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One Thousand and One Dark Nights
Once upon a time, in the future…
I was a student fascinated with stories and learning.
I studied philosophy, poetry, history, the occult, and
the art and science of love and magic. I had a vast
library at my father’s home and collected thousands
of volumes of fantastic tales.
I learned all about ancient races and bygone
times. About myths and legends and dreams of all
people through the millennium. And the more I read
the stronger my imagination grew until I discovered
that I was able to travel into the stories... to actually
become part of them.
I wish I could say that I listened to my teacher
and respected my gift, as I ought to have. If I had, I
would not be telling you this tale now.
But I was foolhardy and confused, showing off
with bravery.
One afternoon, curious about the myth of the
Arabian Nights, I traveled back to ancient Persia to
see for myself if it was true that every day Shahryar
(Persian: ??????, “king”) married a new virgin, and then
sent yesterday's wife to be beheaded. It was written
and I had read that by the time he met Scheherazade,
the vizier's daughter, he’d killed one thousand
women.
Something went wrong with my efforts. I arrived
in the midst of the story and somehow exchanged
places with Scheherazade – a phenomena that had
never occurred before and that still to this day, I
cannot explain.
Now I am trapped in that ancient past. I have
taken on Scheherazade’s life and the only way I can
protect myself and stay alive is to do what she did to
protect herself and stay alive.
Every night the King calls for me and listens as I spin tales.
And when the evening ends and dawn breaks, I stop at a
point that leaves him breathless and yearning for more.
And so the King spares my life for one more day, so that
he might hear the rest of my dark tale.
As soon as I finish a story... I begin a new
one... like the one that you, dear reader, have before
you now.
Prologue
Brochan the Undeterred scanned the immortal nightclub and scowled. Too many people. Music is too loud. Strobe lights are too bright. Scents too cloying. He hated this place. Granted, he hated most places.
At the moment, he perched alone at a shadowed table. Alone, always his preference. No one proved foolish enough to approach him. He’d left Nevaeh, the uppermost sky realm accessible only to Sent Ones, and entered the lower sky realms accessible to all, thinking to observe his younger brother. A boy he’d raised as a son for hundreds of years after their parents deemed the troubled, three-year-old McCadden “demon tainted” in order to relinquish all responsibility for him. Considering Brochan and McCadden were born and bred demon assassins, the label came with problems.
Though only fifteen back then, Brochan had moved out and overseen the child’s care himself. The second he’d beheld the tiny, squalling infant, he’d known love for the first time. True love based on a decision more than a feeling. A willing determination to protect the boy with his life, no matter what he thought or what he felt. No matter the cost.
For the bulk of his existence, Brochan had lived for his child’s happiness. At the age of eighteen, he’d even petitioned the High Council for a wife, eager to give the lad a mother.
The Council had agreed and selected a Messenger named Samantha. With high hopes, Brochan wed the quiet maid. But after only three years, she ended the joyless union and left him, never looking back.
Her departure had broken McCadden’s heart just as fiercely as their parents’ desertion. In desperation, Brochan had wed a second female, Rebecca.
She left him two years later.
What should have been a mild inconvenience for Brochan nearly destroyed the boy. Another tragic heartbreak to endure. After that, he’d made a vow. He and McCadden to the end, and only he and McCadden. The two of them and no other.
So why had the formerly ready-to-laugh-at-anything soldier acted so strange lately? Constantly lost in thought. Somber. His smiles, his merriment erased without a trace remaining. His teasing nature? Suddenly nonexistent. Something bothered the lad greatly, but what? Why wouldn’t he admit it? Throughout their centuries together, Brochan had never offered judgment, only solutions.
Even now, the dim lighting around the bar couldn’t hide McCadden’s misery. The black walls and surrounding mob of merry drinkers merely highlighted it.
A commotion drew Brochan’s gaze to the left, where immortals of every species were backing away, creating a path. A female strode down it, coming into view, and his jaw dropped.
Propelled by a force greater than himself, he leaped to his feet. His massive white and gold wings snapped into his sides, the hem of his ivory robe falling over his sandaled feet. She approached…him?
He lost his breath, his heart thudding. Had he ever seen such an exquisite sight?
A thick mane of pale waves framed the most arresting face in existence—a delicate tapestry of perfection. Flawless golden skin, vivid umber eyes and scarlet lips offered a collage of colors. She wore a short, barely-there dress of the finest ice-blue silk that molded to lush curves.
