Asanni Read online

  ASANNI

  THE LANGAER CHRONICLES

  Book One

  J. F. Kaufmann

  Copyright © 2014 J. F. Kaufmann

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or in any means—by electronic, mechanical photocopying, recording or otherwise—without prior written permission.

  Asanni is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously.

  Jacket design Laura Stobbe

  Formatting by Anessa Books

  All trademarks and brands mentioned in this book belong to their respective owners.

  The 1961 Nobel Laureate for Literature Ivo Andric’s quotation at the beginning of Chapter 11 is used with the kind permission of Ivo Andric’s Foundation in Belgrade.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Kaufmann, J. F.,

  Asanni / J. F. Kaufmann.

  ISBN 978-0993782503

  ISBN-10: 0993782507

  www.jfkaufmann.com

  To my father Milan: my guardian angel, and the greatest fisherman in Heaven.

  Acknowledgments

  Creating a book is a quest of such immense magnitude that it cannot be the accomplishment of a single person. Asanni would have never been published without the enormous help and support of my talented friends.

  My most sincere gratitude goes to Sonya Guha-Thakurta, who was with me in every step and on every page of this adventure, and to Laura Stobbe, the designer of Asanni’s eye-catching cover page.

  I owe a huge thanks to Pat Lancaster and Carol Fletcher for their keen attention to detail; to Sarah Meilleur for finding time to read my story in spite of her impossibly busy life; to my female soul-mate, Ada Radošević, for falling in love with my characters and for sending me an abundance of positive vibes from across the Atlantic; to Andrea Grotemeyer for turning Google’s and my translating attempts into proper German; to my sister Marina Stipanac for sorting out my trademark and copyright confusion, and to Kayla McAlister and Patti Nouri for lifting my spirit on countless occasions.

  I also need to thank my two accidental contributors: T. D. and M. R., whose physical appearance inspired me to envision James Mohegan and Darius Arenvald. Neither man knows me personally, nor do I know them, thus the omission of their full names. They simply happened to be in the right place at the right time. I would like to think that, if they knew, they wouldn’t mind ending up in my book the way they did.

  I am blessed with two sons, Maximilian and Constantine. They are not only proud to have a mom who writes books—that’s the easy part—but they also let me monopolize the only computer we have, which sometimes isn’t that easy at all. Thanks, guys! And thank you, Bojan, for believing in me and for supporting my passion. You selflessly took over Max and Costa’s practices and music lessons, dental checkups and medical appointments, attended parent-teacher interviews in my stead—the list is long—so that I could spend more time in Red Cliffs with Astrid and Jack.

  J. F. Kaufmann

  A word to my readers

  As I mentioned in the Acknowledgments, creating a book is a joint effort. Once written, it has to be edited and proofread; it has to have a cover, it has to be formatted and uploaded. All these jobs are usually done by someone else, not the author herself.

  The writing itself, however, is another story. It is a solitary job: there is a writer, her imagination and blank pages on the computer screen, waiting to be populated with people and places, love and heartaches, joys and sorrows, laughter and tears, victories and losses.

  In the author's imagined world her characters easily come alive, yet continue to live in secrecy until they are ready to meet their readers.

  Now that my book is published, my exclusive ownership of this story is over. I’m inviting you to become a part of my world, hoping that you will like it as much as I do.

  Now it is up to you to continue this adventure.

  J. F. Kaufmann

  Preface

  BEFORE FEAR swept over me like a tide, some unexpected thoughts crossed my mind as I watched my stepfather’s four Tel-Urugh mercenaries closing in on Jack and me.

  About how I’d always known that my quiet, ordinary life in Rosenthal, a small town in the back of beyond, was not more than a temporary illusion. After all, having a wizard mother and a werewolf father wasn’t an orthodox heritage. Now I had no choice but to say the final farewell to my alias, Dr. Rosalie Duplant, local surgeon, and once again become Astrid Vandermeer-Mohegan, half-asanni, half-bleithast, hunted by my dangerous, delusional stepfather who wanted me for his own sinister goals: to conquer and destroy...

  About how it was my rotten luck that I ended up with an evil stepfather, and not, like in all happy-ending stories, with an evil stepmother...

  About that evening two weeks ago when I learned that I was a rare, precious, powerful Ellida, a living embodiment of the ancient alliance between wizards and werewolves. “An Ellida is a mighty force of good, the most treasured member of the werewolf clan and its highest authority,” Jack had said to me. “She brings prosperity, happiness and peace to her people and never abuses her powers...”

  About how much I loved Jack...

  AND NOW the hiding was over, I thought as fear finally kicked in. Helpless, desperate, I was trapped in my wolf’s body, which didn’t know how to fight and was too weak to run.

  Yet, oddly enough, underneath despair, there was another feeling. Relief. No more hiding. No more running.

  “May Jack be safe... May Jack be safe...” I prayed silently because it seemed the only thing I could do at that moment.

  “No time for prayers, wizard!” A different voice inside my head snapped, startling me. “We have to fight!!! Think of something!”

  As if on command, I closed my eyes and breathed in and out several times.

  My mind cleared. I knew what to do.

  Sensing something, Jack swiftly turned to me, shock written all over his face as he took in my blue, wizard eyes instead of the amber of my wolf’s.

  “The asanni has joined the team, it seems,” I said in a calm voice.

  “No, Astrid! Do not try anything! Run toward the south! You must run!!!” Jack yelled, his voice thick with dread. Not for himself. For me. Jack was a great warrior, but I was his great weakness.

  “Forget it, Jack. I’m not leaving you! Where is their weak point? Where should I aim?!”

  “I’ll take the leader and that chubby one on the left. They are the strongest. This is your chance! Run! That’s an order, Astrid! Run now!!!”

  “NO!!! Where are they weak?! Tell me!!!”

  “Neck! Break the neck! Don’t let them bite you! Watch out for weapons!!!”

  I murmured a spell in my old wizard tongue and found Jack’s eyes. “Jump and roll over me!”

  “WHAT?!”

  “DO IT!!!”

  Jack knocked me down. We rolled several times, moving away from our enemy.

  When we separated, two identical werewolves stood in front of them.

  “What!? What’s that!? I told you to grab him first!” the tall Tel-Urugh screeched. “She’s a witch! Look what she did! They both look like him! Which one is she!? Take them both! TAKE THEM BOTH!!!!”

  “The hell you will... Matri Agni nauh
mehakhal khetar... Matri Agni nauh mehakhal khetar...”

  Mother Fire, be my shield...

  My wolf was right. It felt much better muttering spells than prayers. Those I’d do later. Now I needed our old gods and spirits. They always came in time of great peril, it was said, to protect their children... “Matri Agni nauh mehakhal khetar...”

  “Astrid, no! NO!!!” Jack was shouting at the top of his lungs.

  “IT’S SHOWTIIIIME!!!!”

  Bursting into flames, I charged toward the enemy with a speed and strength I hadn’t dreamt I possessed.

  My first prey dropped on the ground, even before I reached him. I jumped over him and followed the other one, who pulled out a knife and bolted toward the woods, faster than a shadow.

  Still not fast enough, though. A few long strides and I was in front of him. Our eyes met. His were filled with fear. Mine, I supposed, with anger.

  “Drop the knife. I don’t want to kill you,” I said, but then remembered we couldn’t communicate telepathically. He was a Tel-Urugh, a warm-blooded vampire.

  The knife flew low from his hand, catching a sunbeam on its curved edge, before its tip pierced my leg.

  The world compressed into a single particle and I drowned in darkness.

  Chapter One

  Rosenthal, three weeks earlier

  THE PHONE on the night stand made a soft hum. Tristan Blake reached for it, glancing at the time: 2:35 a. m.

  “Blake.”

  “A month ago Seth sent six of his men to find her,” a woman’s voice whispered.

  Tristan jerked upright. “A month ago? Why didn’t you tell us?”

  The woman on the opposite side of the bed sat up and shot Tristan a worried look.

  “We didn’t know until now,” the voice said. “They aren’t very dedicated to the job, but they might still dig up something. Seth’s more and more out of control. Now he wants to bring Darius, his son, home, even before he gets her—”

  “He’s not going to get her. Ever.”

  “Make her go to Red Cliffs. She’ll have the protection of her clan there, and we’ll take care of our problem here,” the woman said. “We’ll contact you as soon as we know anything new.”

  Tristan rubbed his hand over a day’s growth of dark stubble. “Thank you. Be careful.”

  “No worries. Keep an eye on her.”

  “We will.”

  THE LINE disconnected. For a moment Tristan stared at the phone and then made a call.

  “Are you phoning Jack?” Livia said from beside him.

  “Yep. We need him here.”

  A man’s voice answered immediately. “Is she okay, Tristan?”

  “She’s fine. Our insider called. Seth sent his dogs after her a month ago.”

  “Did they get close?”

  “Hell, no. Her silly cover is still working. We never let her out of our sight. She isn’t thrilled, but she cooperates. Your people here also watch over her. She doesn’t know about them, otherwise she’d be pissed off.” Tristan ran his fingers through his short hair and let out a deep breath. “Jack, I think you should take her to Red Cliffs. Where are you, by the way?”

  “I can see the Southern Cross from here, that’s all I can tell you. I’ll need a week to get there.”

  “That’s fine, Jack. She’s not in imminent danger.”

  “Is she going to listen this time? Is she going to go with me?”

  “Well, that depends on you, Jack,” Livia said in her slow, sensual drawl.

  “Hey, beauty. I’ve been wondering where you were,” Jack said.

  “Okay, that’s it,” Tristan said. “I am not teleconferencing again! Here.” He passed the phone to Livia. “If you want to talk to Jack, at least keep the phone pressed against your ear, not mine.”

  “I see your husband’s still obsessed with mimicking human behavior,” Jack said.

  “And what’s wrong with that? At least humans respect the privacy of a simple phone conversation.”

  “Only because they don’t have our sharp hearing,” Livia said.

  “Liv, you think she’ll go this time or will I have to kidnap her? She seems to be a stubborn little mule,” Jack said.

  “Just convince her, you charming devil. She’s been reluctant about going to Red Cliffs, but then she has reason to be. She’s a sensible person, Jack. She’ll listen to you. You’ll like her a lot.”

  “Liv, darling, another of your little schemes, huh? You know they never work with me.”

  “Should I remind you it didn’t work when you were in charge either?”

  “Done talking, you two?” Tristan said.

  “She’s lovely. Don’t tell me later I didn’t warn you,” Livia said and passed the phone back to her husband.

  “Tristan, I’ll be there next Tuesday,” Jack said. Maybe it’d be better if you didn’t tell Astrid anything. Just be there to introduce us.”

  “Should I call James?”

  “I’ll talk to him. See you on Tuesday, then. You two, keep that girl safe.”

  “Pfft, piece of cake,” Livia said. “They can only get to her over our dead bodies, and that won’t be easy, you must admit. See you, soon, Jack.”

  Tristan placed the phone on the night stand. “She’ll go this time, you’ll see.” He stretched on the bed and moved closer to his wife.

  “Ella and Arnaldur should’ve told her more about her mother, and Seth and his plans,” Liv said. “She still knows almost nothing.”

  “They’ve been trying to protect her.”

  “Tristan.” Liv braced herself on her hand and looked at her husband. “We’ll stay nearby, right? Seth won’t stop trying, even if Astrid goes to Red Cliffs with Jack.”

  Tristan turned toward his wife, mirroring her position with his head propped on his arm.

  “Of course, as long as she needs us. Unless Seth’s people take care of him soon, we might face another little battle alongside our old friends.” He let out a short laugh. “Not that I would mind. It’s been a while… I have an itch to do some serious thrashing. But now,” he whispered as he pulled Liv closer, “now I have something else on my mind.” His hand lazily traveled along Liv’s arm.

  She smiled as her hand disappeared under his nightshirt. Her fingers traced the firm, smooth muscles of her husband’s chest. “It’s going to be interesting to see how Astrid and Jack will react to each other. I have a hunch—”

  “We’ll see soon. But right now Jack’s somewhere in South America and Astrid’s peacefully sleeping in her house down the street. I don’t want you to think about them now. I need your undivided attention, my love.”

  Chapter Two

  HIDDEN BEHIND an old spruce tree, Jack watched as Astrid unlocked the door, turned the light on, and stepped in. One by one, the other lights went on: he followed her from the hallway to the kitchen, to the living room, bathroom, bedroom, and back to the living room again, where she walked to the window and closed the blinds.

  He was still able to see her, of course. The clear outline of her body heat, electric-blue, not red like it would be among his kind, continued to move through the house. Now she was back in the kitchen, bent over in front of the fridge...

  HE HAD spent several hours in her house that morning, going through her computer, papers, books and music. Alec and Drew’s report, based on six months of discreet surveillance, focused on her safety rather than on the things he needed to know: what kind of person she really was, what she liked, how she spent her time after her long shifts in the operating room of the local hospital.

  The interior of the house was decorated in a Japanese style: sparse furniture, although tasteful and obviously expensive, plenty of free space. Clear vertical and horizontal lines, including the sliding doors that divided the kitchen from the sitting area and her small office from the bedroom. Natural colors prevailed: butter-yellow walls, a beige sofa and armchairs, deep brown furniture, dark parquet floor. It would have appeared rather gender neutral if it hadn’t been for the decorati
ve accents in different shades of pink: the soft cushions, the carpet under the coffee table, lamps, the woolen blanket on the sofa, a big bouquet of pale-pink roses in a vase. Lots of pink in her wardrobe, too.

  Hanging on the wall there were several Japanese ink paintings with a four-season theme: orchards, bamboo, chrysanthemums and plum blossoms. More sumi-e artworks of misty landscapes, flowers and small animals adorned the opposite wall.

  When he stepped into her bedroom, the floor made a high-pitched sound. He nodded in silent approval: a nightingale floor, designed to make sound when walked upon. The dry boards creaked under the pressure of footsteps and the flooring nails rubbed against clamps, producing chirping noises. A nice, simple security device assuring that nobody could sneak into her room. He’d heard about it, but never seen one. Smart girl, he thought.

  Her choice of music was a bit of a revelation, too. She probably had more CDs than the local radio station. The report had mentioned she liked listening to music, but didn’t say anything about her taste. Iron Maiden and Guns’n’ Roses were the last CDs she’d listened to. The jewel cases lay open, and the discs were still in the player. Besides heavy metal and hard rock, the pile of recordings that had been recently played contained John Meyer, Sting, Santana... Dire Straits’ The Sultans of Swing. He smiled—his all-time favorite. Then he’d opened up two big bottom drawers in the shelf, filled with classical music: Bach, Beethoven, Handel, Haydn... Symphonies, concertos, operas. At least a dozen different recordings of Die Zauberflöte. How appropriate—Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

  He browsed through her books, hundreds of them packed tightly on the shelves that covered a whole wall. Her literary tastes were also interesting. ‘Tell me what you read and I’ll tell you who you are.’ He smiled. Well, in Astrid Mohegan’s case it wouldn’t be so easy. She seemed to like everything from Aristotle to Asterix. Classic titles stood side by side with contemporary bestsellers and graphic novels. A lot of supernatural romance fiction. On the floor beside the sofa, with a bookmark tucked somewhere in the second half, lay The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco, read numerous times, judging by the condition of the book. Lots of medical books and magazines, but that was hardly a surprise.