To Race the Wild Wind Chapter 1

I promised to start posting my original novel on here. Soo... here is the first chapter along with a little artwork I created for it. Please upvote this chapter if you like what you see so far! I would also appreciate it if you share it with others that you think might enjoy the story! Your comments are always welcome! This book is published in its entirety in Amazon's Kindle store if you get impatient and want to purchase it.

To Race the Wild Wind Ch. 1

Talon Templer Constantine eased his powerful cycle off of the almost deserted street and into the shade cast by a small, well cared for Inn. Dark eyes noted the
simple sign displaying the ancient gnarled tree that gave the place its name. Thin lips quirked in a small one sided smile as the man shut down his machine. The name was appropriate. Ironwood was one of the few trees able to survive the harsh, poisoned climate of the Western Waste. Where a grove stood, water could be found. Whether you dared drink it or not... well, that was a different story!

A deep rumble drew the man's attention away from the Inn to the creature tethered to its hitching rail. He was careful to leave plenty of distance between it and his bio-machine. Destria often trashed objects that for reasons known only to themselves, the beasts deemed offensive. This one's smooth, long legged lines screamed quality. Its owner would be VERY unhappy if Templer killed the pricey racer while defending a machine he parked too
close. Large nostrils flared as the beast caught his scent when he strode by. It chortled another nervous snort.The deceptively soft lips lifted to expose long black fangs as it pulled away as far as the tied reins would permit.

Ignoring the stallion's nervous antics, the man glided by well out of its reach and slipped through the Inn's heavy wooden door. He paused just inside, giving his vision a moment to adjust from the bright sunlight outside to the cooler dimness within the small establishment. Templer blinked and knew his dark eyes brightened as his outrider stirred in reaction to its vessel's surprise. The man expected to step into the usual booze smelling hole that was the standard venue of these small border towns. The arrogant creature he played Host to HATED these places with a passion that bordered on rabid. This was one of reasons Templer looked for them. To avoid the unpleasant PHYSICAL sensations rife in the seedier parts of civilization, the demon would bury itself deep within his Psyche. This act left its partner's mind blessedly quiet until the man chose to leave, or its particular set of skills was needed. Something that Constantine doubted would happen any time soon. Again, one corner of the man's thin lips quirked up. If the Reaper was hoping for some death, blood and mayhem... it would be going hungry. His superiors made it clear in no uncertain terms they had been sent to Edgewater to give the human half of their "partnership" a chance to rest and recuperate. For the next week, this particular Talon was out of circulation.

Constantine felt his outrider stir as he scanned the bar with an assassin's unconscious attention to detail. Although small, the common room was very clean. Heavy wood tables gleamed in the faint light coming through the still open door. Templer's sensitive nose picked up the faint scent of good quality alcohol and some very interesting smells emanating from a door he presumed lead to the kitchen. The man ruthlessly stomped on the sudden desire to stay here. If he wanted any peace of mind in the next week, he would have to find another Inn. An echoing growl of displeasure followed by a sudden pain behind his right eye let the man know what his companion thought of this decision. The man rode the wave of agony, trying to outlast it. When the sight in the affected eye wavered, he resorted to dirty tactics!
"If you don't back off... Azra... we will spend the next week in a brothel!"
The pain disappeared, leaving in its place an echoing silence. Templer blinked to clear his vision while savoring his small victory. Rarely did the man come out on top when his symbiont disagreed with his actions.

The day was young, the bar still empty. No one noticed his slight hesitation. No one except a burly man standing behind the curved ironwood bar. This individual paused in the act of polishing a glass when Constantine stopped just inside the door. Light brown eyes set in a pleasant face studied the ebony wrapped stranger as he approached the bar. Those wise eyes widened as a swing of the approaching man's dusty black cloak revealed its deep crimson lining. This motion also exposed the telltale triple barreled gun that rode the holster tied low on his leather clad thigh.
"Do you serve Benedictine Stout?"
Templer kept his words soft, uncomfortable with the other man's sharp assessing look. Damned if it did not feel as if the big man was cataloging every weapon visible or not tucked on and around his tall slender frame. With one last narrow eyed glance at The Trinity, the Bartender seemed to reach a decision. Those large hands set the glass and towel down.
"No Padre... That one is hard to come by out here. We have a comparable home brew if you are interested?"

Padre... he had not heard that title in a while. Priest was most common. Reaper, hellhound and other names not as nice were more the norm. At his slight nod, the man expertly filled a tall glass from the tap. As he did this, he glanced again at the big gun.
"You aren't planning on starting any trouble with that, are you?"
"Hnn... It’s TALON Constantine, not Padre." Templer answered. The other's face paled as the man realized what the rank paired with a Trinity meant.
"And No, I don't make a habit of STARTING trouble." (Although, he thought as he accepted the dark foamy beer, his kind had no problem at all with finishing it!)

Talons held a unique position within the Order's complicated hierarchy. Only those with the rank of Talon, Inquisitor or one of the Fist killed with impunity. The Fist consisted of soldiers, masters of the blade and bow. People feared and respected them for the usual reasons. Talons, were recruited at birth. Tortured and genetically modified, those that survived the long years of brutal training were bonded to an elemental slave when they took their vows... and received a Trinity. Talons were the elite of the Hand's killers. Priest, mage, assassin, judge and executioner, all rolled together into one gun-slinging package. Citizen's called them hell hounds for a reason. If one was set on your trail, there was little chance of escape. You could not bribe a Talon... you could not sway him from his assigned task. Death would come for you be it by blade, hot lead or on a demon's shadowed wings. The public feared the Fist... the WICKED feared the Reaper!

Constantine carried his drink to a back table, settling into a chair with his back to the wall. From here, the priest could view the common room, all the doors, and a darkened stairwell leading to the upstairs. This habit had saved his ass many times. Being on vacation was no excuse to change it. A slight smile stirred his lips when he sipped the cold brew. The beer's quality had not been exaggerated.

Templer rolled his shoulders, wincing as tight muscles protested. No one needed to fear the gun slinging priest this week! It was evident that his mind and body had reached their limits. For two long years they had been denied entrance to the Holy cities. The creature he hosted had serious anger management problems that ALMOST eclipsed his own. This made it difficult sometimes for the man to keep the beast leashed. The last time Talon Constantine lost control, they leveled a good sized town! Granted most of the town had been comprised of wealthy merchants and crooked bureaucrats buried so far up the local Prelaetor's ass.... The man strangled the thought as a sinister chuckle rumbled through his mind at the memory. There had been nothing funny about the aftermath. Innocents had died along with the guilty due to his lack of control. That was NOT the first time events like this had happened, and damned his misbegotten soul, it probably would not be the last. Unfortunately, because of this, his superiors kept him as far away from their pristine cities as they could. It was not good P.R. for one of God's Chosen to raze entire towns to the ground in fits of demonic bad temper!

Without Azra being able to recharge in the great temples; the outrider had to make due with energies it gleaned out of their immediate environment. This meant that it was not operating at optimum levels and its host's body took a beating when they rode into battle. There was no rest for the wicked the man thought as he watched the room's other occupant now lazily polishing the bar. He was one of the strongest of his kind. Whenever a problem; be it a Demonae, a re-gen monster or some poor, insane, Tainted soul, threatened the realm, it was Talon Templer Constantine that got called into service. After two long and bloody years, the priest was thankful to be granted even this much of a break!

Constantine was just polishing off the excellent beer when a loud crash from the kitchen shattered the pleasant quiet. The gunman ruthlessly stepped on the ingrained instinct that had him reaching for his holster. Damn... Captain Sig was right. The Wind-Master had eloquently informed Templer that, “…he was wound tighter than a virgin's mainspring,” when he dropped the Talon outside town. Templer doubted that a dropped pan of dishes was good reason for pulling iron! The priest forced himself to relax only to second guess the action as the barkeep froze with a panicked expression on his face.
"Damn it Chrysta... get the HELL outta my kitchen!"
There was silence, then a loud thump followed by,
"Crap! Sorry Grant..." The husky voice did not sound at all apologetic to Templer's trained ear.
"Here…just let me fix this!!"

Another loud crash and the bartender flew out from behind the bar. The kitchen door suddenly popped open and a middle aged woman just about ran the big man over. She was laughing as she wrapped what looked to be a huge sandwich up in a napkin.
"This is YOUR fault, Grant. If you hadn't refused to make my lunch, and I quote ...at the butt crack of dawn... unquote. I wouldn't have to fend for myself!"

As she dodged around the living block in her path, Templer noticed that, although the woman’s movements were quick and oddly fluid, they were marred by a slight limp.
A smile tugged at the other man's wide mouth. It disappeared as he tried to look irate and failed.
“Well, count me as suitably reprimanded.” Grant stuck his head through the kitchen door, surveying the damage. "Holy SHIT! How did you create such a mess just making a sandwich?"

The Innkeeper sounded as if he was having a coronary. Templer didn't move. If he had to, he would give the man last rites. The priest suspected this was a scene that played out quite often.
Chrysta caught his eye. She flashed him a raffish smile, then blew the bartender a kiss as she shot out the front door. Grant's shoulders drooped in what looked to be total defeat. Both men listened in silence as the sound of pounding hooves faded into the distance. Templer could not help but feel some sympathy at the other man's sorrowful, much put upon look. The priest knew that his eyes were glowing gold as he looked back at the other man. His outrider had risen to watch the entire scene in fascinated silence. The few friends that Templer had would swear that Talon Constantine possessed no sense of humor... this was not true. He had one, he just did not let it out often to play. The Talon blinked and rose to his full imposing height.
"If you would like, I could go after her. That sandwich looked damned good!"

He did not know whose reaction was more priceless. His demon's utter and complete astonishment or the look on the other man's face. Grant paled a little, then proved he had a backbone. He met the Talon's unearthly gaze straight on with his brow furrowed in concern.
"I wouldn't recommend that course of action. If there is food involved, Chrysta is likely to hand you your ass!"

Templer worked hard to keep the smile that tickled his lips off of his face. Damned if he did not like this man. Returning the empty glass to the bar, the priest surprised himself with a sudden change of heart.
"Do you by chance have any rooms available?"
"I am sorry... Don Ricardo and Chrysta have all of my rooms reserved until after the Festival. You will be lucky to find a room anywhere in town this close to opening day."

Constantine knew that most of his Brothers would not think twice about using their rank to take what they wanted. He could tell by the look on the man's calm face that this is also what Grant expected of him.

An hour later saw Templer astride his Ether-cycle headed out towards the Devil's Anvil. Grant was not mistaken in his assessment of the situation. Once a year, Edgewater re-established its place on the map as a Port with its annual Destria Festival. Breeders, Caravan Masters, and enthusiasts of the elegant animals gathered to buy, sell, and take part in the many competitions involving the rare and useful beasts. The week long festivities would culminate in The Gauntlet. This endurance/speed race covered one hundred miles of tortured terrain through the Devil's Anvil. The winner gained great prestige, and also the choicest caravan routes for the coming year. Templer had arrived in town just a few days before the Festival was slated to start. The crowds had already started to arrive and there was not even a Terra-bird stall available for rent in the next ten days. Grant suggested that he try some of the outlying ranches. Most set aside areas for people to camp for a small fee. The barkeep had been surprised that the Talon was willing to take this option. Templer had assured the man that sleeping in the rough was not a new or unwelcomed experience. As a matter of fact, it would be easier to keep control away from the crowds.

Opening the throttle on his cycle a little wider, Templer leaned into it as he whipped around a turn. This part of the road followed the contours of a convoluted ridgeline. There was a sharp drop off on either side of the narrow dirt track. He enjoyed the surge of adrenaline as the dual front wheels slipped a little then re-gained traction heading into another turn. His friend, Blade, was incredibly talented at riding the powerful bio-machines. The man had spent a lot of time schooling Templer to improve the priest's driving abilities. Constantine did not have the soldier's raw skill but his inhuman strength and enhanced reflexes compensated for this.

Sharp eyes caught movement up ahead. Through the shifting dust, Templer could just make out the large form of a destria stretched out in a full gallop. Its rider was flattened along its shoulder and neck, half buried in the flying mane. The gunslinger eased his big bike over, intending on passing the pair on the left. He wanted to give the notoriously high strung animal plenty of space. Just as he came abreast of the flying pair there was a flash of movement on the destria's right. Seemingly in mid-stride the animal shied sideways, violently fighting its rider's tight hold on the reins. Somehow she managed to stick to her powerful mount's back.

Templer swore as the animal continued its sideways plunging run into the speeding ether-cycle's path. The priest did the only thing he had time to do. He laid the big bike over in a controlled skid. A brief vision of what the heavy machine would do to the destria's fragile looking legs flashed through his mind. There was an impression of misplaced air, and he caught a glimpse of flashing hooves. Somehow the beast made a desperate twisting leap, clearing him along with the sliding cycle. Templer stuck with the bike waiting for the bite that would tell him the dual front wheels had traction again. For a heart pounding second the man thought he had gotten away with it. Then the bottom dropped out from underneath the bike. He had run out of road. The gunman had a micro-second to get clear of the now tumbling machine as they slid off the edge. He experienced a terrifying moment of free fall, then the ground came up with frightening speed. There was a flash of intense pain on impact, followed by darkness. Templer's limp body tumbled down the rock strewn slope until it came to a bloody and broken stop at the bottom.