The Lost Prince of Cadira (Shadowland Saga Book 1)

1: NEW ORLEANS

The hairs on the back of Eliza's neck bristled as she crept through the night. Barbs of ancient magic prickled her skin; it danced across the night with the power of a thousand stars, pulsing throughout the New Orleans cemetery like a dazzling conduit of enchantments and curses. The whispers of the dead were carried on the chilling autumn breeze, brushing over her skin like phantom fingers, sending a course of shivers up her spine.

The prickling sensation did not cease as her own magic formed a living barrier around her. It speared out into the night like creeping vines, connecting her with the essence of New Orleans and its dead, who lay in the maze of stone tombs around her.

Eyes followed her, their gaze watchful. Keys clutched between her steady fingers, Eliza stepped around cement blocks and withered flower bouquets, stopping before a towering white mausoleum, heart pounding in her chest.

In the branches, she heard the screeching caw of crows. They sat perched in the skeletal limbs of the dilapidated tree to her right, their beady eyes as bright as the stars that glared down at her from the sky. They continued their dangerous song, even as she glared from the shadows, but they were the only thing she could hear in the endless night.

She still felt it, though, that sense of not quite being alone. Despite the precautions she had taken to protect herself—charms sewn into the hems of her jeans, the iron ring on her pinkie finger—it did not stop the shiver of doubt that coursed down her spine. The sensation of being followed had sent her careening into the cemetery. The familiarity of the cemetery steadied her racing heart, but not by much.

Eliza's green eyes flickered over the shadows, searching the cracks in the mausoleums. They darted down the small alleys between the white stone structures that usually housed spirits who had been forgotten, bound to the land and not their resting places. Despite that knowledge, she let herself imagine she was completely alone with the dead. But even the dead weren't that quiet.

As if summoned by the deep entanglement of power, Eliza's magic rose and swelled until it surrounded her like a protective shield. A flash of silver caught her eye, and drawing in a shuddering breath, Eliza looked up to the space above the white marble mausoleum.

The air continued to pulse with that strange and dangerous magic; its ancient thrum drew her out of the darkness, sent her own magic spiralling back to her out of fear. In the back of her mind, she felt that ageless power whisper to her, a tangle of raw energy. The iron on her finger heated. Something told her to run.

Her blood ran cold, fear rearing its head. She wanted to turn around and run, but she was caught between terror and stupid curiosity.

Silver moonlight reflected off a drawn sword; Eliza's gaze travelled up the shining blade to the armoured hand that held it. Even in the dark, with the dim light of the city illuminating the cemetery, she couldn't mistake what she saw as she continued eyeing him—pointed ears and piercing green eyes. Faery. Lithe and tall, his silhouette stood out against the blankets of light that made up the New Orleans skyline. Only one thought entered her head as she took him in: I am in deep, deep shit.

Sitting on his shoulder, with irises of molten gold, was a raven with the darkest feathers. The ancient power she had sensed thrummed from that being, Eliza realised, as she took a hesitant step back. A Changed One. That deceptive power of Shifting radiated from the gold-eyed raven.

They were not of the mortal realm, where magic was squashed, and darkness lay in the hands of humans with power. Nothing as ancient as the Changed One, with its immeasurable power and immortal status, would be caught dead wandering through the mortal realm, or following Eliza through a New Orleans cemetery. And she knew they had not been banished to this world, either. Not in the same way she had, not like Kay.