Text copyright © 2014 Samantha Redstreake Geary
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The stories in this collection are works of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are invented by the authors or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
OF MYTH AND MIRACLE by Amy Michele
A FLIGHT OF FANCY by M. Pax
SEEDS OF PROMISE by Susan Kaye Quinn
THROUGH THE PORTAL by Crystal Collier
CASSAFATE by Alex J. Cavanaugh
NAILED TO WHITE TIME by Jessica Bell
THE FOREIGNER by C. Lee McKenzie
LEGENDARY by Ruth Long
SENTRY by Darynda Jones
TERRA MAGUS by Samantha Redstreake Geary
MONSTROUS by Daniel Pennystone
MONSTROUS Fear Art by Daniel Pennystone
MONSTROUS Anger Art by Daniel Pennystone
SAVING ANNABELLE by ms. annegirl
THE RED RAPHA by Brennah Whiteside
SEA OF RUINS by Carter Lundgren
SEA OF RUINS Art by Carter Lundgren
THE SECRET OF GENAVUM by Braelyn Whiteside
THE SECRET OF GENAVUM Art by Coleman Criss
THE RED WORLD by Emma Schneider
WELL COME by Caleb Lotz
DOVE by Sarah Aisling
HERO Art by Ryo Ishido
TIMEKEEPER by Alayna Fairman
PHENOMENA Art by Lukas Jurco
OBLIVION by Nitish Raina
FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE Art by Camille Cabezas
THE CALLING OF A HERO by Melissa Muhlenkamp
PHENOMENA Art by Elizabeth Ann Watts
OF MYTH AND MIRACLE
By Amy Michele
Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Red Sorrow
“IN HERE,” Eli said, ushering each of the battle worn, four Elementals ahead of him into the safety of the damp Basilica basement.
It hadn’t worked. They had come together as Earth, Fire, Air, and Water—the living incarnation of the mythical Ring of King Solomon—believing that their combined abilities would be able to defeat the Demon army that was still rising from the open pit of Hell itself to snatch Earth from the Heavens and claim all humanity for its own.
Eli wrapped this defeat around him like an unnecessary wool coat. He was the one who had drawn the Four from their hiding places and convinced them that this was a war that could be won. Won by them. He’d been so sure. He’d done all the research—so pleased with himself that he had unraveled the mystery. No one had taken him seriously when he first began to talk about his findings. He was just an eighteen year old, seminary student, what could he really know.
Well, he knew. He’d discovered that the Ring of Solomon was not a ring at all. Nor were the jewels that represented the elements merely precious stones. The Ring was a circle of people with amazing abilities, and together they should have been able to defeat the Demon army that had wormed its way into the city and was now showing its ugly talons. But, as usual, things hadn’t gone as planned. Eli hadn’t meant to befriend three of them and then fall in love with the fourth. He hadn’t meant to get anyone hurt.
Eli watched the Four find purchase in the dark, church basement. Pushed into despair and hiding by the army of demons they had fought through the night, the Elementals huddled together in the center of the room. Eli could see that Christopher, the Element Fire, was badly injured. Eli made a move toward him and Christopher put out his hand—signaling Eli to keep his injury secret for now. Eli nodded and backed away, letting the Four whisper to each other words of consolation and despair. He should have done better by them. He’d dragged them out of their own personal safeties and had led them into what was amounting to be certain demise.
He had discovered Lily, the Element Air, first. And he’d fallen in love immediately. She had no idea what she was; only that she wasn’t quiet human, even though she appeared to be. Eli had believed correctly that she was part Milcham—a sort of Phoenix—and that her time was running out. He believed that her ticking clock coincided with the timing of the Demon insurgence. If he was right, the loss of this war with the Demons would lose him Lily too—forever.
Christopher had come to Eli next, on the wings of jealousy. Lily’s ex-boyfriend and a reprieved soul from Hell, Christopher belonging to the Ring was a necessary evil in Eli’s eyes. Their relationship was tense at best. Seeing Christopher hurt, however, was not a point of pleasure for Eli in any way. Christopher had made the choice to fight with the others and Eli respected that. Perhaps that choice had more to do with Lily than caring about defeating Hell, but Christopher had the chance to take his leave from it all and had chosen to stay.
Earth Element, Ray, and the only pure human of the bunch other than Eli, had been the hardest to coax out of his seclusion. His decision to join the fight affected someone else and it had been a hard decision to make. He tried in all matters to keep to himself. A recluse and more than a bit brash, Ray had a secret. He was hiding Talia, the Element Water, a shy water nymph with no desire to be seen by the world. Theirs had been a self-exiled Garden of Eden and Eli had forced them out.
“Are we going to be safe here?” Talia asked Eli, pulling apart from the pack just enough to point her question at him.
The Basilica was made of brick and stone and under normal circumstances a person would be hard pressed to find somewhere sturdier. Eli hated that Talia had to ask the question at all. These four beings, with all their power, should be safe anywhere. But they weren’t. Eli wasn’t one to lie.
“Not for long,” he answered.
He expected Talia to fold herself against Ray as she was known to do in times of stress, but she just nodded her head and stepped back into the circle. An explosion underneath the ground shook the floor. Eli knew the Demons were trying to open another Hell hole. Surely they wouldn’t be able to get inside the church that easily.
Eli didn’t notice at first, but the tremor had caused the injured Christopher to go down on one knee. What drew Eli’s attention was Lily’s gasp.
“You’re hurt,” she said and dropped down beside Christopher. “Eli, he’s bleeding.”
“I’m ok,” Christopher said, but his voice shook and they all knew that wasn’t the truth.
“Aren’t you immortal?” Ray said, a little less than compassionate.
Christopher shook his head. Ray had agreed to fight with the others, but
he hadn’t agreed to care about them. His concern was for Talia and that was about it.
“When I die again, they get me back,” Christopher said, revealing his true fear. “I go back to Hell.”
“No!” Lily shouted, down on her knees beside him. “That can’t happen. Eli, you can’t let that happen.”
They all looked at Eli like there was something he could do to stop this. He’d started it after all. The look in Lily’s eyes made him sick to his stomach. He shook his head at her, not knowing what to say.
“We won’t let them have you,” Talia said and tugged on Ray’s sleeve to bring him into the promise.
The Four sat down on the basement floor in a circle. Lily helped Christopher lean up against her for support. She took hold of his hand and as sometimes happened when one Element came into intimate contact with another, both their abilities began to manifest in the room. What had been a light draft drew into a swirling wind, knocking over a chair in the corner of the room and blowing a stack of loose documents around in the air above their heads. Christopher squeezed Lily’s hand and the airborne papers caught fire. Talia grabbed Christopher’s other hand and the dampness on the basement floor began to pool into puddles. She raised her free hand up swiftly and the water from the floor sprang up like upside down rain. Ray grabbed her hand, always fearful when she showed her power. Lily grabbed Ray’s other hand at the same time and the floor began to buckle as the ground shifted under the foundation.
With the circle complete, they had limited individual hold of their abilities and their combined power seemed to take control of itself, feeding off their emotions and the chaos of the situation. They had tried this before expecting that their joined abilities would create the perfect weapon, but instead, they were unable to control it. They were a car with no driver.
Eli knew they did this only out of fear and desperation, and that, while it gave them a sense of togetherness, it actually made them weaker. He reached out toward Lily, wanting to do something to help, but unable to imagine what that might be.
“Lily,” Eli said, scooting toward her, reaching out his hand toward hers, where she clung to Christopher. “Is there anything I can do?”
With that, Eli put his hand on hers and a jolt of energy shot through the circle—from hand to arm to body to hand, all the way around. The ceiling shook and a hole blasted through it. Looking up, they could see the stained glass windows of the sanctuary above, from where they sat. Morning was dawning and colored light filtered down around them.
Sorrow suddenly gave way to hope.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Amy Michele grew up on the coast of North Carolina, hanging out on the beach and looking for mermaids. When she didn’t find any, she got out her pen. This story is an excerpt from the Ring of Solomon (Myth and Miracle series).
Visit her online at Amy Michele for more about Eli, the Elementals, and the Evil they hope to overthrow. Get to know her alter-ego (everyone should have one) as well, at Amy Willoughby Burle, Facebook, Twitter
A FLIGHT OF FANCY
By M. Pax
Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Whispers of Wonders
“IMMERSE YOURSELF in the tea, Fancy.” The Seed King poured her a graceful cup. “It’s time for you to become mighty.”
Steam curled from the dainty mouths of teapot spouts crowning his strawberry curls, giving him more crowns than any other king, one of silky curls, one of very fine porcelain, and a third of steam.
Upon his throne inside the boulder that housed a charming parlor outfitted with prisms, dragon scales, and birds, he held court. To be summoned by the Seed King was a great honor.
Fancy had expected to feel mighty the moment she swooped into court. She didn’t. She had less form than the puffs of steam clouding then dissipating over his head. Perhaps the tea would make her stronger. She dipped herself into the essence of jasmine, star anise, and lemon verbena.
The king bowed low, and she was born as if smoke forming over the bowl of a pipe. She grew misty arms, a torso, and a face. Her legs sprouted but ended before feet materialized. For the first time in her life she sat in a chair at a table. She laughed. “I feel the vigor you’ve bestowed, my king.”
“You’ve ripened into a marvel, so wondrous. I can see it in your soul, my dear. Lovely. You will do fantastic things. Are you ready?”
Many of Fancy’s sisters had been invited to tea over the years then sent off to better the world, leaving her colder and yearning for her time. “It’s a privilege to be cast at your whim.”
“Be fruitful.” The king pursed his lips, conjuring a soft breeze from his lungs ripe with clove and cinnamon, ballooning, a gossamer wind of hope.
Fancy floated out of her seat, drifting into an amethyst sky, cupped by a leaf that whisked her over land and sea. Pinks and golds cradled her, inspired her esprit. On the verge of bursting, she was introduced to a seed. It resembled an acorn with an exotic tribal pattern. Glorious. Fancy encouraged it to find land, whispered that it would grow tall and mighty. If she became a great tree, she’d be powerful, a hero of the forest, something fancies often whispered about in the grove.
She and the seed whirled in eddies, courted storms, skirted past a deluge, flying around and up, around and whoosh, searching, seeking fertile ground to sprout and grow roots. Without her, the seed wouldn’t believe it could fly and would have dropped into the ocean long ago. She began to understand her power.
The sun grew intense, warmer, guiding Fancy and her seed to an island, to a patch of rich loam beside a gentle waterfall. A yellow bird swooped, beak opened wide.
“Veer left,” she told the seed.
Their connection had grown so strong on their journey, the seed heard her perfectly, banking sharply to the left. It landed with a soft bounce, rolling under decaying fronds out of the bird’s sight.
“We will grow as one, grand and majestic, felling tears in homage to your beauty.” Fancy sang it as a hymn, keeping her seed company, never leaving it alone.
Seasons came and went. The seed flourished into a sprout then a sapling then a tree. Its branches swayed with every breath of wind, every touch of sun, every blessing of rain. It matured into a eucalyptus tinted with the colors of the rainbow. The tree and Fancy courted the birds and lizards, whispering of love. The birds and lizards multiplied.
Fancy could do more, wanting adoration for her sublime patch of the world, blasting a silent song with every gust of wind that came by. One year it bore fruit, a set of sails on the horizon. The sails belonged to a sizeable ship, its decks brimming with men.
“They will love you,” she told the tree.
They loved the beautiful eucalyptus too much, staring up at the colorful branches, the puffy white flowers, and sweet green leaves. “You will be ours,” they bellowed, striking the hefty trunk with axes, chipping away until Fancy stood tall no more.
She wept, her leaves spilling in a mournful trail behind her. This wasn’t what she had meant to inspire. More tools hacked at her beauty, diminishing her, sentencing her to unsightly chunks and debris. She crawled into the largest log. “I’ll not leave you,” she told the tree.
It moaned. How could it not? It knew as well as she a fancy wasn’t as mighty as an axe. She had no muscles to fight with, no brawn. Her groans matched the tree’s.
Hauled onto the ship, she felt no hope in the cramped hold. There was no air, no light, no love. Yet she couldn’t let the tree’s spirit die out. “This is not our end,” she whispered. “You’re too splendid.” She repeated it over and over, sending the idea reeling with every sway of the sea.
The next day, a hardened man forged by salt and gales climbed down into the hold, a bright lantern clutched in his hand. He rubbed his chin, staring at logs and barrels.
“You want me,” Fancy said.
Her thought became his, for he carried her off up into the light. On the waves in a wooden vessel they rode, she on his lap, he carving her, shaving her smaller, throwing bits of her into a hear
th. It kept them warm and lit the dark corners.
When he finished, she sat as a finely carved violin, gleaming upon the table. Her curves were as elegant as any lady’s, her scrolls whispered of symphonies and glory. He took her ashore to a place of grand buildings, domes sparkling under the sun. He labored under the humid burden of the noon hours to sell her. She mourned until she saw a young girl with mahogany hair and honey eyes.
“You will love me,” Fancy whispered.
The girl pressed her ear to the polished wood. “I’m Adelina. I will cherish you all my life.” She caressed the lines and swirls carved by the seaman, forging a bond as strong as the one Fancy had with the tree.
Fancy knew she belonged with this girl. “I’m yours.”
Adelina begged her father until he bought the rainbow violin, yet her pleading didn’t end. “I must play it,” she insisted all the way home. “It is not enough to have it.”
The next day a maestro came to teach her. He and Adelina touched a golden bow to Fancy’s strings. Magic. Fancy sang like she never had, spinning all she could into Adelina’s heart, catching the girl’s deepest passions. Adelina rarely set the violin down. She grew into an alluring young woman standing before a crowd of thousands, Fancy cradled in her hands.
Bow caressed strings. Fancy began with a wistful melody. Low. Aching. Spilling into a yearning ballad then a concerto then an opus, growing to heights never touched by the tallest mountains, to shades of blue never blessed by the sun, to beauty that had yet to be born.
Fancy had never known such joy. The divinity of impassioned creation lifted her from the wood, casting her adrift on the wind. Adelina now stood stooped and frail. Her hair had grown course and white. Fancy kissed her friend then found herself back in the grove with the boulder castle.
The Seed King summoned her. “Did you enjoy your first life, my lovely?”
“I did. I learned I don’t need muscles to be mighty.”
“Life is nothing without fancies.” The king bowed, sending her off into the world again. Fancy couldn’t wait to see how she’d be reborn.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
M. Pax is author of the sci-fi series, The Backworlds, the new adult science fiction fantasy, The Renaissance of Hetty Locklear, and the upcoming series, The Rifters.
A Browncoat and SG fan, she's also slightly obsessed with Jane Austen. In the summers she docents as a star guide at Pine Mountain Observatory where the other astronomers now believe she has the most extensive collection of moon photos in existence. No fear, there will be more next summer. She lives in stunning Central Oregon with the Husband Unit and two lovely, spoiled cats. Website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads
SEEDS OF PROMISE
By Susan Kaye Quinn
Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Seeds of Promise
SEVENTY-ONE. Seventy-two. Seventy-three.
The muscle burn in my arms makes itself known, a welcome companion inside these walls of white. My cot is neatly made, and I’ve already run the perimeter walls—all forty feet of the ten-by-ten room. By the end of a hundred laps, I was literally climbing the walls with each turn, holding my hospital gown out of the way and getting traction with my bare feet.
Anything to keep from climbing them figuratively.
I’m certain that’s part of Agent Kestrel’s plan in grabbing me off the streets of Jackertown and keeping me and the others locked away, isolated in our tiny cells. That, and to probe the limits of our mindjacking skills for his purposes, whatever they are. Kestrel may, in theory, be one of us, but he’s no friend of jackers. I don’t know his ultimate aim, but I don’t have to—you can fight the enemy without being privy to all his detailed plans. I just need to keep Kestrel off guard, avoid divulging any information, and stay alive long enough for my brother, Julian, to come for me. It’s been almost two weeks, but I know nothing will stop him from finding me and liberating all of us. And when Julian gets here, Kestrel will sorely wish he hadn’t.
Eighty-one. Eighty-two. Eighty-three. Sweat rolls off the tip of my nose and joins the small but growing pool on the white-tiled floor.
The first time Kestrel paid a visit to my cell, he and his goon brought another jacker prisoner with them. Just a normal one, no extreme abilities that I could detect with a small brush of his mind barrier. It was enough to know he didn’t have an impenetrable mind, like me, and thus was vulnerable to Kestrel’s predations. I doubt Kestrel knew about my ability before he kidnapped me, but he certainly knows now. Losing that tactical advantage is worse than being stuck like a lab rat in Kestrel’s cells. And every day in here is a day lost in building the revolution with my brother. At least Kestrel gave no sign that he knew about my brother’s ability to manipulate people’s instincts. That’s one secret which will stay locked in my head until Kestrel gets to experience it for himself.
When that regular jacker was brought to my cell, I declined to participate in Kestrel’s sadistic little experiment… and the jacker paid the price for it. Just mental pain. No physical damage that I could discern. I thought it would deter Kestrel if I refused to play his games, but he just came around again—with the same jacker.
You can take the measure of a man by what he does—the look in his eyes—when faced with torment by someone evil. I still don’t know that jacker’s name, but I know full well the man on the inside. He gave me a nod that told me he understood: I wasn’t just defying Kestrel, I was foiling his experiment by keeping the extent of my abilities a mystery. And it wasn’t just for me, but for all jackers. We were in a fight for the right to exist. My brother would forge a future where we could be free, but he needed time. And numbers. And every tactical advantage we could give him. I gave that jacker prisoner a nod back, acknowledging his willingness to sacrifice for the cause. Bravery like that deserves the kind of respect that allows it to happen.
But that didn’t make it any easier to watch.
Ninety-six. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. I splay my hands wider on the floor, gaining more grip as they become slick with the sweat gathering on my palms.
At the end of Kestrel’s last torture session, he injected me with something. A drug he no doubt is testing on more than just me. I was unconscious when they brought me in, but the walls are jacker-proof, not sound-proof. I hear the screams. How many others is hard to say, but I’m not the first to disappear from the streets of Jackertown. I haven’t felt the effects of the drug yet, either physically or mentally, but I’m sure it will come. Which means I’m in a race between that and freedom—
The door clicks.
I drop a knee down, trapping my hospital gown on the floor, then roll quickly to my side and face away from the door. I curl into a ball and hope Kestrel thinks his meds have begun to work. Or that maybe the walls are closing in.
Always let your enemy underestimate you.
The hard heels of Kestrel’s shoes sound behind me, followed by the softer scrape of boots… and then lighter footfalls. They’ve brought someone to torment again.
“Get up, Ms. Navarro,” Kestrel says in his cool voice. Calculated and barren. Much like his soul, no doubt. He doesn’t believe my possum act. Probably saw me on camera before he came in.
I roll over to face him, keeping my hands tucked against my chest. They quiver a bit—built up lactic acid making my muscles twitch. Not sure if it fools him, but it’s a nice effect. I slowly raise my gaze from the floor, deliberately putting some lost-puppy look into it, but before I reach Kestrel’s ice-blue eyes, I see who he’s brought for today’s plaything.
A child.
She’s thin, less than a hundred pounds, and barely thirteen. I don’t mentally reach out to test her mind barrier, but I’m certain it’s the soft one of a changeling. If a grown jacker can’t resist Kestrel’s goon, this child will be mentally crushed. I silently thank Kestrel for reminding me of the monster he is.
“Get up,” Kestrel repeats.
I slowly climb to my feet, still pretending that I’m weakened. As I do so, I surreptit
iously flex the muscles in my arms, hands, legs, and feet, readying them. The guard—a different one than before—smirks at my shaking hands. I scan his overly beefy body with wide eyes, as though I fear his bulky muscles and lack of noticeable ethics.
“You know the drill, Ms. Navarro,” Kestrel says. “Mr. Tyler will induce a rather unpleasant level of pain in the girl until you evict him from her mind.”
The changeling’s eyes are wide, but I can’t reassure her. Not yet.
“I don’t know if I can.” I keep my voice soft, eyes on Kestrel, afraid I will give myself away if I look at the girl. “I don’t feel so well.”
Kestrel arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That would be unfortunate for our young changeling.”
I look Kestrel over. I don’t see a weapon, but he could have one tucked away. A quick mental reach behind and around me—carefully avoiding the three minds in front—shows the disruptor field is still active in the walls, keeping me mentally locked in the room. The only way to open the door is a signal from Kestrel. I could hold him hostage, negotiate my way out, but the most likely outcome is a tranq dart for me. Or worse. And that won’t help the others.
Patience, Anna.
I take a deep breath and vow to keep waiting for Julian. Still… the unnecessary suffering of children is Kestrel’s game, not mine. He tips his head toward the guard and issues a mental command. The goon starts in on the girl. She drops to her knees, clutching her stomach.
No time to waste.
I mentally shove past her soft mind barrier, plunging in to find the guard’s mental presence: a hard marble suspended in the gel of her mind. I fling the goon out, shove him all the way back to his own skull, then plunge deeper into his mind, searching out the parts that control breathing and heart rate. He’s too strong for me to get a kill jack on him, but that’s all right—I wasn’t planning on taking him mentally.
However, fighting for your life is an excellent distraction.
I lunge for the guard and catch him in a blow to the throat that’s slightly wide of target, so it won’t kill him, then I land two more in quick succession, both to his gut. He huffs over, clutching his stomach under the assault. A final side strike to his face whips his head back, and he goes down.
Kestrel reaches me mentally. I yank back into my own head, so he can’t judge my strength. He chases after me, and the pressure is intense as he bears down on my mind barrier. I whirl on him, bat away the dart gun he’s pulled from somewhere, grab hold of his head, shove my knee into his gut, then step back and watch as he sinks to his knees.
I debate a roundhouse kick to the face for his trouble.
I think about this for a full second.
Then I step back. The time isn’t right. I’m sure Kestrel will find a way to punish me for this—I can take it, but I don’t want him hurting the girl. She’s cowering against the door. I don’t link into her mind to see what she’s thinking. She’s already had more violation than she should have to put up. When Julian comes, we’ll put an end to her torment. And the others as well. I only hope my blow to the guard’s head will blur any memories he has of my mental strength. And possibly deter both him and Kestrel from trying again.
I sigh. “I think we’re done for today, Kestrel.”
I take another step back, as far as I can go in my tiny cell, then I drop to the floor and resume my workout.
One hundred. One hundred-one. One hundred-two.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Seeds of Promise is a story from the Mindjack universe, which is comprised of a trilogy of young adult science fiction novels (Open Minds, Closed Hearts, Free Souls) as well as assorted novellas told from secondary character points of view. Anna’s story in Seeds takes place off-screen during the second novel, Closed Hearts, and Susan wrote it while listening to the song, Seeds of Promise, on repeat on her iPhone.
Susan Kaye Quinn is a rocket scientist turned speculative fiction author. She writes across all ages, from her middle grade fantasy, Faery Swap, to her adult future-noir, Debt Collector. She also writes steampunk just because it’s fun. Her latest release is a short time-travel novella in the Synchronic anthology, which has all kinds of stories that are much better than hers.
You can find about her works on her website or by subscribing to her newsletter (hint: new subscribers get a free short story!). You can friend her on Facebook, but only if you promise not to message her with new story ideas to write, as she already has too many series going at once. Unless it’s something about post-singularity robot love stories. Twitter, Goodreads
THROUGH THE PORTAL
By Crystal Collier
Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Journey Through the Portal
I’M LOST in the curl of smoke whisking off my pistol and into the chilly night. My stole slips from my shoulders, fluttering to the snow beneath my feet as I gape at the man, more like monster, who lies in a crimson pool. Sulfur and blood set my heart pounding.
Oh, it’s lovely, the swirl of color melting into the snow, the life seeping out of him, the flutter of his fingers as he struggles for breath.
My cheeks twitch upward, muscles I haven’t used in so long it’s a wonder they work at all.
His chest seizes and ceases to rise.
Fabulous.
I lift the single-chambered weapon with a white-gloved hand, twisting it over to examine the intricate metal hammer, still-smoking barrel, and the word Flintlock inscribed across the top. “Well met, Flintlock. I do believe we shall become fast friends.” I scowl at the gunpowder sprinkled across the pristine fabric of my glove. “Oh, you dirty little tool!”
I toss the weapon aside. It’s as filthy as the dead man I snatched it off but a few moments ago—all dressed up on the outside, rotting and black at its core.
The gun was too easy anyway. When I kill next, I want it to be more of a challenge.
Retrieving my wrap from the ground, I turn from the dead man and lift my skirts. Some might say it is inhumane to leave a corpse in a dress suit for the crows to pick clean. The idea delights me. I hope the wolves tear his bones apart and spread him to the far regions of the continent. It’s better than he deserves.
I reach the rise of the hill, the dead nobleman’s home lit by a few remaining candles at this late hour, a warmth he will never know again, a deceptive warmth he never deserved. But life is not about what people deserve.
I scratch at the brand hidden on the underside of my wrist, just beneath the glove. Life is about what we will tolerate, and what we will not.
A wind whorls about me, stinging my nose with a hint of morning dew and musk.
“You will be happy.” I wrap my stole more securely around me. “It was a humane kill.”
Miles shifts from the shadows. His too-thin coat is buttoned over a scruffy shirt and waistcoat, neck-cloth cinched tightly. Even so, he shivers, his breath puffing in a cloud of white. I have never liked how he towers over me, but in this permanently thirteen-year-old body nearly all people do. At least he comprehends I am no child—though I cannot say I’m particularly comfortable spending time with a young man who can jump into my mind and see through my eyes at any given moment.
He nods in acknowledgement of my statement, limp brown hair falling in his eyes as he slides a little book from his coat.
“I should have liked it to be far more painful,” I complain, peeling off my sullied glove. “I hope you are appeased because there will be more suffering next time.”
He flicks a charcoal checkmark across a page and settles the book back into its hiding place. His sunken gray eyes bore directly into me, the straight line of his mouth unyielding, even to reveal a hint of his crooked teeth.
I roll my eyes. “Oh come. I will let you kill the one after that if it will make you happy.”
His brows lower, jaw muscles ticking.
Hm. No humor. Did he sleep on a hedgehog last night? “If I had known you would be such a strait lace, I would have left you to your master’s care and execu
ted my revenge alone.”
He shifts to his left leg, the one that’s slightly longer than the other. “And how would you have hidden the evidence, Bellezza?”
Oh, his voice. I could live alone for its luscious sound, the lullaby of a cello in the stillness of a starry night.
I shake myself out of its influence.
Admittedly, his knowledge of the law has assisted in keeping my rampage from notice, but I’m not inclined to give him an inch. “Come, Miles.” I extend a hand to him. “We have a prisoner to free.”
He heaves a heavy breath and slides his warm fingers into mine. Heat bursts in my cheeks and breathlessness seizes my chest, but I force these annoyances into the recesses of my lacquered shoes. No man will ever have influence over me again.
I focus on breaking my body into mist, millions of particles that condense as a cloud, and wrap myself around Miles’s shivering body. The tremor of his skin brings me great pleasure, though I can’t tell if it’s because he fears or adores me. I’d prefer the first.
Though I may not be adverse to the second.
Forcing the thought away, I clear my mind and envision the hallway of the dead lord’s estate—the spot where I cornered him before transporting him to the woods for disposal. I can smell the polished cedar floor and subtle rot of old tapestries. The brush of wood paneling filters across my awareness, along with the stillness of air and a tinge of smoke from the extinguished evening fires. I pull us through space to that hallway and gather myself back together, solid once more.
It is darker than I’d anticipated.
Miles stares at our still clasped hands, a slight pucker in his brow. I’m surprised he hasn’t withdrawn already and debate breaking the connection first. I wish I could get inside his head and hear what he’s thinking.
He drags his fingers away, the tips curling briefly around mine, and then I’m free. My other hand is clenched in a fist. My heart drums like the fall of rain on a tin roof, betraying my need for autonomy.
Treacherous thing. I’m tempted to rip it out of my own chest.
Miles scowls and shakes his head, pulling a hand through his hair. “Third room on the right,” he whispers.
A coolness settles over me. The killing calm. “What can she see?”
“Not much. A couple walls. There’s a portal window near the vaulted ceiling.”
“And?”
“Fear.” He bites off whatever else he might have said, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He turns a fierce glare on me. “Do not frighten her further.”
I huff. “Miles, dear, I can be the most amiable of companions, if I so choose.”
His jaw clenches. The threat in his grimace is adorable, but what could he really do to me? With a thought I could be on the other side of the world, and he’d be left standing in this hall.
I pat his cheek and turn to the third door. The scent of iron burns my nose before I arrive. I glare at the dull metal handle and slats that cross-hatch the wood exterior in what would appear a decorative fashion to any mortal. Only the Passionate would recognize it for what it is: proofing against our susceptible fingers.
I rub the circular brand on my inner wrist, recalling only too clearly the scalding of metal and its numbing influence on the brain.
I hate noblemen.
Normally I would kick the barrier in, but in recent weeks we have encountered one trap after another set by the “collectors,” men of leisure who kidnap and violate unprotected Passionate children. They’ve been communicating since their brethren started dying—at my hand of course.
Miles lifts the handkerchief-wrapped key into the door’s lock and nudges it open. We both step back and wait.
Nothing.
It’s our unspoken agreement that I go first, always—although it took much convincing the first time—chivalrous fool.
I slip over the threshold, and stop. The reek of excrement slaps me hard. The small room is empty except for a porcelain chamber pot and the girl who sits against the wall, her knees pulled up against her chest, forehead resting against her grayed skirts. I wonder what her gift is, and if I might need to approach with caution, or maybe she hasn’t discovered her talents yet.
“Pst!”
She lifts her head. Her glistening eyes grow to the size of teacups.
I accept that as an invitation and step forward. “Your master is dead. The bond is broken. You are free.”
Her hand flies up in warning, too late. My shoe smacks against a leaver embedded in the floor and sends gears clicking somewhere in the wall.
Tick-tick-tick . . .
That’s not good.
Whoosh.
She covers her head with her arms and curls inward. I burst into mist and rush forward, wrapping myself around her. Glittering speckles rocket through the air toward us.
I gasp.
Gold. The most deadly of all metals. The silent killer.
Powdered death grazes the edge of my cloud and I draw inward, solidifying around her. I cough and glitter spews from my mouth. It speckles my hair and arms, sizzling across my skin like lava, fire launching through my limbs.
I try to mist. It’s like prying an elephant off the ground with my bare fingers.
The girl whimpers and points to the ceiling where a grate of pikes is poised, an axe already swinging off the mechanical trap at the rope holding it back.
Well, that really sucks eggs.
Of all the ridiculous ways to go—glittery and impaled to a floor? I’d rather be slit open and have my intestines fed to the birds, or rolled across a sea of jackknives and mauled by hungry bears. Dying in a powerful waterfall would be glorious too—
The door bursts wide.
Miles charges through, his coat lifted over his head, arms open. He grabs us both in a single bound and leaps at the portal window. Metal grazes my arm and glass crashes around us, littering the air with shards of light.
The wind whips gold from my hair and skin, and I mist.
Heroes of Phenomena Page 1
