Aeonian Dreams (Zyanya Cycle Book 2) Read online

  Aeonian Dreams

  By Morgan J Muir

  Copyright © 2018 Morgan J Muir.

  All rights reserved.

  morganjmuir.com

  Aeonian Dreams 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.

  ISBN-13: 978-1982042400

  ISBN-10: 1982042400

  Cover art by Joelle Douglass

  smojojo.deviantart.com

  For Jason

  Who waits for me as I wander my World of Dreams.

  Prologue

  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

  Aeonian Dreams

  I am Ángel de la Muerte, the ghost in the darkness, the name whispered in the wind, the Angel of Death. I dream of the day when I might finally take your hand to lead you to the land of our Fathers, when we might finally rest together in peace.

  Prologue

  Mariah burned. She watched with a detached calm as her body screamed until her throat was too raw for further sound, her body arching and spasming on the cold stone floor. She watched, bodiless, in her mind, in this place that was not a place. Here she did not have a body that could be trapped by cold cavern walls. Here she was free.

  A gentle breeze blew and swept her away, but she felt it as she never had before. She felt the very particles of the air collide with each cell of skin-that-was-not, felt each hair on her head move as the wind tossed it around. She turned her face to the sun and basked in its warmth. Looking down, she saw her body, pale and sinuous; she moved through a field of grass with such ease and power that Mariah felt that even gravity could not hold her down if she tried to fly.

  The smell of the rain in the air and the ocean salt in the breeze was in her nose. She loved the rain. In the distance her body burned and her heart struggled to continue. Her voice screamed silently while her body fought its losing battle. Mariah, beckoned the wind as it danced through her ethereal hair.

  She could see him, not too far off, breathtaking in the sunlight. Magnificent and perfect, he stood, with his claret-and-silver eyes as deep as her own. She did not try to run to him, she simply wished herself there and then she was. They stood, staring at each other. Mariah raised her hand, reaching for him, but he twitched, turned back toward Maracaibo, and was gone. She knew where to find him.

  Mariah stood on the balcony of the garden of Casa de la Cuesta. A haunting Wayuu lullaby drifted over her, and a small fire burned in the distance. Beside her, the old woman with long, silvered hair watched with a satisfied smile. A shaft of hurt and anger pierced her heart, but then he walked by, and Mariah followed quickly. She would reach him in time: nothing could stop her.

  In the distance, in a cold, dark cave, her dying heart sped up in one final effort to live as the burning venom, having consumed the rest of her body, turned its full force on the noble muscle. The body had long since stopped trying to scream. Screaming was useless.

  He stopped at the entrance to the garden and she reached out to him. I’m here! she called out, Miguel! but her hand passed through his shoulder as he entered the garden. Mariah’s breath caught in her ephemeral body as he walked by, his familiar gait just as before but with so much more grace. He wore different clothes, but wore them with that same ease as though they were a part of him. Miguel’s dark, shoulder-length hair shone in the afternoon sun and his face was as handsome as that of a great seraph. She stood, frozen, as he walked on, his silver-and-scarlet eyes fixed on his goal and his stride full of purpose. Not until he had turned the corner did the spell of seeing him again loosen its hold on her

  She ran after him, calling out. Miguel! He moved swiftly toward the garden, her garden at Casa de la Cuesta, where he would expect to find her. Sophus, that demon, had planted the idea for him to return to Maracaibo for her. But she was not waiting for him in Maracaibo. Soon, though. Soon she would be strong enough to escape and go to him.

  She again called to him as he reached for the gate to the garden. He stopped and cocked his head. She was certain he had heard her this time.

  I’m here! she cried, reaching out to him, but as before, her hand passed through his arm. I’m here! she tried again in desperation.

  Far to the north on a cold stone floor, her physical body had ceased its struggle, twitching toward its final death throes.

  “I can’t even remember what you look like, though I could swear I hear your voice.” Miguel closed his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face. “I remember so little of the life before, not even your name, but more than anything, I remember that I loved you beyond reason ….” He inhaled deeply, tasting the air, then opened the gate and stepped in. She peered in after him and ice filled her chest.

  He hesitated, and for a moment Mariah had hope. She knew him well enough; she could see the uncertainty hidden beneath the surface. But then he stepped forward, so sure of himself and full of purpose. Silently, he moved toward the seated figure, a young woman who was absently twirling a flower.

  NO! Mariah threw herself at him but her ghostly form couldn’t touch him. No! Not her! Not her! She stood between them, trying desperately to regain his attention, but his eyes, all his senses, were riveted on the young woman with golden-blond hair. He stopped, waiting in silence, until the woman looked up. If she was startled by his presence, she didn’t show it. He peered down at the woman, and Mariah could read his hesitation.

  A moment of silence crept by before the golden-haired woman gave out a joyful cry as she reached toward him, dropping the flower. “Miguel! I knew you would come for me!” At these words he lost all traces of uncertainty as he knelt before the blonde woman, taking her hand and kissing it gently.

  You snake! Mariah hissed at her old friend, trying without success to knock her hand away.

  “Am I dead?” the young woman asked, reaching up to touch his face. “If so, you are a most beautiful Angel of Death.”

  “No”—Miguel held himself very still—“though an Angel of Death I may be.”

  “You are changed. Have you come to take me with you?” the woman asked, peering into his penetrating eyes.

  “I have.”

  No…. Mariah despaired, sinking to the ground, as Miguel rose with the wrong woman. Even in her anguish she felt clearly every blade of grass beneath her, every movement of hair that fell down her ephemeral back, every stir of the air, and heard every rustle as the golden-haired witch threw herself into his arms. She lay on the ground, knowing all these things and wishing desperately for oblivion. Turning her eyes to the gate they had just passed through, Mariah saw only darkness.

  In the darkness beyond the gate, the lights of the floating village danced like stars on the lake’s surface. With the strange disconnect of this dream-like realm, she found herself standing before the water’s edge. Peering down through the dark water, she could see the fish flitting about in the darkness. Nearby, a funeral barge waited bearing his lifeless, mortal body beneath a shroud
of flowers. The barge moved out, floating on the waves, dancing among the lights. One by one, they flickered and went out, and Mariah was left alone on the dock in the darkness of her dreams.

  From the darkness he stepped forward, new and perfectly glorious. Mariah rushed toward him, but the blonde figure who had lurked for so long in the edges of her dreams stepped between them, emanating loathing, malice, and hate. In a distant, cavernous room filled with reflected sunlight, Mariah’s heart finally succumbed to the venom, the final burst of burning pain pulling her back, into the dark void.

  As her mind returned to its new, perfect, immortal body, a voice that chilled her soul drifted back across time and space, the voice of the hateful, silver-eyed shadow.

  I saw him first, Elisa snarled. He will always be mine.

  Chapter 1

  1743 – Guajira Peninsula

  Mariah, the wind whispered brushing, its soft caress across her mind.

  She lay in the empty darkness, still and cold and perfect and complete. She knew that lights danced on the water’s surface, and a jealous force waited just out of sight, and somewhere, elsewhere, there was pain. Great pain and death echoed in her mind, but here, now, there was nothing but darkness and the floating lights and the wind carrying whispers in its wings.

  Mariah, the wind murmured as it drifted past her ear.

  Mariah, she echoed with wonder. So I am.

  Mariah, a flutter of wings, an echo of whispers, a chorus of silence. Live.

  Mariah opened her eyes.

  Swirling above her were particles the color of silver, storm, lead, and smoke that danced in a shaft of sunlight. As she watched, their movements slowed, giving in to entropy within the light that existed between her and the stillness beyond. It was stone, she realized. She lay on cool stone and took in its smooth yet lumpy texture. The air moved across her skin in a reflection of the dance of the motes. She existed, feeling for the first time, seeing for the first time, being for the first time.

  And then, for the first time, she moved. Her hand was before her face, strange and different, and yet the same. She flexed it and turned it over, examining it, and then raised her other hand. Content that they were hands, she pushed herself to a seated position, looking around.

  She was in a cave? Yes, she assured herself, this is a cave, and I should be here. It was furnished with couches and rugs, tables and bookshelves, and a large mirror not too far away. She stood and found her soul settling more firmly into her newly changed body. As it settled, the memories began to come forth from the fog of oblivion.

  Mariah stood in front of the mirror and examined herself. Her long black hair hung down her back in glossy waves. Her slender body was perfection itself; her skin was a pale tan and smooth, contouring perfectly over the muscles and bone beneath, elegant as she moved. She shifted her weight effortlessly to a perfectly formed leg that, but a short time ago, had not been able to bear her weight at all. The absence of pain shooting through her leg and hip startled her; the injury had been an imperfection that had burned away.

  Running her hands from her hips to her belly, Mariah saw that the stretch marks that had borne testament to her fertility and the trophy of a woman’s successful battle for life, were gone; erased when the skin had been refined to trim smoothness. Up to her breasts, which had also done their part in bringing forth life and had shown their use. They, too, had been restored to perfect fullness and lift in the burning away of mortality. She slid one hand across her shoulder, down the other arm that was too smooth. Gone was the scar that marked a moment of carelessness sparring with her own black-haired angel who flitted in the corners of her memory. All the marks of her previous life were gone.

  Mariah examined her face, recognizing it, but only vaguely. It was sharper now, the features more defined and the skin somewhat paler. The biggest difference lay in her eyes. Eyes that had once been a deep, dark brown were now deep burgundy, with threads of silver working their way through the iris. Her dark-haired angel had eyes like these. It was her new eyes that pleased her the most.

  “You are a sight to behold, mi corazón,” a musical voice said from behind her. Sophus, the name grated in her mind. She watched in the mirror as he stepped behind her, draping a large, ivory, silk robe over her bare shoulders. She remained still, refusing to cringe at his loathsome, lingering touch.

  Mariah tied the thin robe closed. The pale cloth matched well with her new skin and dark hair, hugging her curves and draping elegantly across her shoulders while baring her back. Her eyes moved to the reflected face of the man behind her. His light blond hair hung in tight curls down his neck, over the loose collar of his shirt and his tawny-red and silver eyes spoke of an age far greater than he appeared. His skin was lighter than hers, and not quite as smooth, with the relatively more rugged look common to men. The difference startled her; her mortal eyes had seen him as young, smooth-skinned, and perfectly beautiful. He was still those, but to her new eyes and compared with her he seemed merely mediocre. Compared to the man in her dream, he was bland.

  “Sophus,” she stated, confirming the name that had come to her mind.

  “Yes, Mariah?” A slow smile spread across his face. Devious, conniving. She despised him … but why? The memory – more than a memory – the knowledge was there, on the cusp of her consciousness, but she could not recall it. She had to find the man in her dream, but the knowledge of it faded in and out. There was something else she was meant to do, a reason for all this, a reason Sophus could not be allowed to know. A mournful wolf’s cry filled her mind, pulling at her.

  “I am like you, now.” She turned from the mirror to Sophus, flashing him her most charming smile.

  ***

  Mikhael stood before a large plantation home, with wisps of swirling memories dancing around him as he walked around to the back. A toddler giggled inside the house, followed by a peal of laughter from a second child. A strangely comforting scent wafted out to him, full of life and vitality, and yet it did not arouse his bloodlust — a first in his short, dark life as a vampire. He inhaled it deeply, smiling as it filled him with a sense of joy and satisfaction that he had never before known. He lingered a moment more, savoring the feel of it before continuing on.

  Following where his feet took him, Mikhael neared a garden gate, surrounded by tall hedges. A familiar presence wrapped itself around him; he could almost feel her standing there.

  “Miguel!” a voice he thought he knew called softly from behind. Pausing, he cocked his head, not sure if he’d really heard. He didn’t need to look, all his senses told him no one was there. “I’m here, I’m here!” the quiet voice pleaded, full of love.

  “I can’t even remember what you look like, though I could swear I hear your voice,” he said quietly, closing his eyes against the pain. “I remember so little of the life before, not even your name, but more than anything, I remember that I loved you beyond reason ….” Mikhael inhaled again, tasting the air. Opening the gate, he stepped in.

  He did not expect what he found. A beautiful young woman, with hair like sunlight and her sorrowful eyes downcast, sat on a bench. For a moment he hesitated, disappointment filling him. Surely she wasn’t … The young woman looked up at him and the very sunlight seemed to brighten as recognition filled her face. Mikhael’s doubt fled before her joy. He knelt and kissed her hand. She didn’t even flinch at his cold touch, but looked up at him expectantly. As he left with her, he felt a twinge of disappointment and a sharp edge of grief which faded as the gate swung shut behind them.

  Chapter 2

  1743 – Outside Maracaibo

  Mikhael was at home on the water. The feeling had surprised him at first, but the peaceful, dark expanse that surrounded them in the darkness soothed his agitation. The waves gently rocked the small boat as the breeze propelled them forward, guided by his deft hand. Mikhael gazed at the young, golden-haired woman sleeping near the bow, wrapped in a blanket. It was lucky he’d had one on board, as the breeze that blew across the water
could chill a person despite Maracaibo’s typically warm weather. The bit of unbidden knowledge again surprised him.

  Elisa, the young woman had said her name was. Something about her made him smile.

  You ought to have just carried her, Theron pouted, breaking into Mikhael’s thoughts and speaking directly into his mind. But I suppose you are correct. Poor mortal thing that she is, she would have wearied far too easily, possibly even fallen ill. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?

  Mikhael scowled. I promised not to dally.

  So you did. The things I must endure for your sake, Theron sighed. She certainly is beautiful, though.

  She’s mine, Mikhael growled at his unwelcome guest.

  Come now, Mikhael, there’s no need to be so touchy, Theron replied, amused. I was merely observing and applauding your choice in women.

  Mikhael’s scowl turned into a low growl.

  Tell me, what are you planning to do with her, once you get her back here? Theron asked, hardly hiding his smugness.

  What do you mean? Mikhael was not at all sure he liked where this was headed.

  Well, you can’t honestly think she’d be safe near you forever, do you? At Mikhael’s silence, Theron continued. Even if you were able to control yourself around her, do you think she’d stay once she has seen me? Or that she will be less than utterly disgusted with you once she sees you feed?

  Mikhael refused to comment and, for a while, he seemed alone with his thoughts. He stared at the distant coast in the darkness, judging the winds and adjusting the sail. What would she think? What if he did lose control? What if he accidentally killed her? And if he didn’t, did he have any reassurance that Theron would not? Theron chuckled in the back of his mind and Mikhael frowned. Was there no way to keep that bastard from watching his every thought? They both knew there was no way to prevent Theron from seizing control of Mikhael’s body, and the best Mikhael had managed to do in return was annoy him. While annoying the older vampire could be an effective tool for leverage, it had backfired on Mikhael before. Theron was temperamental, and Mikhael enjoyed his limited freedom too much to risk irritating his captor needlessly.