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  Soul Bound

  DarkWorld: SoulTracker 7

  T.G. Ayer

  Contents

  1. Oh! For the love of … a brother!

  2. A City Ruined

  3. The Djinn Underground

  4. Welcome Home, Brother!

  5. Don’t take the Bait

  6. He’s my Brother, He is Weak

  7. Home is where the Heart Breaks

  8. Voice in the Wall

  9. Big Sister Boss

  10. Commander Who?

  11. Mindf*cked

  12. Power in the Living

  13. Message in the Ether

  14. Astral Date

  15. Book of Maps

  16. Stone Cell

  17. One Man Coup

  18. Division 7’s Bitch

  19. A blade for Blake

  20. A Power Freed

  21. Witch Bitch

  22. Morning After

  The SoulTracker Series

  Also by T.G. Ayer

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  1

  Oh! For the love of … a brother!

  All his life Saleem, Crown Prince of Mithras, had been taught that fire was neither friend nor foe. Whoever had come up with that piece of prized bullshit should be drawn and quartered.

  Maybe even hanged. And then burned alive.

  No. Wait. That wasn’t right.

  Saleem frowned as he chased after the thoughts that had flitted into his head so briefly. Something about the logical progression didn’t compute, didn’t feel…right.

  But, for the life of him, he couldn’t recall exactly what about the thought was illogical. And for that matter, he was no longer entirely certain what it was he’d been thinking of… Something about burning flames…

  Suspended from a pair of manacles fixed high on the stone wall behind him, Saleem’s head hung forward, shoulder-length black hair providing an oily curtain to at least partly obscure his face—and the frown he’d briefly allowed himself.

  But any reprieve from his torture was predictably short-lived.

  Saleem let out a ragged—though near-imperceptible—breath, allowing the heated air to slip between his lips as slowly as possible, so slowly that neither of the guards watching over him would register his wakefulness.

  Given that Saleem’s current residence was a cold, damp cell in the furthest corner of the dungeons that sprawled beneath the ancient palace of Temara, the presence of the guards was redundant at best.

  And yet, every time Saleem had been brought to the cell in the last two days, Agent Blake—or Nevins as he had been called in his youth—had instructed them to stand just inside the doors, and to act upon even the slightest of movements, reminding Saleem that not only was he a captive in his own home, with his freedom of movement around the city taken from him, but that he was no longer allowed the liberty to blink or swallow, or breathe for that matter.

  He’d learned quickly enough to hoard away his strength between sessions with the MindMelder Ward, knew the mage would—with his insistent torture—reduce him to little shreds of himself before the man was satisfied his ‘treatment’ was over for the day.

  And now, on returning to full consciousness, Saleem had a suspicion he knew what those elusive thoughts contained—probably something regretful and very likely filled with anger. Both were a waste of time because neither regret nor fury would free him from his bonds.

  Stupid. So very stupid.

  Saleem had been so naïve coming home, returning to Mithras with the belief that his brother would be glad to see him, imagining that Rizwan would sigh with relief that his big brother had returned.

  Even more pathetically, and despite the cool reception he’d received on his arrival in the palace, Saleem had held onto hope. He’d believed that Riz would eventually help devise a plan to free both themselves, and their realm, from the chokehold placed upon them by Omega and Division 7—in his opinion, one and the same thing.

  But he’d been wrong. So utterly wrong.

  Rizwan’s brotherly arms had been neither welcoming nor loving.

  Saleem recalled wanting to laugh when Rizwan had credited his position as the new king to his own smart thinking. Saleem had choked down his disappointment at the words and had prayed he’d be able to change the kid’s mind.

  But Rizwan had revealed his opinion of his father, his odd assumption that King Kassim had killed himself. And Saleem had understood that his brother had swallowed whatever lies Division 7 had fed him, and he’d done it willingly and wholeheartedly.

  And without question.

  The memory, and the emotions accompanying Rizwan’s outpouring of scorn—tinged with long-simmering anger—sent Saleem’s jaw tight, the tensing of muscles eliciting a pang of concern—and a brief flicker of regret—before rock hard knuckles slammed into his face.

  Pain flared, lightning strikes searing through his jaw and temple and settling within his brain. The pain didn’t abate—not that he’d expected it to. A special gift from Ward—the man’s specific words.

  He’d fiddled within Saleem’s mind, tweaked a little here, adjusted something there, ensuring every experience of pain, from a flicker of a throb to searing agony ripping into his very soul, would be amplified, and would last ten times longer—and Saleem was using the estimate of ‘ten times’ in the loosest of terms.

  The MindMage had been especially proud to find he’d succeeded, had hovered over Saleem, snickering and muttering self-praise that he’d achieved what most MindMages considered a difficult task—to reduce a powerful djinn to a mewling mess. Albeit temporarily.

  Ward had been right of course—he had succeeded. But only so far as Saleem allowed him to. A djinn was powerful, and djinn-fire was an unknown quality to most mages, even more so to non-djinn mages.

  And, Saleem was far more powerful than the average djinn. His power in the ether was unique in that he was able to hide from detection, only allowing his signature to be visible to those whom he knew and trusted.

  Though Saleem despised the idea of being a perpetual punching bag, resident lab-rat, and the daily focus of his brother’s scorn, he’d bided his time, enduring the torture, holding out hope that help would come, help for both himself and his people.

  Help from the people he’d left in the EarthWorld without telling them the truth of what he’d intended. He worried about Logan, who he’d left lounging in a coma, and he worried about Mel. He’d promised her that he wouldn’t come to Mithras without backup. And he’d lied.

  He’d lied because she’d had enough to deal with considering her issues with poltergeist possession and betrayal by someone close. He’d known she’d want a sample from him too if she were collecting them from all those closest to her. He only had to hope that the ancient who was helping her would be discreet when he did look closely at Saleem’s DNA.

  Saleem had also lied because he hadn’t wanted Mel to face the danger he was afraid would greet him once he came home. But it was laughable how little he’d suspected of what was really going on here in Kamsin, and all across his beloved realm.

  Now, he needed oxygen and was desperate enough to take a slower, deeper breath of the cool dungeon air in order to gather his scattered, elusive thoughts.

  And when the second blow hit his gut—punishment for that deeper inhalation—he focused on the pain, used the undulating agony, absorbing every ripple and wave, every spark deep into his bones in the hopes that somehow this physical pain would overshadow another agony he’d been forced to enjoy for days on end…the agony of his brother’s betrayal.

  Saleem’s thoughts stuttered, stumbling on the realization that perhaps he wasn’t the brave, strong male he’d considered himself to be. He had little patience for this weakness he felt, this emotional d
evastation at the strength of his brother’s envy, a depth of jealousy that had fed Rizwan’s lack of resistance to what Division 7 had offered—a kingdom to rule.

  A true leader is he who leads with his heart, who acts out of love, and who stands ready to offer his life for his people.

  Words from the past filled Saleem’s mind, strong with the deep, yet gentle voice of his father, Shahshah Kassim, the noblest of djinn kings who had never swayed from those very tenets of rule. Saleem acknowledged that he’d listened, had lived by those words throughout his life.

  And yet sadness now simmered within his spirit.

  Those words of wisdom had been given to both Saleem and his brother, and yet nothing in them had impacted Riz. He had to wonder at the mind and heart of his brother, what seed had thrived within him that would allow him to turn a blind eye to the horrors his sibling had been—and was still being—subjected to. Had envy and jealousy been enough to turn him against his blood, against his own people?

  He’d gone head to head with Rizwan, challenging him, pointing out his position as a mere puppet doing Division 7’s bidding. But, Riz had heard nothing, had refused to find out for himself what was truly happening in his kingdom. And then he’d shut Saleem out altogether, turned a blind eye to whatever Ward and Blake had put Saleem through, only visiting regularly to ensure he kept up appearances—the loving younger sibling spending time with his poor errant big brother.

  And it was not as though Rizwan was ignorant of his condition, not as though he’d never seen Saleem sprawled upon the carpet—or manacled to the walls—of his royal suites drenched in sweat and blood, gasping for breath after a day of beatings in the dungeons.

  Saleem knew that he, himself, did not have it in him to allow his own flesh and blood to be tortured the way Rizwan had. Many times, he’d entertained the possibility that perhaps his brother was biding his time, pretending to support Division 7, and that the hour would arrive when Riz would slip into the cell, and free Saleem and the pair of brothers would escape the palace and make plans to return again to take back their home from Ward and his goons.

  Perhaps this was what it was like to suffer a broken heart when the person doing the breaking was a blood relative, was family. Saleem blinked against the heat that surged behind his eyes and had to force himself to remain still. At the same time, he wanted to laugh and cry.

  How pathetic was he that while he hung in his cell, his body almost entirely broken, all the while what was he doing but crying like a little boy for the loss of his baby brother’s loyalty, of his love.

  A love which maybe Riz had never really possessed in the first place.

  2

  A City Ruined

  Two Weeks Ago, The City of Kamsin, Mithrasian Djinn Realm

  Saleem had had little difficulty in transitioning through the ward around Mithras—in truth, he’d not expected his entrance to prove to be barred, as though the people on the inside wanted to keep everyone else out.

  There had never been a barrier to Mithras, never been anything to stop his people from leaving or returning, and the fact that a ward existed now only spoke to the nefarious quality of Omega’s intentions.

  And to the weakness of his brother’s spine.

  Saleem had slipped silently through the once-bustling market at the edge of the city of Kamsin, where farmers and tradespeople had set up shop every morning until high noon for centuries.

  The sun was a ball of flame in the sky at midday, still too hot to bear, bringing with it the searing heat of a desert fire. After the noon hour, the market would be deserted, and it was nothing unusual to see the stalls and pens still left neat and ready for the next day’s trade.

  And here was Saleem’s first sign of something not altogether right about his home; the market was a mess, with food smashed to the stone by passing boots, feathers and fur skimming the ground as a light breeze passed through the square. The stalls too were strewn with dirt, tables rough with grime, as though the hawkers no longer cared about their produce, or about the health of their customers.

  Saleem’s gut tightened at the thought of what his father would have said to these hawkers and traders had any of them been observed showing such a lack of respect to their clientele and to their goods and produce.

  King Kassim had not been a harsh man. He’d been strong and strict, the way a diligent father would be, giving advice and direction, and hardly ever having the need to resort to punishment, physical or otherwise. He’d have found a way to admonish his subjects for their indiscretions, but in a way that would have left the guilty party with enough pride to admit his wrongs and appreciate his king’s guidance and mercy.

  The people of Mithras knew well enough what an unmerciful king was, having lived through a few centuries ruled by a despotic excuse of a djinn. They were known to speak a prayer of protection when the ancient royal was mentioned, and in fact, Saleem’s own mother was guilty of that affectation—many times over.

  Saleem hid his sadness at the thought of his mother, held captive by Omega and for some mysterious reason unwilling to remove herself from captivity despite having had the power to do so.

  His surprise when Mel had discovered where—and by whom—his mother had been held had paled into insignificance by the knowledge that she’d remained in captivity willingly.

  But, after taking some time to fume and curse at his only living parent, he had to admit the strange unlikeliness of her behavior. Aisha, queen of the djinn had been a great warrior in her day. And not the way people meant a tough-spirited woman. His mother had been a fighting Saladin, a warrior of old who’d fought alongside the great King Xsyarsa in the greatest, bloodiest war the realm of Mithras had ever seen.

  It seemed unbelievable that she’d be a willing captive without a good enough reason.

  And, as Saleem had made his way along the filthy streets of his home, he sent a prayer to the gods to protect her and to send her strength because there was one thing he knew above all else—if his mother willingly remained a captive, she’d do so only to protect those she loved.

  Which translated loosely into Mithras was in deep shit.

  Saleem had slunk along the streets, sliding from shadow to shadow, annoyed that he was taking the precaution of refraining from jumping, but refraining anyway.

  The ward had been a surprise, but because of it, Saleem had to take added care with his movements. He had his own protection, of course, ancient magic of the djinn that hid him from being seen within the ether, but he didn’t want to test his luck. Not just yet.

  Whoever created the ward within Mithras’s Veil could also be powerful enough to knit together magic that could either detect a transition through the veil, or prevent it. And prevention could include the detection of transition if the mage was skilled enough.

  He had meant to see his brother before tackling the problems he’d seen within his city.

  And so he’d made his way through the markets and into the Quarb district where the houses were larger and older, and where he’d expected the buildings to be well taken care of, where the people loved their homes and their city and their history.

  But again, he’d found the state of the city had changed drastically. Paint peeled, and wood had swelled and rotted, then been knocked back together with a two-by-four and a few rusty nails. Broken glass in the upper floors was covered by pieces of thin board and filthy sheets of plastic.

  Saleem had been filled with grief and fury at the sight of his city transformed into little more than a slum. He’d held back his anger though and had forced himself to move along, to keep away from the soldiers on watch at the outskirts of the palace as he made his way to the fields backing up against the west wall.

  Along the stone wall sat a wheelhouse, the wheel still turning and churning water—not to Saleem’s surprise. The wheelhouse directed wastewater from the palace out into the back fields where the conduits would transport the soiled water to a manure factory beyond the hills.

  Centuries of deve
lopment had made the people of Mithras smart, and with the added ingenuity his father had possessed, many aspects of life had been transformed. Not quite modernized in EarthWorld terms, but still smart enough to make life easier while still merging ancient with modern.

  Saleem approached the wall in a crouch—his djinn glamor would protect him from humans and other species, but any other djinn would be able to detect his presence if only to know that someone was approaching the wall. Most djinn glamor was transparent to other djinn, something like seeing a person within a clear bubble of water.

  And because of the ethereal magic within the glamor power, the view of the glamored djinn is obscured further by iridescent colors of the rainbow that undulate along with the magic in order to make detecting identity somewhat difficult until you are face-to-face.

  Familiarity, though, did make identification easier, in the same way that one is able to identify a familiar person in a crowd at a distance, the body language and stance, the way a person walks, all add up to feeling a sense of knowing.

  But those particular rules applied only to the general, untrained djinn. As a warrior in the armies of Mithras, Saleem had been trained to control his glamor. And as a royal of the house of Xsyarsa, his genetic lineage would have contributed to that power, making him near invisible and only detectable by a skilled djinn. His movements would be seen as a shimmer in the air, made even harder by shadows which would hide his progress.

  Given Saleem’s superior skills, he was undetectable.