Iron (The Warding Book 1)
Iron
Robin L. Cole
First Edition.
Copyright © 2015 by Robin L. Cole
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read her work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about Iron, to help spread the word.
Thank you for supporting my work.
For
For Valerie, my writing buddy and Mistress of Critiques, who never hesitated to poke me with a cattle prod whenever I fell behind in my duty of feeding her inbox with new material.
And, of course, for Phil, my amazing husband who supports me in everything I do, no matter how weird or wild. You are my best friend and partner, and I love you from the bottom of my heart. I couldn’t have done this without you.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Any woman who says she didn’t freak out over turning thirty is a damn liar.
Maybe she didn’t do it all grand and flashy—you know, like that one friend who had to be peeled, bawling, off the bathroom floor in the middle of her own birthday party. Maybe she did it quiet-like, when she was all alone in her apartment with a glass of wine after everyone went home. Maybe she had herself a nice, long “I thought my life would be different by now” mope if not an all-out “where the hell is my life going” cry.
One way or another, at one time or another, though? She did it.
It’s inevitable. It’s a cruel twist of fate. Like reaching for the milk to make that first cup of coffee you absolutely need to help you face the day… only to realize said milk expired two weeks ago… and that might explain why your Oreos tasted funny when you were dunking them in a big glass of it last night. Turning thirty is like hitting your own expiration date. It’s the end of those years where it’s okay to be a little wild, a little lost—hell, even a little stupid. Thirty marks an end to that time when you could make bad decisions and change your mind a zillion times, because you were young and hadn’t found your way yet; hadn’t found yourself yet. You had all the time in the world to get it all figured out. You know; time to build your career, meet Mr. Right, get married, buy a cute little starter house, and maybe even get a dog. All that was what your thirties were for.
Only, one day you turned around to see that thirty was on the horizon and at that very moment you realized none of that stuff had fallen into place. Instead of having any—never mind
all
—of it figured out, you’re still single and living alone in a crappy, over-priced New Jersey apartment, working a dead-end 9 to 5 office job with no clue what to do next. So, as those final minutes tick down to the dreaded 3-0, you think back to all those little things you should have done differently. Like, maybe you should have finished college instead of blowing it off, thinking you could just work your way up in the real world. Maybe you should have tried harder to build a nest egg instead of buying that cute little burgundy leather jacket that cost you a full week’s pay last winter. Maybe you should have spent more time planning for the future instead of out partying with your bestie, telling yourself tomorrow was “Future Caitlin’s” problem.
Or maaaaaybe that was the fourth glass of wine talking.
It was the dreaded night of the birthday-that-shall-not-be-named. An undertow of depression had me in its clutches as I sat there at the bar, knocking back a few glasses of particularly fine Riesling and waiting for that inevitable moment when the clock would strike midnight. As if turning thirty wasn’t bad enough, I had the doubly bad luck of doing so on a drizzly Tuesday, the night before Halloween. Let’s be honest. No one wants to stay up late to celebrate when they have to get up early and go to work the next day. (Not that I had much of a social circle, really.) So, there was no festive gathering to mark the big moment—or to distract me from it. There was just little getting-old me, parked in my usual seat at Gilroy’s with a magically refilling wineglass, and a bird’s eye view of a timepiece hell-bent on the destruction of my youth.
Okay, that’s not completely true. The glass wasn’t magic nor was it refilling itself with free booze. If either case was true, I’m pretty sure Gilroy’s would have been the most popular bar in Riverview, if not all of New Jersey, instead of being a locals only sort of hole in the wall. I wasn’t completely alone either. Jenni Fisher, bartender extraordinaire and my partner in crime since the era of diapers and the Muppet Babies, was doing an admirable job of keeping her bestie on the edge of sobriety. She was the one who had convinced me to come out to Gilroy’s in the first place when she wasn’t able to get the night off to celebrate with (i.e. babysit) me. I had tried to beg off, but she had made it very clear that my plan of hiding out in my apartment with a pint of rocky road ice cream, wallowing in my birthday blues while watching P.S. I Love You for the fiftieth time, was pathetic with a capital P.
Damn her and her knowing-me-all-too-well logic.
All the same, as I sat there alone at the corner of the bar, I regretted acquiescing. It was close to midnight and Gilory’s was empty of the all but the hardcore regulars. What, exactly, did it say about me if I was among them? The thought of being curled up on my squishy couch in my crappy one-bedroom, slurping down the melty remains of chocolaty-marshmallow goodness while wibbling over some lovey dovey chick flick had a nostalgic charm about it. It certainly seemed more fitting, and a damn shade less sad, than feeling a little too flushed and wondering how steady I’d be in my borrowed stilettos when it came time for me to leave my barstool. At home I also could have covered the glowing digits on the cable-box and ignored the slow countdown to the witching hour.
My
witching hour. One step closer to being a lonely old crone for Caitlin Marie Moore.
“Uh-oh. I know that look. Come back from the dark side, Cat.”
I looked up, realizing at that moment that I had been giving my empty glass a particularly evil scowl. Jenni stood on the other side of the bar, hands on her hips and a stern look on her face. The “tsk-tsk” after her words was silent but we both knew it was there. Another downside to being attached at the hip for more years than I currently cared to count. There was no point in trying to play it off. She knew I was one more glass and ten minutes away from a major melt-down, the public eye be damned. However, I held it as a point of pride that there was pretty much nothing I could do that would ever come near to her own Getting Old Breakdown. (Refer back to the aforementioned peeling of said friend off of a club’s scummy bathroom floor.) So, instead of saying that I was fine and forcing a smile both of us would know was fake, I pouted and whined. “Getting older suuuuuuuuuucks.”
“Don’t I know it, darling. But wasn’t a certain someone singing the ‘thirty isn’t old’ tune just a few months ago?” She drew out the “
old
” with righteous derision. At a full three months and four days older than myself, she had no pity for me when it came to the marching orders of Father Time. Instead of consoling me, she picked up my empty glass and wagged it in the air. “Care for another?”
It’s a sad day when a woman’s best pout goes unnoticed. I tilted my head to one side and waited a few seconds for the world to catch up with me. There was a little too much of a delay there for my liking. “Nope, I think it’s time you cut me off, barkeep.” An involuntary glance at the clock made me regret the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. Only five minutes left until midnight. I thought I was supposed to be having fun for time to fly so fast.
Jenni imitated my pout far too well. “Then how about a coffee for the road? Wouldn’t want you passing out in the cab on the way home.”
She had arranged cab rides to and from my apartment for me, in addition to plying me with wine all night. Have I mentioned that I have the world’s best bestie yet? Her refusal to console my irrational fear of aging aside, of course. I heaved a dramatic sigh, hoping it had the sound of one long in suffering, and rolled my eyes heavenward. “Yeah, I guess so.”
I must have perfected my look of utter and complete misery, because she leaned forward and pinched my chin between her thumb and forefinger. She tilted my head down and laid a sloppy kiss on my forehead. “Cheer up, buttercup. It’s not so bad. I survived it. Odds are you will too.”
I scrunched up my nose in reply but she ignored me and disappeared into the kitchen to get me my coffee. I used the damp napkin my wineglass had been sitting upon to wipe the bubblegum pink imprint of her lips off my face. She had survived. Sure; it was easy for her to say that. Spectacular breakdown on the night of the momentous birthday aside, Jenni had her life a hell of a lot more figured out than I did. She wasn’t the one questioning all of her life choices as the clock ticked down. Like a damn magnet, my eyes were drawn to its cruel face once again. Three minutes to go.
Balls.
I glanced over my shoulder (maybe, unconsciously, to see if I could make a beeline for the door and out run time) and felt my breath catch. Now, I’m not a gal to be too taken by a pretty face. My luck with the male half of the species has always been spotty. My most recent string of good on the outside but rotten on the inside online dating hook-ups had caused me to swear off the other half of the species entirely, for the time being. While I accepted my self-imposed perma-single status with cranky resignation, that hadn’t affected my ability to appreciate a fine specimen when I saw one—and the finest I had ever laid eyes upon had just walked in the door.
He must have been at least six foot two, long and lean like a swimmer, and was dressed with that kind of bad boy edge that never fails to make me do a double-take. Worn brown leather bomber jacket? Check. Ass-kicking combat boots? Check. Dark denim that hugged him in all the right places? Double check. Thick, caramel colored hair fell in waves down to his shoulders, framing out high cheekbones and a pouty set of lips that could easily have graced the cover of a romance novel. This guy was the stuff of most red-blooded women’s fantasies. Or, this red-blooded woman’s fantasy, anyhow. His head was turned away from me as he scanned the bar, as if searching for someone, so I let myself stare for a moment. Hell, it was my birthday and I was half in the bag; I could oogle the man-candy if I wanted to.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone. A petite little thing peeked out from behind him, her eyes also roving the room. As if she felt me looking at them, her head jerked in my direction and I was surprised to see how young she was. In addition to being short and rail-thin, she had long, pale blonde hair with blunt cut bangs, which made her heavily lined eyes stand out all that much more—and the look those eyes gave me was downright suspicious. I returned her stare with an incredulous look of my own. She didn’t look anywhere near old enough to be that guy’s date, let alone old enough to be out in a bar at midnight but; whatever. I got the hint. It wasn’t my business anyhow. I jerked my head in the distracted man’s direction and gave her an appreciative wink. Her eyes widened and her hand gripped his arm. From where I was sitting, she sounded high and breathy, which only reinforced my opinion of her age. “Kaine, I think that woman can see me!”