Death weaver, p.1
Death Weaver, page 1
Death Weaver
By K. A. Excell

Rune and Gear Productions
Acknowledgements
Part 1
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part 2
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part 3
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Also by K.A. Excell
The Projector War Saga
Crystal Mind
Crystal Choice
Crystal Truth
Copyright © 2023 K. A. Excell
All rights reserved. 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.
ISBN-13: 978-1-952856-10-5
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
Front cover image by: Marten Norr
Book Design by: Mckayla Boyd
KAExcell.com
Published by Rune and Gear Productions.
To the family and friends who pushed me to find my potential.
Acknowledgements
Hello wonderful readers!
Before we dive into this novel, I’d like to tell you about all the wonderful people who made this possible. Without them, this book wouldn’t be here. First, my loving family who encouraged me to pursue my passion for writing. Your unwavering support has been the foundation of my journey. Amber, your infectious enthusiasm for this world kept me going through many a plot hole. Sometimes I think you know this world better than I do. Mom, your belief in my abilities as a writer pushed me to the finish line. Dad, you kept me rooted to reality and the process of getting this book where it needed to go. This book wouldn’t be here without any of you.
A special thanks to my dedicated group of beta readers - Lilli, Autumn, AO Henderson, Sand, Marten, Irving, John, and Tess - for the tough love and encouragement. You really kept this story on the rails!
My critique group! Thank you for the blatant honesty that whipped this book into shape. Without you, the book would have many fewer explosions and a whole lot more exposition.
Thank you to my incredible book designer McKayla Boyd and cover artist Marten Norr for turning a pile of words into something beautiful. The book wouldn’t have come together without both of you.
A special shout out to my patrons, Angie, Ann, and Debbie. Your support made this book possible.
Last but not least, thank you to my readers. Your enthusiasm and love for my work fuel my creativity and inspire me to keep telling stories. Writing this novel has been a journey of growth, learning, and creativity, and I am humbled by the support I have received every step of the way. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
Now, on to the novel!
Part 1
Chapter One
Kriska stared at the burning hole which had once been her apartment. Smoke billowed in black clouds, peppered by little pops of exploding ammunition. Rage built in her bones.
Who had done this? Who would have dared target the home, however temporary, of a registered Bounty Hunter?
Then rage evaporated as she heard the screams. Kriska moved as fast as only a Hunter could, scaling the outside eternacrete wall of the burning building. Above her, secondary explosions from the ammunition caches continued to assault her eardrums with the sounds of gunfire. She closed her eyelids for a fraction of a second, searching her Secondary Sight for the glowing outlines of gunmen—just in case they were using her ammo cache explosions as cover.
No human outlines in the Fabric of Life, only the orange dots of individual shells exploding with non-lethal violence.
She pulled herself onto the windowsill of the apartment above hers where the screams were coming from. The sound of a fire siren started in the distance, but the airships would take too long to help the civilians trapped inside. She smashed a fighting-hardened elbow into the glass which—damaged as it was by the explosion—shattered, releasing billows of black smoke into the air. With her off hand, she eased her ash mask into place and slapped the button which would tighten it down around her mouth, nose, and eyes.
A man dressed in soot-stained Establishment gray pulled uselessly at a steel support which had been shifted by the explosion. It had only moved six inches, but it was enough to block the door behind it.
He stumbled back, coughing in the thick smoke, and gestured to the door. “My children—”
Kriska didn’t wait for him to recover from his coughing fit. Her Sight wouldn’t let her See the children—they were probably frightened out of their mind, and fear made people disappear from the net of anger and violence she Saw—so she yelled at them instead. “Get on the ground and stay away from the door!”
She wasn’t the sort of Hunter who specialized in rescue jobs—the opposite, actually—but that didn’t make her useless. She set her shoulder against the steel and pushed. Before the Split, it would have taken a winch or a crane to move the high density steel. She shoved it over with Hunter strength and sheer determination as the cries from behind the door softened.
Behind her eyes, she Saw the violet of death gathering behind three small figures in the other room. Potential for death outweighed fear, which had lit them up in her Sight like a tortured Christmas tree.
How much smoke had they already inhaled? How much longer did they have?
Keeping her weight against the beam, Kriska twisted the handle and pulled the door open. “Go, go, go! Get out, now.”
Behind half closed eyes, she could See the ceiling in the children’s room reddening. That was the color of objects about to do serious injury to human life, although it stopped short of killing violet. The ceiling was weakening and, if it fell, they would be caught in the destruction. Not killed, but hurt.
The children didn’t exit the room.
Kriska’s muscles strained as she shifted the beam back even farther and let it fall. It smashed through the soot-stained plastic flooring and continued downward, but she knew it wouldn’t injure anyone. Kriska didn’t spare it any more attention as she dashed into the room.
Three little girls lay on the floor. The largest had a hand around the smallest’s arm, like she’d been trying to drag her little sister out when she’d finally collapsed.
Kriska looked back at the doorway. The father was on his hands and knees, crawling toward them with uneven motions.
The civilians were asphyxiating. The violet claws of Monsters tapped needles along their outlines within Kriska’s Sight, eagerly waiting for the Fabric of Life to thin enough they could tear through and snatch those souls from their bodies.
Kriska slapped the adjustment button on the outside of her mask and fitted it over the smallest child. Another tap of the button, a quarter second pause for the biometric scanner to verify the order, and the mask tightened down around the smallest one’s face, supplying oxygen. Kriska threw the smallest one over her shoulder and hoisted the older two in either hand. She made it out of the room moments before the roof collapsed behind her.
Her Sight burned red, notifying her that the floor wasn’t particularly stable, either.
Kriska gritted her teeth and ignored the burning in her lungs as she started toward the shattered window, only to stop as she looked at the long drop.
Twelve stories.
At eight stories, she’d probably have shin splints from the fall. At nine, she might break her legs. At ten, she definitely would.
Twelve stories, laden with three children? Physics had broken in the Split, but it wasn’t that broken. Mass counted for quite a lot, and three children were a lot of mass. Even if she got them down safely, she wouldn’t be able to scale the building and get the father out before the floor gave way.
And how many other innocents were trapped in this building? This set of apartments didn’t cater to families, which was one of the reasons she’d chosen it, but that wouldn’t mean everyone was at work. What about people who worked the night shift?
She could see the airships closing in quickly, but it would take time to set up anti-grav nets to catch the children, and time for the fire control personnel—normal humans, not Hunters—to enter the building. Time these children didn’t have.
Two black-booted feet swung silently through the window in front of her. He landed on one knee, eyes already scanning for threats—or, civilians, more probably. He wore all black, complete with a Hunter cut jacket. He saw the collapsed father before he saw Kriska.
“Can you make the jump with all three kids?” the new Hunter asked her. He pulled an extra mask from the kit on his waist and fitted it over the father’s face, then slung the father over his shoulders like a human scarf.
“Can you survive a twelve
“Here.” The Hunter tossed a silver disk at her. She managed to set a kid down and catch it before it hit the ground at her feet.
The Hunter jumped out the window with a professional calm which impressed her.
Kriska looked at the silver disk he’d thrown at her, found the depression in the center, and stabbed it with a finger. The disk split in two, and she finally recognized it. Pocket-sized anti-grav boot covers. She slipped them over her combat boots and didn’t stop to wonder how that Hunter had managed to get Galactic tech here on Earth. The anti-grav covers activated as she stepped onto the windowsill and jumped out into the street.
They activated in two short bursts before she hit the ground. Rolling wasn’t an option with three kids draped over her, so she bent her knees to absorb the impact.
“Where are their masks?” the Hunter demanded. Then he looked at her face. “Where is your mask?”
Kriska laid the kids down on the cement, then jerked a thumb at the youngest—still breathing, thank goodness. The violet around their auras in her Sight had faded.
The other Hunter towered over her, staring. “You only had one mask? What kind of Rescue Hunter are you?”
Kriska would have laughed, but all she could do was cough. Breathing that smoke had been like inhaling acid. “I’m not one.” She held out a hand for more of his extra masks. He supplied three, and she was able to reclaim her own.
The airships were overhead. They sounded like an ash storm in their own right, the roar of engines drowning out everything as fire control personnel swarmed the building. One found her way over to them.
“Situation report. Do you know if there are any more civilians in there?” she asked.
The other Hunter closed his eyes, and Kriska did the same. There was some red toward the outside of the building, but nothing definite. “I can’t say for sure,” she said.
“No. The building is clear,” the other Hunter said at the same time.
Kriska’s eyes widened at that. What kind of Sight would let him tell whether the building was clear of civilians?
The fire control woman nodded her thanks and started directing a medical team to care for the civilians they’d rescued.
Kriska looked back at the burning hole in the building where the airships all clustered, and the rage returned. Whoever had done this either didn’t know enough about explosions to keep the blast confined to their target area or had no regard for human life. Killing a murderer was one thing. Taking out civilians was something altogether different.
She stalked toward the explosion, eyes peeled for any sign of who had done this.
Her clue came in the form of a blue, flame-retardant plastic flimsy half slid under the doormat in front of the entryway to the staircase she took to get to her apartment.
She picked it up and scanned it with barely restrained rage.
“Which will you choose,” it said, “scorched earth, or home?”
It felt like a bucket of ice dumped over her head as she stared at the paper.
Scorched earth or home?
Beneath the message was the Duanti family crest, five loops topped with the head of a snake.
Mother Dearest wanted to send a message.
Kriska pulled the plastic apart until the ink inside was indecipherable, then tossed it toward the raging flames.
Mother Dearest wanted her to return to the fold, but that wouldn’t happen. She’d left for a reason, and that reason had only grown stronger.
The Duanti family was not something she wanted to be associated with. They were more properly called the Duanti crime family, and her mother was their leader.
Mother Dearest would take her in a second, especially now that she knew Kriska was a Bounty Hunter—and no one who had looked at her apartment would have assumed anything different. Kriska could only hope that Mother Dearest didn’t know just what type of Bounty Hunter she was. All Hunters were fast, strong, and their bodies generally defied the laws of physics, but some had other abilities. Summoners could summon powerful weaponry to aid them. Mind Weavers were empaths who could twist the thoughts of others. Tech Weavers were technopaths who could telepathically control technology. Death Weavers could see—and cause—death. And if Mother Dearest knew Kriska was a Death Weaver, then things would get worse than they already were.
Kriska looked down at the melted slag of the note Mother Dearest had left.
No, she couldn’t possibly know what Kriska was. She just wanted her to return to the fold.
Kriska turned to leave—no sense in sticking around where one of Mother Dearest’s lackeys could find her—only to see that the other Hunter from before was leaning against the side of the building with an indecipherable expression on his face.
“If you aren’t a Rescue Hunter, then why are you here,” he asked.
Kriska looked him up and down. The new guy was big in all the ways most male Bounty Hunters were: in the shoulders, thighs, calves and hips. He moved with a fighter’s balance, like he was storming a fortress. His legs were sheathed in shim-pants—the best kinetic absorption armor in the galaxy, and the most expensive. Half the Hunters in the Patronage would jump him just to get ahold of the armor, but there were enough cops around this orderly hell to keep his head and his wallet attached. Jacket was guild cut, with a spot on the shoulder darker than the rest where a patch had been ripped off.
Well, that was interesting.
Everything about him when he’d come through that window to get those people out said he was a Rescue Hunter, pinged by the same alert which had scrambled those fire control airships, and duly compensated by the Establishment when the fire was under control with no civilian casualties. He had the extra masks, the anti-grav, even an extra set of anti-grav boot covers—and those were the sort of tech even Hunters couldn’t get on Earth. But why would a Rescue Hunter need shim-armor? And what did it take for a Hunter to get kicked out of a Rescue Hunter guild?
“You aren’t a Rescue Hunter, either. Not wearing that,” Kriska said with a nod at the armor. He might’ve been kicked out of a Galactic guild—maybe even one of the top three: Warbane, Darkbane, or SpecCon, but none of those specialized in rescue. And whatever guild had canned him, they took combat contracts. No other reason to wear shim armor.
The Hunter looked at his shoulder where the patch had once been and grimaced. “I’ve done my fair share of rescue jobs.”
Which was probably true and meant that he at least wasn’t from a Dark guild.
As he shifted, metal caught what light managed to bleed through the afternoon’s ash clouds. Kriska took another look at him. Harder. What were those guns?
He had two rifles slung over his shoulder, both similar in make. She hadn’t noticed them in the heat of the moment—maybe he’d set them down to scale the building—but now they were painfully obvious. Assault rifles with pieces that might’ve been made in the second millennium but were polished to a shine. They were topped with modern day scopes, and there were no auto-feeds to be seen—so not built for modern military use. A second look at the guns showed the stabilizers for a sniping weapon. They were built from the ground up as a Hunter’s dream gun, and he had two of them.
Kriska’s fingers twitched toward them, itching to caress the trigger.
She closed her eyelids halfway. The world lit up black with unstable yellow-orange outlines that represented violent individuals at rest. In this case, the fire control personnel still scrambling to get the fire put out. The Hunter in front of her didn’t appear—which was concerning, given that Hunters were never that calm—but the guns sure did. The first was a dull orange so dark it was almost brown. Good gun, but nothing special.
Its twin was gold all the way through. That was the same color which had begun staining the outline of Kriska’s best friend—Roma, the Ram-44 at her hip. Kriska’s eyes opened the rest of the way, and she did her best not to stare at the golden gun slung over his shoulder.
Just who was this guy, who was invisible to her Second Sight, and carried a golden weapon?
Gramps called them Angels, weapons that were different from the others. They were the kind of weapons Summoners called, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t find their way to others as well. They sighted more accurately, made shots no other weapon could hope to achieve and, sometimes, they even spoke to her. So, what was he doing with an Angel slung over his shoulder?
