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  God of Lions.

  The Savage Ophelia Kiselevska #1

  A Novisarium Novel.

  By

  OJ Lowe

  Text copyright © 2019 OJ Lowe

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locations is entirely 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 prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  First Published 2019 as God of Lions.

  Thanks to Nadine for the help with this.

  Contents

  Contents

  One.

  Interlude.

  Two.

  Interlude.

  Three.

  Interlude.

  Four.

  Interlude.

  Five.

  Interlude.

  Six.

  Interlude.

  Seven.

  Interlude.

  Eight.

  Interlude.

  Nine.

  Interlude.

  Ten.

  Interlude.

  Eleven.

  Interlude.

  Twelve.

  Interlude.

  Thirteen.

  Interlude.

  Fourteen.

  Interlude.

  Fifteen.

  Interlude.

  Sixteen.

  Interlude.

  Seventeen.

  Interlude.

  Eighteen.

  Nineteen.

  Twenty.

  Twenty-One.

  Twenty-Two.

  Epilogue.

  A Note from the Author.

  Also, by the Author.

  About the Author.

  One.

  The only ones who never leave the Novisarium are incapable of concealing their true nature. I left because of what hid inside me and wanted as far away from it as possible.

  Cliché, I know. Girl finds trouble. Girl runs away from trouble. What can I say? I like the classics. I wanted to force the memories out of my head and think about a future away from there. I didn’t like what the place did to me.

  What is the Novisarium? Ever go to one of those Middle Eastern bazaars? Scratch that, you ever see one on the television, people lining the streets to try and sell crap you don’t really need but they think you want, anyway. Nobody takes no for answer and if you word it the wrong way, be prepared for a fight. It’s a melting pot. Someone decided to run a social experiment or something, see what would happen if you confined all the world’s supernatural into what they lovingly called ‘the city between cities’ so they didn’t interfere with humanity any longer. Sucked for us, right?

  Since I managed to slip out of the Novisarium, I wanted to travel, but it wasn’t possible. I wanted to see the sights, experience things I never could before in the flesh, but alas it was not to be. There are plenty of experiences in there if you want to try them—hallucinogens, sensory overloads, the essence of a city trapped in a bong that can get you high but is equally as likely to give you tuberculosis. I tried many of them in fits of rebellion. When your destiny is pre-ordained, you do what you can to get away from it. I didn’t want a destiny. I just wanted to be me, but everyone has a destiny and you’ll always get there, whether you like it or not. You can fight and wail, kick and scream and cry, but one day you’ll wonder why you bothered to run.

  There are many things in life you can fight, but fate isn’t one of them. Never mind Karma (yes, I’ve met her. Didn’t like her. Terrible attitude). Fate is the real bitch and she always gets what she wants (Daddy’s girl, I reckon).

  I’d looked around, took in the bodies and the blood, not all of them had deserved the end they’d gotten but it was what it was. They’ve called me many things over the years, not all of them complimentary but now they’re going to listen and enjoy every word. Because this is the story of how I came back.

  Who did I say was a bitch again?

  A common perception is once you’re in the Novisarium, you can’t get out, though that’s not entirely true. Most wonder why you’d want to leave, considering the price. It’s a prison after all, though not many see it that way. I always wondered if it was really Hell or Purgatory and they changed the name, gave it a sparkling new coat of paint and a purpose it was never meant to have. You can go, but you leave everything except the memories. I always wondered if the Novisarium was like a womb, a place where you felt warm and safe until you were ripped out into the world kicking and screaming. Everything that made you special is torn away and you’re left to fend for yourself.

  Ever wonder why humanity doesn’t believe in the existence of the supernatural? It’s because they don’t, as far as they’re concerned. I once saw a vampire try to leave the Novisarium. Poor thing damn nearly starved to death, once he realised that he couldn’t access his fangs to feed. And I know that vampire dramas make drinking pigs blood look a viable alternative, but most vampires would rip your head off if you suggested it to them.

  I had to leave. There was nothing left there for me and I’d have died if I stayed. Murdered. There was a whole big disagreement, some betrayal. Let them have what they took. I don’t care. Really. I don’t. It’s gone. Nothing to do with me anymore. I never wanted that destiny, anyway. Outside I’m free to be me. Granted, what I do isn’t very nice but the money’s good. We all have responsibilities. Just because you run from some, doesn’t mean new ones won’t catch you up. If I’d stayed, as well as killing my father, they’d have killed my boy, ripped him asunder before he had the chance to be born. I’d have been too dead to care, but missing out on the chance to hold my new-born son in my arms? That was the single most special moment in my life, as horrific as the labour was. Human hospitals are fucking terrible. There are more advanced butcher shops in the Novisarium.

  If I hadn’t been able to go back before, I couldn’t now. I wouldn’t. Not with him. I didn’t want him to be a part of that life, I’ve lived every day in fear that one day he’ll want to know about his father and his heritage and I’m not ready for that to happen. More than that, he might discover what he is and it’s too dangerous for him to ever find out. My enemies will be his enemies. I can’t protect him from them, but I can make sure he never goes looking for them. If he does, and he’ll want to, he’ll die. There’s too much of his father in him. The best bits of him and me, hopefully none of the worst of either of us.

  When I staggered out of the Novisarium, I wandered for a while, found myself in a city in England called Leeds, a place not unlike where I’d come from but so different. Every city has its charm, I’ve been told. There are cities where the pavements hum with the power of history, cities where the life comes from the people who have walked through it, cities defined by the blood spilt there. I don’t know what to feel about this place other than it’s where I call home. I could have wound up anywhere. My father once told me our family hailed from Latvia in the decent past. Don’t even think we have any blood relatives left. When the Kiselevska family were moved into the Novisarium, all ties were cut fast. Those of my family with our, ah, affliction, to give it the parlance of the day, left and we soon forgot about those we left behind, and I doubt they were any different.

  Why did I find the Novisarium such a wonderful proposition when growing up? Why did it all turn sour when I got older and had to get away? I guess I hadn’t worked out until I grew up that people hate any
one who’s different. When you’re young, you think the one who spits and scorns you is a lone crazy. And then you grow up. People hate each other, they make a big show about caring but it’s all just that—a show.

  I don’t want to raise my son in a world like that but what can I do? The people in this city, they’re so… I’m not sure what the word is, but horrible is a little harsh. When I first showed up here, not a penny to my name, pregnant and talking with a strange accent, I heard things. Sensitive hearing. Still had that, somehow. Not the whole package but just enough to remind me however far I ran, I’d never escape.

  Senses way beyond human limits were my first source of information, the sounds and the smells and the sights. I’d never experienced anything like it before. Leeds wasn’t even that big a city; the Novisarium could hold millions. I could smell them all, though, scents I recognised but couldn’t place. Fried meats, foods from all cultures, body odour and fluids. Smoke and smog, chemicals and fuel, the stuff you’d get in any city. Even the small stuff like rubber against tar and cheap cologne that wouldn’t have been used to clean toilets back home. Not a lot of animals, just birds I could smell and hear, a decent change from the Novisarium where it wasn’t unusual to meet a cow coming down the street the other way with a human on a leash. Got a surprise the first time that happened. Especially when the human started mooing. Brain transporter gone wrong. I’d laughed about it afterwards. The cow looked fed up of explaining the situation.

  Since I first came here, I’ve heard people complain ‘they’re skint’ and ‘they’ve got nothing.’ That’s shit. These people have clearly never hit rock bottom and pulled themselves up. If they did, they’d crack their skulls and die. My father was always a big believer in the survival of the fittest.

  Some people are too dumb to live. I mean, every so often, I get a reminder of my past. Like now, someone genuinely fucking stupid enough to dangle a fistful of gold coins in front of me and not think I didn’t recognise what it was. I’d changed a lot in the years, hopefully to avoid recognition. I suppose it could be said I’d blossomed. One client said that to me, I think he meant it in a nice way, and I’d whipped him for it. Had bought a nice firm riding crop especially for the job.

  Kinky sadists. Got to love them. They make up most of my income these days. Sure, I do some waitressing during the day but that’s not going to pay for school uniforms and food. And Bast knows, I’d been told I’ve got a talent for it.

  “What the fuck is this?” I asked, pushing the gold away. “You think I’m fucking stupid?”

  He started to protest. I pushed him down on the bed, damn near jumped on his chest. I managed to hold myself back. Last thing I wanted was a complaint and maybe police involvement. They came here for the danger, most clients. They didn’t like it getting too real, though. They get all weepy at anything permanent. At the very least, I wouldn’t get paid and would lose a recurring punter. Puncturing a lung with a six-inch stiletto wouldn’t do him much good.

  That blossoming? Not the lightest any more. I was never waif-like, always managed to enjoy the good life growing up, always doing my best to make sure that my curves never evolved into something that’d make me a source of ridicule. And sure, after the pregnancy, shifting it was hard, especially with everything else going on.

  “What, do you not accept leprechaun gold as a form of payment, my love?”

  It sounded like a reasonable question, but I fixed him with a potent stare. I could feel the hairs growing on my arms under my elbow-length leather gloves, only my control stopping them from spreading to my face and body. Deep breath. Too much exposed skin, too difficult to explain. One. Two. Three. The itching faded as the hairs retracted. I couldn’t shift, not wholly. Didn’t mean my body’s first reaction wasn’t to try it and the act occasionally left me covered in fine gold down, usually at the worst possible times.

  “Do you know what it feels like to have your arms ripped off?” I asked, just as pleasantly. “Because if you’re going to insult me, you’ll get a hand job you weren’t expecting.”

  “Hey, it’s from a good leprechaun—”

  “I don’t care if it’s from St Patrick’s personal gnome himself, you try that shit with me, you lose something more than your dignity. I can tell what it is from here.”

  His eyes widened, his face red with embarrassment at the realisation he’d just been shoved down by a woman half his width. They’re always surprised by that. Hidden strength. Nothing noticeable. Just enough to make them think twice.

  “A good leprechaun just means it vanishes more slowly. Not that it stays.” I fixed him with a glare. “You want my time, you pay cash. Or I get Boris up here to kick the fuck out of you.”

  Sometimes image is everything. One of the first people I met when I got here was an actor named Charlie. Pretty much everything you’d expect an actor to be. Sweet guy, very camp. I think we shared a taste in men. We both liked ones exceptionally bad for our health. Given what happened with my last relationship, it felt like an understatement.

  I’d met Charlie quite accidentally, wandered past an alley, dazed and confused by everything, only for yells and screams to erupt out. Something had stirred in me, I’d gone to them, moving as quickly as I could. There’d been three of them and one of him, guess which one was on the ground having the shit kicked out of him, his head bleeding and his trouser down around his ankles? That stirring had risen and the anger had spilled out.

  “Hey!” I’d bellowed. “Leave him the fuck alone!”

  They’d rounded on me. Of course, they had. Three men brave enough to gang on one man smaller than any of them, I must have looked like an easy target. Dishevelled woman not from around here, wrapped in an old dress and leggings, trainers almost falling apart on her feet. They probably didn’t believe their luck.

  “Not your business, bitch!” One of them boomed. “This shit stabber’s getting it.”

  “She’s mouthy,” another said. “Best get her owner to shut it for her.”

  Mouthy? Owner? I didn’t understand what they meant. I did know the phrase shit stabber though. I’d always found it self-explanatory, though vividly disgusting.

  “Looks like he already put something up her,” the third laughed. “Wonder if they’ll take her back in spoiled condition.”

  I blinked. He hated gays, women and people from other cultures. Terrific. I clenched my fists together, felt the nails cut into my palms. I did that once when they changed to claws, opened them right up. If I had my claws, I’d cut them apart. If I had my teeth, I’d rip their throats out…

  I didn’t. Which meant diplomacy.

  “I mean it,” I repeated. “Leave him be. He’s done you no harm.”

  “He tried to fuck me, dirty little prick,” the second guy said, rubbing at his chest as if he felt unclean. I rolled my eyes at the way he protested it a little too much. You could always recognise someone lying to themselves. “Tried to shove his cock right up my…”

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” I said. “And even if he did, it doesn’t give you the right to beat him half to death.”

  I was painfully sure being reasonable wasn’t going to work with these three idiots, but I didn’t want to fight. I had more to risk. A lot more. At least they weren’t kicking him now. We were talking. That could work out. Diplomatic, me. Just needed to make sure they didn’t start again. I’m sure the guy on the ground didn’t want that, either.

  “Is he really worth it?” I added. “I mean, any idiot could see you. You’re all pretty easy to remember. You want to go to jail over it?” I added an authoritative note to my voice. Maybe here was someone to be obeyed, someone who knew what they were talking about, someone who, for once in their miserable little lives, might be worth listening to because they’d thought about more than just basic urges.

  They stepped away from him. I breathed a sigh of relief. Not because I had any attachment to the guy on the ground, mainly because it meant you could take the girl out of the Novisarium, but you can’t ta
ke the Novisarium out of the girl. The lessons we learn in there stay with us. And one of them, one that stuck with me all through the last several years, was that when you need to stand your ground, you do it. No half measures. And if you need to fight, you fight. Most predators recognise that. They might be the most cowardly vicious sort of predator, but they recognise when a fight isn’t worth it. They react, they walk away. I don’t even think I looked fierce or threatening. Just determined.

  They’d walked and was Charlie grateful? Not at first. I crouched next to him, felt him pull away from my touch as I gingerly rested my fingers against his shoulder. “You okay?” I asked. “They’re gone.”

  “Fuck you, bitch!”

  As first impressions go, I’ve had better.

  “Boris!”

  Charlie looked different these days. He’d packed on the weight, squeezed himself into a dirty vest he claimed in private, “Made him look totally Die Hard, Darling,” although I’d said nothing. His accent was supposed to be Russian, I think, but it sounded more like a constipated Pole. I don’t think your average client cared what it was meant to be. They were too busy looking at my girls.

  It happened by accident. I never set out with the intention of running what I call a cathouse for my own amusement, though nobody else gets the joke. I don’t tell them about what I used to do. Not their concern and I don’t want to remember. It hurt too damn much sometimes. When I’m not working, when I get moments to myself, I just want to sit with the bottle, just think about the past and where it went wrong. Working keeps me from doing all sorts of bad shit, shit I’d regret in the morning. Keep busy, I don’t have the chance to feel down and that suits me. It’s okay wishing that things were better, but if wishes were winged horses, I’d have flown somewhere else by now and would probably be laid on a beach. That’d be the life.

  The house came cheap. We’d pooled together our money and managed to get it for a decent price, all because a couple of people got murdered in it long ago. Terrific deal, really. They were about to knock it down and we took it. They didn’t ask too many questions, we didn’t want too many answers. A bleak history didn’t bother me. I figure we had that in common, the house and me. We worked non-stop for a month to get it together, splitting the food and the bills to make them as small as we could until we had the cash. All of us did some things we weren’t proud of. Stuff I’d really rather my son never found out about.