them part of the Deamhan mantra, there weren’t that many of them left to begin with.

The rare Estrie Deamhan darted in and out of their defenses. Ian felt a spray of blood on the left side of his cheek and he heard the thud of bodies hitting the ground. The mercenaries fought bravely, but they were no match for the Estrie’s supernatural speed and strength. Its laughter was a chilling sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, taunting them.

Ian watched, breath caught in his throat, as one of his mercenaries—a young man with more bravery than years—was tossed aside like a ragdoll, bones snapping audibly upon impact with the ground.

“Screw this! Fall back!” the female mercenary shouted. She took off, with another mercenary in tow, but their futile attempt to escape was short-lived. A blur of motion and moments later, the sickening crunch of bones filled the silence. The Estrie went into hiding again.

“Your friends are dead, Behesian,” came a taunting reply from the darkness. “You’re all alone now.”

Ian felt impending defeat upon him. He had no choice.

He called on his gift.

He gritted his teeth, rage simmering beneath his skin. With one a thought, green mist expelled through his fingertips in hopes to obscure his location.

“Is that all you got?” The Estrie laughed. “I thought you Behesians were stronger than this.”

Ian refused to let the insult go unanswered. With a cry, he unleashed what little power remained within him, pointing it in the direction of the voice. The mist barely grazed its smirking visage before dissipating into nothingness.

It was then that two shadowy figures emerged from the darkness.

Anastasia’s form materialized from the shadows, her piercing brown eyes scanning the carnage with a vexing calm before transforming into dark pools. Beside her, Remy’s figure danced into view, a grin playing on his thin lips.

“You called?” Remy smirked.

The Estrie Deamhan now stood still as he found himself being circled by them.

“It’s an Estrie this time,” Remy said to Anastasia. “Aren’t they still… like… rare?”

Without a word Anastasia leapt at the Estrie. Her movements were graceful, a deadly dance of precision and power. In contrast, Remy moved with a fluid agility, his body contorting impossibly as he avoided blows and delivered his own.

They matched that of their enemy and for a good reason. They too were Deamhan.

Anastasia caught the Estrie mid-lunge and slammed him to the ground. She growled with her Ramanga fangs extended.

The Estrie looked up at her, and in a voice laced with both agony and a strange joy, he spoke, “You have no idea what’s coming.”

“Yes, I do. Death.” In one fluid motion, her hand plunged through the air and found its mark. She closed her fingers around the Estrie’s heart and yanked the decrepit muscle from his chest.

“And I welcome it,” the Estrie smiled.

And with those chilling words, his body disintegrated into a pool of blood, ashe, and dust.

Ian’s chest heaved from exertion and he glanced at his fallen comrades before glaring at Anastasia and Remy. “Where in the hell were you two?!”

Remy folded his arms with the widest sneer plastered across his face. “Me? I was out getting dinner. Got a little hungry along the way.” He then looked to Anastasia who didn’t bother to respond. “Did you know this one?” he asked about the Estrie.

“Why would I know this one?” she asked.

“Just like the other last week… he seemed… not surprised to see you.” He then shrugged off his own question. “Well, you do have a reputation to keep.”

“It can’t be a coincidence,” Ian spoke up.

“Well, maybe it is?” Remy replied, nonchalantly. “And what did he mean when he said you have no idea what’s coming. What exactly is coming?”

Anastasia straightened her posture. “Nothing,” she finally replied. “Just ominous riddles for dying breaths.”

Ohhh! I am super, super excited to share this with you guys and gals today!

I've been working super hard on this for a few months and I think I'm at the point where I'm becoming super comfortable with my newest book.

So...let's just get right into it, shall we?

PROLOGUE

Iaras have always been. That’s what they were told.

The skies in their foreign world opened and they arrived as saviors. Only Urher thought of it as more of being reborn.

These new creatures worshipped the Iaras and the deities expected to be showered in flowers and for their altars to be vast and grand. They opened their homes and hearts, enticing these unusual gods and goddesses with gifts of flowers, incense, and in some cases, sacrifices.

Xadia, the goddess of nature and sorrow, cared little for the sight of blood, spewed in her name. Instead, she was drawn to the beauty of trees and lush forests. She demanded her worshippers to be one with the land, treating each blade of grass and the animals that grazed on it with respect.

Naaris, the goddess of love and healing thrived on the pleas of the broken hearted as they searched for companionship. She listened to every call and sent her support and encouragement with each partnership forged in her name.

Eborh, the god of writing and wisdom preferred to listen to the stories that spilled from the mouths of those who spoke truth. Integrity was important and he whispered in their ears, guiding them to create the most important documents known to these creatures.

Misbah, the god of protection heeded the calls of the smartest and the brightest minds. Although his force was invisible, any who went against him found themselves struck down with the most powerful of blows.

Nuhena, the goddess of healing…the Mother of dark magic and the most trusted goddess provided balance among the pantheon. She showed her power through Srusmos flowers which covered the landscape.

And there was Urher, the god of dark magic; the Father of Crows. He was the only Iara who wanted more. He provided his portion of magic with the intention of blind obedience. When a call for revenge beckoned his action, he did so quickly with a smile. When the beings fought among each other, he yelled for them to fight more. His demanding nature became too much to bear and soon their worshippers lost themselves in his constructed play, which turned into a war within themselves.

The brightest stopped calling out. No longer did they care for love and their broken hearts mended themselves in chaos and revenge. They murdered their brightest who pleaded for peace. They tore their most sacred texts into pieces.

There was no need to celebrate life or death. This foreign world quickly turned dark, their forests burned, and their Srusmos flowers wilted in the never-ending flow of blood and bodies.

When there was no one left to worship their existence, the Iaras sat in the emptiness of that world, wondering what to do next.

With Urher being the cause behind their downfall, it was up to him to find a way.

And he did. He found them an out; a new playground.

A different universe, complete with its own set of rules. He set his eyes on a planet filled with living creatures who never heard of them; billions of potential followers, ripe for the taking.

However, there was one little caveat that they weren’t expecting. These new creatures; these humans, already had their own gods; thousands of them, and if the Iaras were to compete, they had to reinvent themselves. They had to stand out. They had to offer these humans something that no other gods had.

They had to start on a clean slate and Nuhena required them to do so. If not, she would leave them behind, alone, with only the emptiness of that world. There they would go crazy.

Yes, even gods can go crazy.

The Iaras arrived thousands of years ago to the complaints of the other gods who proved to be much more powerful than they realized. Here, all the gods took an equal piece of the pantheon pie and the Iaras were required to do the same.

And they did… that was, until Urher reverted to his usual games. He released his chaos onto the world, warping some of these humans by giving them just an atom of his dark magic. It made for an interesting time upon where he could watch and critique how they managed to handle these new found gifts.

Urher turned powerful. He turned all knowing. He transformed himself into a deity with unrelenting power, shifting the classes in his adopted playground. The humans took notice of his unrelenting thirst for power. Some accepted their new gods while the other deities hashed out a plan to get rid of him and the other Iaras once and for all.

Using their own power against them, the other gods trapped the Iaras in the Void. There they remained and as time passed, the humans started to consider all gods obsolete, created in the minds of their weak ancestors who lived before them. The altars became far and few. The ceremonies nonexistent. Some stayed while other gods left for newer universes. Soon, no one remembered the Iaras. No one knew if they ever existed. They turned into lore; stories told around the fires at night where embers burned, as did the memories of them.

That was… until somewhere, more dark magic was released upon the world. This created a tear in the Void; a tear big enough for just one of them to slither out into the world to be reborn.