“Say what?”
He folds his hands together like he’s praying and speaks in the quietest voice I’ve ever heard him use.
“This house is clean.”
We all burst out laughing. Leave it to Eric to cut through the tension with some comedic relief.
“You’ve been dying to say that since we watched Poltergeist.”
“You betcha.” He grins and slings an arm around me. “I love my freaky friends.” He plants a wet one on my cheek. “You da best.”
“You’re only saying that because I’m the only one who puts up with your lame jokes.”
“Hey, now, BFFs over boyfriends!”
Dan rolls his eyes, but I don’t miss the indulgent smile. Eric takes some getting used to, but he’s growing on Dan.
Wade and his crew are packing up their van and completely ignoring me. That’s perfectly fine. I don’t like Wade either.
“Caleb was right about you.” Cass comes up to us and pulls me into a hug, surprising everyone. “You are a hunter.”
“No…”
“Hush that nonsense, cher. You’re a hunter, and you earned our respect tonight. Any time you need help, you call, and we’ll come running.”
“I owe you one. So, if you need help, you call me too.”
He winks at me then looks over at Dan. “Your man is a holder of one of the swords, yeah?”
I nod.
“Glad you have someone like him watching your back. We’ll talk soon, but right now, I’m dead tired and want to sleep for the next week.”
“You and me both.”
I wave as he, Caryle, and Robert get into their car and drive off, leaving the rest of us to say our goodbyes.
Nathaniel goes back to his hotel, and Wade and his guys leave. Mary frowns after them, but she doesn’t look too upset they left without saying goodbye. Well, Ethan said his goodbyes, and he and Eric exchanged numbers. I don’t know if that will go anywhere, because Eric struggles with his feelings. He may never be able to embrace them and find a nice girl he can love instead. I just hope he finds happiness.
Doc is the next to leave, saying he’ll talk to the Duchaines and assure them their “house is clean.” He says it with a straight face. Brownie points to him for that.
Dan has to go straight back to the airport because he can’t call in. He’s on a homicide. We drop him off at the airport after a very long kiss, which Mary and Eric jump on the second I get back into the car.
I dodge it, not ready to talk about Dan yet. I want to spend some time alone with those feelings first.
That night as I lie in my tiny bed in my dorm room, I have to admit Cass and Nathaniel are right.
I can’t hide from my past or my gifts. I can be unhappy, or I can embrace my heritage. Dan loves me no matter what, demonic eyes and all. That means more to me than anything else. Who cares what anyone besides my family thinks of me? I’m not going to hide from The Ghost Girl anymore. I’m going to embrace her and maybe help a few people in the process.
Mary has a few ideas about that. I groan out loud just thinking about it. She wants to start our own YouTube channel about the girl who speaks to ghosts and helps them move on. I told her I was ready to stop hiding from my gifts, but not ready to announce to the world what I can do. She only scoffed at me, and she and Eric started tossing ideas around about the best way to set up our own channel, completely ignoring me and my protests.
I’m not sure showcasing what I do is a good idea. I mean, it’s not like I’d be showing off my demonic or god side, but it could open a whole can of worms I’m not equipped to deal with. Then there’s my family to consider. Zeke and his parents might have something to say about their only daughter and granddaughter shouting to the world, “I see ghosts.” They do have a reputation to uphold. The show might not get any hits at all, though, and then it would be moot.
But what if it did? I know how fascinating the supernatural is to normal people. These and a thousand other concerns rush around in my noggin.
Then there’s the whole hunter aspect of my life. Do I want to hunt? I know I kept telling Cass I wasn’t a hunter, but even Zeke told me I was one.
It’s definitely something to think about.
No matter what I decide to do, life is going to get interesting fast.
And for once, I can’t wait.
About The Author
So who am I? Well, I’m the crazy girl with an imagination that never shuts up. I LOVE scary movies. My friends laugh at me when I scare myself watching them and tell me to stop watching them, but who doesn’t love to get scared? I grew up in a small town nestled in the southern mountains of West Virginia where I spent days roaming around in the woods, climbing trees, and causing general mayhem. Nights I would stay up reading Nancy Drew by flashlight under the covers until my parents yelled at me to go to sleep.
Growing up in a small town, I learned a lot of values and morals, I also learned parents have spies everywhere and there’s always someone to tell your mama you were seen kissing a particular boy on a particular day just a little too long. So when you get grounded, what is there left to do? Read! My Aunt Jo gave me my first real romance novel. It was a romance titled “Lord Margrave’s Deception.” I remember it fondly. But I also learned I had a deep and abiding love of mysteries and anything paranormal. As I grew up, I started to write just that and would entertain my friends with stories featuring them as main characters.
Now, I live Huntersville, NC where I entertain my niece and nephew and watch the cats get teased by the birds and laugh myself silly when they swoop down and then dive back up just out of reach. The cats start yelling something fierce…lol.
I love books, I love writing books, and I love entertaining people with my silly stories.
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King Of
Flames
The Masks of Under
Book One
By Kathryn Ann Kingsley
The Houses of Under
House of Flames
Ruled by King Edu. They are marked in red. They are the conquering force. They are warriors, fighters, and believe in the right of might above all else. In Edu’s absence, Elder Oanr rules. King Edu reigns as the story begins.
House of Shadows
Ruled by King Aon. They are marked in black. Their oversight is learning to wield the marks bestowed on them by the Ancients and tapping into their power to wield magic. In Aon’s absence, Elder Navaa rules. As the story begins, Aon is asleep in his crypt.
House of Fate
Ruled by Queen Ini, who slumbers in her crypt. They are marked in blue. They are given visions by the Ancients and do what they can to guide the direction of Under to match their will. In Ini’s absence, Elder Ziza rules. Ziza is also the Oracle of the Ancients, responsible for conveying visions and relaying their will.
House of Words
Ruled by Queen Vjo, who slumbers in her crypt. They are marked in purple. They are scientists and historians. They study all that can be known of Under that does not pertain to the marks on their skin, as that is the purview of the House of Shadows. In Vjo’s absence, Elder Maverick rules.
House of Blood
Ruled by King Rxa, who slumbers in his crypt. They are marked in white. They are the vampiric c
aretakers of the Ancients where they slumber in their prison. They both worship them and yet are their wardens. In Rxa’s absence, Elder Otoi rules. Lyon, the Priest, was once elder of this house but sacrificed his title to wed Kamira, as those of equal station cannot otherwise do so.
House of Moons
Ruled by King Dtu, who slumbers in his crypt. They are marked in green. They are shapeshifters and creatures dedicated to the wild. In Dtu’s absence, Elder Kamira rules.
Major Players:
Lydia, a human. Twenty-eight years old. Worked as an autopsy forensic technician until her world was upended with the arrival of a tattoo she never intended to have. Went to school and currently lives in Boston.
Nick, Lydia’s best friend. Thirty years old. Went to medical school with Lydia but became a security guard at the same lab where Lydia works.
Evie, full name Evelyn. Belongs to the House of Words. Wound up in Edu’s jail for attempting to kill someone in her own house. Was taken from Montana in 1922. Wanted to be a movie star.
Lyon. The Priest. Former elder of the House of Blood who gave up his title to marry Kamira. Born in 232 CE, in the region now known as France. Became a Roman legionnaire before being taken to Under after losing his wife and son in the Crisis of the Third Century.
The Ancients
The original creatures that embody Under. It is those seven gods from whom all the rest of the world originates. They are imprisoned inside the lake of blood beneath the Cathedral of the Ancients. If they were to die, Under would cease to be. There is one for each house of Under.
Elders and Regents:
Kamira. Elder of the House of Moons. Born in 22 BCE in south-western Spain (Tartessos). Married to Lyon.
Maverick. Elder of the House of Words. Born in 1832, England. Known as the doctor. Married to Aria, who also lives within the House of Words.
Ziza, Elder of the House of Fate. Born in Italy, 417. Also serves as Oracle to the Ancients and relays visions granted to her.
Navaa, Elder of the House of Shadows. Born in Bunyoro (Modern day Uganda), 1377.
Otoi, Elder of the House of Blood. Born in Bucharest, 1721.
Oanr, Elder of the House of Flames. Born in Iceland, 544.
Chapter One
What do you do when you wake up with a tattoo you didn’t have the night before?
Huh. Well, that’s odd, was the first thing that ran through Lydia’s mind as she looked down at the mark on her forearm.
It looked like any old tattoo. It was small, about the size of a nickel, and done as if in a single pass with black ink from a needle. It was just a single symbol—archaic, strange, and nothing she recognized. After attacking it with rubbing alcohol and bleach, all she succeeded in doing was making her skin red. Slowly and reluctantly, Lydia concluded the ink really was under her skin.
Or, at least, it looked like ink.
She was pretty damn sure it wasn’t a spontaneously appearing black, thin-lined birthmark. One that looked like a backward N with a spiral cut through the middle. It really looked like tattoo ink.
The problem was, it hadn’t been there last night. Lydia hadn’t been out drinking and hadn’t blacked out. Sleepwalking? No. She had gone to bed at about two in the morning after being up late playing video games—no tattoo parlor in the city would’ve been open. She didn’t know any tattoo artists with a sick sense of humor. Lydia had gone to bed, woken up, and—poof. Nickel-sized tattoo. Right there on her forearm, no missing it, no mistaking it.
It was incredible how the human mind processed the seemingly impossible. After attempting to remove the thing for an hour, Lydia’s mind simply decided that it could not process the issue. The mystery was upended by the simple and much more approachable problem of being late to work. That one she could wrap her head around. That one she could solve.
Instead of sinking into the panic of debating what the thing was on her arm, she just…went about her day. Lydia scrambled to get ready, threw on some eyeliner, and brushed her hair before rushing to the T. She didn’t know why she bothered. It wasn’t like her “coworkers” would notice. They weren’t the most sociable, chatty, and observant people. Nothing against them—they couldn’t help it.
They were dead, after all.
Lydia was a forensic autopsy technician. With every person she ever met, she had to explain why her job was not like that thing they saw on CSI that one time. It was hardly that interesting. Her job was only to collect the data. Record the numbers. There were more important, better-paid, smarter people who sat at a desk and actually solved the crimes. She just stuck plastic sticks in dead people, cut bits and pieces out of them for various reasons, and took a whole lot of gross photos.
Now, that wasn’t to say Lydia didn’t have real coworkers. It was just funnier to think about the people on the slab that way, to put them in a slightly humorous, if sardonic light. Otherwise, she’d have to take her job seriously, and that was no way to live. Her real coworkers were friendly, ordinary people with details in their lives about which she had no clue. They were all okay with it that way.
Contrary to popular belief, nobody worked the night shift at a morgue, even if horror movies told you otherwise. She had a normal, nine-to-five, humdrum life, just like most people. Even if hers had to do with dead people. Well, hey, somebody had to do it. It did sometimes leave her with the scent of chemicals, though. She had to use mint shampoo because if she used anything floral, she just came off smelling like a funeral parlor.
Leaning against the side of the train car, she looked down at her phone and flicked her thumb over whatever soup-du-jour game she had downloaded that week. The green line was late getting into South Station. Again.
It was funny that in the city of Boston, you could hit the start of your workday by fifteen minutes in either direction, and honestly, nobody cared. Boston’s T was America’s oldest subway station, and it showed. At this point, she suspected if a pigeon shit on the rails, the train would have to wait twenty minutes for it to dry.
She didn’t even want to think about what happened when it snowed.
Lydia had come to enjoy Boston, if admittedly against her will. She’d moved out here from the New Hampshire countryside to go to college, got an internship, got hired, and got stuck. Now she had a typical life for a late-twenties single professional. Some houseplants, a job, some friends, some hobbies, and—a mark of personal progress in the city of Boston—a one-bedroom apartment to herself.
Lydia’s pattern was, like most people, wake up, work, go home, fill some time, sleep, wake up, work, day after day. Every few days, she’d hang out with friends or catch a beer with her breathing coworkers. Smatter in a date or two, and life was good.
That was a successful life, right?
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Each day wasn’t too different from the last. That also was most people’s opinion of a successful life. Just slowly wandering into the sunset, doing the same thing—predictable and routine.
To be fair, today was just a little different than usual, though.
Lydia kept scratching her arm over her sleeve. The heavy chemicals she used on her surprise tattoo were itching like mad. Maybe she shouldn’t have attacked it with a Brillo pad and bleach, but she had been frantic. Rolling up her sleeve, she tried to surreptitiously glance at it to see if it had magically disappeared. Maybe the bleach had done its trick. But no. There, surrounded by a red rash of her own doing, was the mark.
It didn’t even hurt like she had expected a new tattoo probably should. It hadn’t felt like anything until she attacked it trying to get it off. It was like it had been there for years.
She knew how tattoo ink on human skin should look. She knew how it got that slightly grayish, fuzzy edge to it, no matter how good of a job had been done by the artist. She didn’t have any ink of her own, but more of the bodies that ended up on her table had them than not.
The thing on her arm wasn’t possible. It had no business being there. She should be rushing to the hospi
tal, but what the hell would they say? Tell her not to do drugs, and maybe she wouldn’t wake up with a tattoo she didn’t remember? They wouldn’t believe her when she said she had a Diet Coke, played some PlayStation, and went to bed. They’d assume she either got drunk and didn’t remember it or got roofied at a bar.
Either way, the cops would be called in, she’d fill out a report, and absolutely nothing would be done about it. Nobody was hurt, nobody had been killed, nothing had been stolen, and there was nowhere to start looking. Best case, they’d come to check out her apartment for signs of breaking and entering. She’d already looked; there weren’t any. The cops would be left to simply shrug at the situation and go.
So what on earth was she going to do? Call out of work? Sit on her floor and sob uncontrollably? Call an exorcist?
Lydia wasn’t the type to cry and panic. She considered herself a rational, reasonable, logical human being. In college and med school, she had worked as an entry-level EMT. She had learned the “act first, panic later” mantra from a few of the older, far more beautifully jaded and saltier Boston paramedics.
They were a particular bunch.
The method was clear—solve the problem, then have a breakdown if you had to. More than once Lydia had shown up to an accident where the person who had the original issue was just fine and the person who had made the call needed help because of a panic attack.
Act first, panic later. Lydia kept repeating it to herself in her head to try and stave off the rising tide. She had a tattoo on her arm she didn’t remember getting, one that was impossible. But nothing was impossible, just momentarily unexplainable. Like stage magic, once you knew the secret, it was all a joke. Once she learned the trick, it’d seem obvious.
Destiny: A Fantasy Collection Page 86
