Storm's Fury

  title page

  Storm’s Fury

  An Anubi Brothers Novel

  Nya Rayne

  ...

  An imprint of

  Musa Publishing

  Copyright Information

  Storm’s Fury, Copyright © 2012 by Nya Rayne

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  ...

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

  ...

  Musa Publishing

  633 Edgewood Ave

  Lancaster, OH 43130

  www.musapublishing.com

  ...

  Published by Musa Publishing, February 2012

  ...

  This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

  ...

  ISBN: 978-1-61937-136-1

  ...

  Editor: Elizabeth Silver

  Cover Design: Kelly Shorten

  Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna

  Warning

  This e-book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for adults as defined by the laws of the country where you made your purchase. Store your e-books carefully where they cannot be accessed by younger readers.

  Dedication

  To my mom, who has always had my back no matter what;

  thank you and it is because of you that I continue to push forward.

  To the girls at Musa Publishing who worked on everything from the beautiful cover to the page numbering, thank you; you all did an outstanding job.

  And I could not have asked for a better group of people to back this baby.

  But most of all, to my muse, my right and my left hand, my sounding board,

  my pusher, the one person on this planet that might know Fury and Stormy

  a little bit better than myself, Lee. Girl, you were there from the first to the final draft and you’re still there; thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done

  if I didn’t have you in my corner to make sense of my thoughts and to talk me down off those ledges. And we both know there were many. I certainly don’t think I would’ve been here now. To, to you, my friend, I will be forever indebted.

  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  Prologue

  April, 2007

  Thunder preceded its lover, lightning, as it sliced across the sky. Rain poured down, blanketing the city, its goal to punish the millions of sinners calling it home.

  Ambrosia “Stormy” Wyatt’s foot sank into a puddle of sullied water, saturating her sneakers. Fear stiffened her spine as a trash can crashed in the darkness behind her. She spun around and searched the shadows to her left and right. They seemed to breathe and swell with a heartbeat all their own. They reached out to her, called to her, promised her a lifetime of pain whenever she got too close.

  She hefted her bag higher on her shoulder, spun back and broke into a sprint toward the mouth of the alley.

  Her breath shuddering, water soaked through Stormy’s clothing, carrying a chill deep into her marrow.

  Stormy hurdled a bag of garbage that could have been mistaken for a dead body, determination her only friend. She knocked a nearby trash can over in hopes of slowing her unseen pursuers as she raced for the well-lit street.

  She had to get to the light. They couldn’t get her there.

  Stormy had stayed too long when she knew better. The little voice in the back of her mind had urged her to stick to the original plan—three weeks—and get the hell out of town before leaving was no longer an option.

  She hadn’t listened this time.

  Instead, she had made a friend of Mrs. Velda Johnston, the sweet old woman rooming above her. Mrs. Johnston had had a stroke earlier that week, and Stormy stayed to help with her affairs until her daughter could fly in. One extra day, that was all, and they were close on her trail once again.

  She barreled around the corner and took only a second to scan up and down the sidewalk.

  Pushing soaked strands of hair out of her face, she cursed under her breath. “Sin City, huh? Well, where the hell is a sinner when you need one?” There wasn’t a pimp, prostitute, sidewalk evangelist, drunk, or police officer in sight.

  Stormy spared another second to glance behind her before she turned and bolted across the deserted street and down the strip toward the lights of the Bellagio.

  She didn’t know a soul there, and she damn sure couldn’t afford one of their rooms even if she saved for six months. But she’d heard rumors that the hotel had so many lights it could be seen from a shuttle orbiting the earth. That was probably a lie, but any place was safer than where she was.

  The noise came then, like a million screeching claws raking across a thousand chalkboards. It dug into her soul, buried itself deep into her mind and demanded she halt. A part of her felt compelled to obey, but the primitive part wouldn’t allow her to. It ordered her to run harder, faster, and further.

  And run she had, but how much longer would she have to run before she felt safe again?

  Stormy covered the remaining distance to the hotel and pushed through the revolving doors. Her chest heaved, and her lungs burned as she turned to look back into the night’s shadows.

  She could feel their eyes on her, waiting for her to let her guard down and to give in to their silent call. The danger and their merciless intent were undeniable.

  “Never,” she whispered, her breath fogging the glass door sealing her in. In that moment, she swore the shadows closest to the building reared up, transformed into a clawed hand that reached out across the ground toward her, leaving jagged ruts in the street.

  She staggered back and through the second set of thick glass doors. “Never,” she hissed at the darkness.

  Thunder rolled. Blades of lightning streaked angrily across the domed skylight high above her head and crashed into something in the near distance, sending a loud boom echoing through the night.

  In the instant it took Stormy to understand that the sound was a transformer blowing, she was standing in a sea of darkness.

  Chapter One

  October, 2014

  In human form, Fury spiraled through cloud after cloud until the sea below him was a blanket of blackness. He dipped his head, pushed one shoulder back, the other forward, and threw his body into a tailspin, plummeting headfirst toward the water. Wind roared past his face, forcing tears from his eyes as he stared at the ink-black ocean below him. It waited with arms wide open, promising peace and salvation.

  Damn it, Fury, his older brother, Crul, snarled via their pack’s mental link. If you want to kill yourself, do it later.

  Fury pulled out of the tailspin at the last second and shot forward, riding low over the calm sea. The harsh smell of salt water attacked his nostrils, chasing away the raunchy scents of the crowded city miles behind him. Whales called to their mates ahead of him, unheeding as he streaked through the air above them. Arms out to his sides, he slowed and rolled so he was staring into the vastness of the sky above.

  Are you still in Maine? When Fury didn’t answer, Crul continued. Hatrid checked in a
moment ago. One of his tips is about to pay off.

  Fury sighed and stopped altogether, his body hovering over the waves as they rolled in a continuous dance. Simulating a human act not necessary to his kind, he inhaled. His body had no more use for oxygen than it did for a functioning heart—neither sustained him. But he often pretended both were of the utmost importance; it made him feel somewhat alive.

  Why didn’t he tell me himself?

  Fury was born of folklore, whispered about in dreams, and was the threat to children on the lips of mothers and fathers. He was both a destroyer and a redeemer—trusted by none, but needed by many. He was an Anubi, made in the likeness of Anubis, the God of Darkness and Death.

  Unlike some, he tries to follow protocol.

  Fury ignored the jab. Where is he?

  The Shiver Building in Atlantic City. He’ll be waiting in the alley for you.

  How many?

  Three.

  And exactly why am I needed? Hatrid’s capable of handling this on his own.

  A long moment of silence passed between them before Crul spoke again. It’s not the Yazaron.

  The Yazaron had been created for the express purpose of protecting Anubis’s wife, Anput. However, when they had delivered the killing blows to Anubis at Anput’s request, they’d been banished to the far corners of the earth and cursed. Their once handsome faces became rotting, festering flesh. Their bodies, once muscled and healthy, were now riddled with lesions, their shape caught between man and jackal, but never more one than the other.

  Unable to withstand sunlight, or even the mere wattage of a street lamp, the Yazaron were forced to find sanctuary far beneath the earth during daylight hours and lurk within the darkest alleys and caves during moonlight hours. They scoured the streets and forests at night, hunting, devouring, and destroying. They cared nothing for the lives they took or the blood they shed, but always sought to sate their insatiable lust for the blood, skin, and tissue of Anubis—the only cure for their curse.

  Fury stilled, his mind automatically reaching for Crul’s. Before he could delve past the wall his eldest brother constructed to keep him out, Crul continued. It’s Terroar’s younger brother, Luzivius.

  Fury severed their link without another word and shot forward, covering six hundred plus miles in the blink of an eye.

  “It’s about time.” Hatrid’s voice cut through the darkness as Fury landed in the alley off Atlantic Avenue.

  Fury turned without a word and tried to overlook the scurrying cockroaches and rats, but he couldn’t ignore the putrid smell of day-old vomit coming from the far corners. Lips curled back away from his teeth, he stalked toward the street, his intent to merge with the droves of people walking by.

  Hatrid caught up with him easily. “Crul said all parties are to be brought in for questioning, which means we’re not to kill anyone this time.”

  “Is that so?” Fury paused momentarily and peered up and down the street. His eyes came to rest on a malfunctioning red neon sign flashing, “irls, Girls, Gi ls” and below it, in smaller glowing white letters, “All ude, our fi st lap dan e i f ee.” Half naked, heavily painted women of varying colors, heights, and weights lined the sidewalk in front of the establishment and both sides of the street, looking like poorly produced Knotty dolls. Some reclined against walls, others light poles, and even more leaned in the windows of cars.

  Talking business, no doubt, he mused.

  “Yes, that’s so,” Hatrid answered from beside him.

  “Is this where the meeting is being held?” Fury asked as he took in the rundown red brick building before him.

  “Eleventh floor. Last room on the left,” Hatrid said. “Seriously, let’s try not to kill anyone this time.”

  His words fell on deaf ears. Fury was already breaching the eleventh floor via the stairwell.

  A few months ago at a bar on Spruill Avenue in Charleston, SC, Stormy had learned that prostitution did not have to involve sex. It was all about choosing the right john, the right location, and setting her stun gun to “debilitate.”

  She sashayed closer to the street just as a spotless black Town Car pulled up to the curb. She turned to face the back passenger window, one hand on her hip, the other gripping her purse. After standing patiently for a moment, she checked the time on her Casio before turning to leave.

  Stormy stopped when the back window slid down.

  A heavy-set, cruddy-faced man with a pimply, bulbous nose stared back at her.

  “How you doing, honey?” She imitated the heaviest southern drawl she could remember from her short stay south of the Mason-Dixon Line. “Time is money, darling. Come on out with it.”

  Cruddy Face smiled, his bloodshot eyes devouring her. “It’s a beautiful night for a walk, isn’t it?”

  “If you plan on taking it with me, it could be.” She smiled. “What can I do for you this fine evening?”

  He looked around as though he suspected he was being setup in a sting. “Directions?”

  Stormy stepped to the car. Elbows balanced on the edge of the open window, she spoke in a voice doused with sensuality. “Quick directions will cost you a hundred dollars. But, if you want me to take you there—” she gave him a minute to allow what she was saying to sink in before continuing “—it’s two-fifty. If you want me to walk you to the door and, you know, show you around, it’ll cost you five hundred.”

  Stormy remained where she was, her attention focused intently on her mark. This was all a part of the ruse. Make him feel like he was the only man in the world for her, and then take from him the one thing she needed.

  It wasn’t the kind of life she would have chosen for herself, or even for her worst enemy, but she’d learned a long time ago that when life gives you lemons, you didn’t take the lemons and make lemonade. No. Instead, you squeeze the lemons in the eyes of the first patsy that comes along, take from him what you want, and go down the street and purchase what you really need.

  The car door swung open. “Take me there and show me around.” Cruddy Face slid to the other side of the black leather seat, making room for her to slide in beside him.

  She turned away from him, nodded her head and waved as if telling her pimp she would be back soon, and then slid into the car.

  Stormy didn’t have a pimp. She was there alone. She was always alone, but Cruddy Face didn’t need to know that.

  The burly, bald driver pulled away from the curb and drove a few blocks down before he turned into a dark alley, slipped out of the driver’s seat and disappeared into the back of one of the buildings.

  “Where’s he going?” Stormy dug through her purse. He would assume she was looking for a condom and some lubricant, but in actuality she was setting the volts on her specially ordered Taser to sixty thousand. With a quick glance at Cruddy Face, she assessed his weight. He has to be between two hundred ninety-five and three hundred twenty pounds, give or take a few. She didn’t want to kill him, but she had to make sure he was down for the count, and he was a big boy.

  “Don’t worry about him. He’ll be in there for at least thirty minutes,” Cruddy Face said through a throaty pant. “We can start the party here and finish it at my hotel room.”

  “Perfect.” With a crook of her fingers, she beckoned him closer. “What’s your name?”

  “P-Paul Sanderson,” he stammered. It was obvious he wanted to give her the impression that he was well-versed in the world of johns and hookers, but he might as well have been a Lexus driven straight off the assembly line. She could smell the newness rolling off of him.

  This knowledge made her want to feel sorry for him. But she couldn’t allow any part of her to feel remorse at the moment. Sympathy and reluctance were a foreign language to the streets, therefore, at the moment it also had to be foreign to Stormy.

  When she slipped into her motel room at the end of the night, closed and locked the door behind her, stripped out of her costume, showered, and finally crawled into bed, she would pray for forgiveness for her actio
ns. But to do so now, to allow even a smidgen of weakness to creep through her façade, meant the difference between life and death.

  “Are you from Atlantic City, honey?”

  “No, I’m in town on business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “A medical conference…of sorts.” As he moved closer, his large hand shook as it slipped around her waist and pulled her to him. She went with it. The closer she was to him the better her chances at delivering the Taser’s full effect.

  Stormy dipped her head and fluttered her pharmacy-bought eyelashes as she reached for his waistband. She tugged his white tailored shirt up and out of his pants. “I’m not feeling well, doctor,” she crooned. “It hurts—” she trailed a finger down the middle of her chest, over her stomach, to her abdomen “—right…here,” she finished, pointing at the curved rise of her vulva pushing against the thin material of her mini skirt.

  Cruddy Face’s eyes followed the trail her finger left, his face flushing red velvet the lower it traveled.

  He was perfect. There wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to go to the police or seek retribution against her once he understood the gravity of his predicament. Not to mention that because he was from out of town, he was bound to have more money on him than a local john.

  He ran his hand down her side to her hip, and Stormy leaned into him, moaning as if his touch was intoxicating. She leaned in closer, nearly suffocating on the musk of his cologne. “Doctor,” she whispered, “You shouldn’t pick up prostitutes.” She leaned away quickly, planted the tiny steel triangular prongs of the Taser to his chest, and pressed the lever, sending his body into instant violent spasms.

  After she released the lever, he continued to jerk and twitch for a moment longer, his head bouncing against the back of the seat before coming to rest against the door. Spittle drained out the side of his mouth, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

  Stormy poked him once, and then again, to make sure he was out. Not wanting to waste a moment longer, she rummaged through his front pant pockets. She found a wad of fifties in the left, a roll of twenties in the right, and shoved both in her purse.