Beast of Avalon (Shattered Souls #2)

Chapter 1

The Agent And The Secret

Astrid Mathieson

A monster murdered my father when I was twelve.

Now, at twenty-eight, I hunt them for a living—always searching for the one that haunts my nightmares.

The Alaskan wilderness stretches endless and white around me, a vast emptiness that swallows sound and hope alike.

Wind whispers through skeletal pine branches, carrying ice crystals that sting my exposed skin like tiny glass shards.

It's the kind of cold that makes breathing feel like an act of defiance, each exhale creating ghost-like plumes that dissipate into nothing.

But I welcome it. The cold numbs everything except my purpose.

Behind me, Marcus and Chen move with practiced silence, their combat boots barely crunching against the frozen ground.

The fading twilight casts long blue shadows across the snow, transforming familiar faces into something almost otherworldly.

After five years together as GUIDE's elite response unit—Global Unit of Inquisitors and Defense Enforcers—we've perfected this dance.

We're the team they call when other Inquisitors fail.

When the bodies start piling up. When something needs to be put down, no questions asked.

The metallic tang of iron mingles with a sharp scent like ozone and winter mint.

Silver blood gleams from the ground like mercury in the dying light.

I kneel, examining the trail. My fingers hover above the liquid without touching it.

Sixteen years later, I still see my father's wounds when I close my eyes—two perfect sets of double punctures, precise as a surgeon's tools, spaced exactly a half inch apart. The creature we’re hunting today probably isn’t it, but I’m always hopeful.

"First one this year." Marcus's words materialize from somewhere to my left, seemingly suspended in the frigid air like his presence—there but untraceable.

The ex-Navy SEAL is one of the world's best snipers. We all call him Ghost because you’ll never see him.

He never misses. "Remember when we'd get four, five cases annually? Back when Hayes first put us together?"

"I do. And it’s good," I reply, keeping my voice clipped. "Means we're winning." I focus on the trail, fighting the familiar surge of hope and dread that comes with every hunt.

Protocol 37 of the GUIDE field manual explicitly prohibits personal vendettas, but I've been breaking that rule since day one.

Even after all these years of searching, I still feel my pulse quicken every time we get close to a creature.

This could be the one. The one that got away.

The one that gave me my sole purpose in life—to be an Inquisitor—a goal I achieved even though they'd kill me if they knew what I really was. Keep your enemies close, right?

Chen drops to one knee, examining something in the snow. His tracking skills and behavioral profiling are legendary in GUIDE, earning him the nickname "Sherlock" among the other units.

"Blood trail," he says, rubbing a drop of the metallic blood between his fingers.

A faint pattern of frost spreads across his glove where the blood touches.

"Definitely our target's. Pattern suggests it's moving northwest, probably trying to reach the river north of the canyon.

" He pauses, studying the tracks. "It’s definitely limping worse today. "

I crouch beside him, studying the increasingly chaotic pattern.

This beast killed three miners last week.

Their bodies were found frozen solid just a dozen yards outside the main admin building.

Rifles had been found near all three of them, but none had been fired.

Their bodies had been mutilated, but not eaten.

Almost like the beast had killed them in anger.

Hayes had called us in personally for this one.

"It's really big," I say, measuring the space between prints.

The spread suggests something closer to the size of a pickup truck.

"Definitely matches the description they gave us from the security camera.

" I stand, taking a deep breath of the icy air.

"We should split up. I'll take point–you two circle west and cut off its retreat route to the river. "

Ghost raises an eyebrow. "Standard protocol is to stick together when dealing with a Class Three beast. This cat is massive, Blades. Protocol exists for a reason."

He's not wrong. Section 12 of the field manual specifically prohibits solo engagement with apex-class entities. But I'm the only one capable of tangling with these animals one-on-one and coming out alive. My team attributes it to skill. It's why I'm their leader.

But that's not why I win.

I win because I cheat. Because I'm one of them. Because the same curse that would earn me a public execution makes me the perfect weapon against my own kind.

"This thing's wounded and running scared. It'll be looking for a way out, not a fight. It's going to run straight into your sights." I meet his gaze steadily. "Trust me, Ghost." The words taste like ash in my mouth. They do trust me. With their lives. And I repay that trust with necessary lies.

Ghost holds my look for a moment before nodding.

We've been through enough together–enough close calls, enough midnight operations, enough shared nightmares–that he knows when to push and when to yield.

"Your call, Blades. But if you get those horns we saw on the video stuck through your chest, I'm not explaining it to Deputy Director Hayes. "

I flash him a grin. "When have I ever let you down?" Even if I did get gored, I'd heal before they could write up the incident report.

Sherlock checks his rifle, the runes etched along its barrel glowing faintly in the gathering dusk. Standard GUIDE weaponry, enchanted to penetrate magickal defenses. The irony isn't lost on me—we use controlled amounts of magick to hunt down anything touched by it.

"Twenty minutes. Then we converge at this location." Sherlock marks a point on his tactical display where the canyon narrows. "Hayes wants this wrapped up clean. No witnesses, no evidence. Standard containment protocols."

"Copy that." I watch them disappear into the trees, their dark uniforms blending with the shadows.

After a few moments they're out of sight and far enough away that my power won't affect them.

I let myself move at full speed. My enhanced abilities flood my muscles with power.

The same curse that makes me whatever I am—makes me damn good at my job.

I just have to be careful not to use it too close to people. Using magick comes with a heavy price—it draws the life force from everything around it. Plants wither, small animals die, even the air seems to grow thinner. It can hurt people too. Another reason I always split us up and work alone.

I am everything the Agency destroys. Everything I hunt.

The public executions I've witnessed flash through my mind—magick users bound in chains, their powers blocked, led to platforms in city squares where they are shot or burned alive.

Object lessons in what happens to those who defy natural human law.

Last month in Prague, I watched a teenage girl burn for the crime of magickally healing her best friend’s cancer.

Her neighbor reported on her and gathered the reward money.

I stood silent in my black GUIDE uniform and watched her die an excruciatingly painful death, and told myself it was necessary.

That sometimes people die in wars that don’t deserve it. She didn’t, but GUIDE doesn’t bend its rules because you’re kind or only use magick for good. There’s only human… and not human.

I’m not human. And one day they’ll kill me too.

But I’m fighting for something worth dying for—the greater good. I’m protecting humanity.

Through the trees ahead, something massive and white moves in the gathering dusk.

Moonlight glints off curved horns longer than my forearm.

The giant cat turns to face me, and my breath catches.

Its eyes burn with an eerie phosphorescent glow.

Its white fur ripples with patterns of frost, beautiful and terrible.

The horns curve up from its broad forehead like polished ivory, deadly sharp at the tips.

That strange-smelling blood mats the fur on its flank where Ghost shot it yesterday when it slipped our trap.

For a moment, we regard each other—two creatures touched by magick, both trying to survive in a world that wants us dead. But I made my choice long ago. Better to be the hunter than the hunted.

"Death is here for you," I whisper, my hands finding the grips of the katana swords strapped to my back, the leather wrappings worn smooth from years of use. The blades whisper from their sheaths with a sound like winter wind through dead leaves. My skills shine in close combat.

The cat moves first. A thousand pounds of muscle and magick launches at me, those ivory horns aimed at my chest. Were I human, that would have been more than enough to end the fight–and me. But I'm not normal.

I pivot, my enhanced speed turning the dodge into a fluid dance. The blades flow with me, catching moonlight as they arc through the space where I stood a heartbeat before.

The creature's claws tear chunks from the frozen earth as it whirls, impossibly fast for something its size. Its eyes burn brighter now, fury made luminescent. Magick rolls off it in waves, turning the air sharp and minty. It burns my lungs.

It roars, and the sound shakes snow from nearby branches. But I'm already moving again, pushing my cursed body to its limits. The world narrows to the space between heartbeats, where even monsters move like they're trapped in honey.

My own magick responds to the creature's challenge, drawing power from the surrounding forest. Even the creature groans, feeling my magick pull hard at its energy.

My blades find their mark–two shallow cuts along its flank. More of that strange-smelling blood splatters the snow, freezing instantly where it lands.

The giant cat cries out, the sound somewhere between a tiger's roar and a woman's scream. It charges again, but there's a bigger hitch in its stride now. The wounds I gave it, combined with its earlier injury, have it significantly favoring its left side.

When it lunges again, I'm ready. I drop and roll beneath those deadly horns, coming up inside its guard. This close, I feel the arctic blast radiating from its fur like cold fire, see the intricate patterns on its hide. It's beautiful. Deadly. Like everything touched by magick.

The cat twists, trying to bring its horns to bear, but it's too late. My katanas slide between its ribs with surgical precision, angled up through the lungs toward the heart. Killing blows, quick and clean—the only mercy I can offer, one monster to another.

But I underestimated its dying strength.

As my blades strike home, one massive paw catches my right shoulder.

Claws tear through tactical gear and flesh alike, making a mess.

The impact sends me sprawling. I roll with the hit, coming up in a defensive crouch, still clutching my swords, as the creature thrashes through its dying breaths.

By the time my partners crash through the underbrush, guns raised, it's over. The beast lies still, its massive chest no longer rising and falling. The strange glow has faded from its eyes, leaving them glassy and dull. Its mouth is hanging open showing me it doesn’t have double fangs.

It’s not the creature that killed my father.

I'm breathing hard, but the deep gashes in my shoulder are already knitting themselves closed beneath my shredded gear.

"Christ, Astrid." Ghost’s worry shows through his use of my actual name. He moves closer, eyeing the shredded remains of my tactical gear. "That was too close. You're not even bleeding?"

I force a laugh, keeping my movements casual as I sheathe my katanas.

"Lucky. Claws caught the gear but missed me.

Though I liked this jacket." The lie tastes bitter, but it's one I've had years to practice.

They see what they expect to see—their skilled but human team leader, who sometimes cuts things a little too close.

"One of these days, that luck's going to run out," Sherlock says quietly, his gaze still lingering on the torn fabric of my jacket.

There's something in his voice, something that makes me wonder how many of my "lucky escapes" he's cataloged over the years.

How many inconsistencies he's noticed. How many secrets he's chosen to keep.

If only they knew how many times my "luck" has saved me. How many wounds have closed before anyone could see them bleed. If our uniforms weren't black, I'd never be able to pull it off as often as I do.

"Let's get it wrapped for transport," I say, deliberately changing the subject. "Hayes will want this one processed quickly and out of sight." The sooner we're done, the sooner they'll stop looking too closely at my miraculous escape. "We need to clear the area before the local authorities arrive."

As my team unpacks the containment gear, I roll my shoulder, feeling the last traces of injury fade beneath my skin. This is what I am, what I do. I use my curse to protect others from worse monsters than myself. Even if that protection is achieved by lying to the only people I trust.

The moon rises higher as we work, casting long shadows through the dead trees that mark where I used my power. I pause, letting my eyes take in the strategic fallout of my powers. No one will think to blame me for the swath of dead forest. It will all be blamed on the creature.

It's a necessary deception, but one that sits heavy on my shoulders nonetheless.

Tomorrow, this kill will be another commendation in our unit's record. Another victory in humanity's war against magick. Hayes will process the body, extract whatever useful components he can, and then burn it.

And I'll go back to searching. Back to checking every creature we kill for those distinctive double fangs. Back to hoping that someday I'll find the monster I’m really hunting.

But for now, I focus on helping Ghost and Sherlock secure our kill, ignoring the way Sherlock’s gaze keeps drifting to my shredded gear. Ignoring the weight of necessary lies. Ignoring the voice in my head that whispers, I’m a monster too.

Another step deeper into my own private damnation.