Shadowed Flame

by RJ Blain

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Afterword

  Titles by RJ Blain

  Shadowed Flame

  A Standalone Novel Set in the Witch & Wolf World

  by R.J. Blain

  Matia Evans has it all, except for one thing: she can’t see color. With an adopted family who loves her, a company she helps her father run, and more prospects than she knows what to do with, she’s in no place to complain that her world is limited to shades of gray, black, and white.

  Her inability to perceive color isn't the only strange thing about her: all souls have shadows, and she can see them. Unfortunately, there are humans who are worse than monsters. Worse, there are real monsters in the world, and they view humans as prey or as mates.

  If Matia doesn’t want to become a victim, a pawn, or a trophy bride of the supernatural, she must use every bit of her strength and cunning. Her freedom and survival depend on embracing the darkest parts of her soul, but if she does, she risks becoming the newest—and most dangerous—monster of all.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher or author excluding the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  © 2016 Pen & Page Publishing

  For more information or to contact the author, please visit rjblain.com.

  Cover design by Holly Heisey (hollyheisey.com)

  Chapter One

  For the third time since arriving at work two hours ago, Dad tripped over his own feet and smacked face first into the carpet. The thump of him hitting the floor drowned out my sigh. I debated whether to get up and help him or stay at my desk and observe his efforts to restore his dignity.

  If my grandmother had been wise, she would have named him Hannah as a good luck charm against his clumsy nature. Instead, I was saddled with it as my middle name, a ward against harm and a wish to prevent the Evans family curse from striking me.

  In my opinion, I was far from graceful, but I had managed to avoid my father’s clumsy fate. It made sense to me, although those who didn’t know us well marveled at the fact I could walk in a straight line. If they found out I could cartwheel on a balance beam, they’d probably faint from shock.

  Then again, few knew what I knew: I wasn’t my father’s daughter, and I doubted I would ever learn whose daughter I was.

  “You could have some pity, Matia,” Dad complained, rolling onto his side and propping his chin in the palm of his hand.

  Blood oozed from his nose and dripped down to the stubble of his day-old beard.

  No matter how many times everyone told me blood was a vibrant hue—a rich crimson—my traitorous eyes always told me another story. Blood was just another shade of gray, charcoal over the paler slate of my dad’s skin. The carpet, like most of Dad’s clothes, came in at a shade somewhere between black, black, and yet another shade of black.

  Three words defined my world: black, white, and gray.

  Instead of answering, I pulled out my cell phone and took several pictures to immortalize Dad’s inability to handle the most basic task of walking without ending up on the floor.

  Dad sighed, lifted his hand, and touched his nose. “This always happens right before a meeting.”

  There was so much I wanted to say, but as always, the words stuck in my throat. It was so much easier to keep quiet and turn my attention back to my work, work he needed me to finish if he wanted us prepared for the meeting we were scheduled to leave for in less than twenty minutes.

  The graphs, the pie charts, the stock figures, and the projections blurred together, and I wondered why Dad made me prepare the damned presentation. Annamarie would’ve been happy to build it; she controlled the rest of our lives, presenting our schedule with a smile, ready to deal with the real world so we didn’t have to, all so we could make it to the next business meeting without being late.

  Annamarie could do a far better job than I could creating the presentation. As always, my eyes failed to comprehend the existence of color. Despite how many times someone pointed at the sky and declared with certainty its color was blue, all I saw was a gray paler than most.

  Blue was a lie, just like the red of blood was a lie, no matter how many drops fell from Dad’s chin to stain the carpet.

  Maybe one day the doctors would figure out what was wrong with my head and fix it. If they did, I had thousands of photographs waiting to show me the real world, a world filled with color.

  Until then, I’d keep on taking photographs. After I had snapped several pictures to print out later, I pointed at him, arching a brow.

  Annamarie was going to kill him when she found the new spots on the carpet, and I’d take photos of her wrath, immortalizing the way her dark eyes glinted in the too bright glow of the recessed lighting overhead.

  Maybe one day I’d know if her eyes were blue, green, brown, or whatever other shades eyes came in. Her hair was likewise a mystery, neither light nor dark, matching her skin.

  I gave the pie charts a final glare before saving the file. As long as everyone else could tell the difference between the sections, did the colors really matter? Blue was gray, red was gray, green was gray, yellow was gray, and I wasn’t sure which gray was which. With my luck, I probably used the most horrific combination of colors. My only saving grace was that Dad’s associates were too dignified to vomit during a business meeting.

  Instead of taking a picture, I’d print the presentation at home. The pages would join the thousands of other sheets I kept stored in my closet.

  “I could go like this and set a new fashion trend. What do you think, Matia?”

  Fighting the urge to sigh, I pointed at the doors leading out of our office. “No.”

  Dad grinned in victory at forcing a word out of me, hopped to his feet, and made it across the room without finding some other imaginary object to trip over. Opening the door, he bounced to our assistant’s desk.

  Annamarie wailed her dismay. “Mr. Evans!”

  “I think I’m going to need a new shirt and tie,” Dad replied, his tone wry.

  “Jacket, too.” Our assistant sighed. “I’ll take care of it, sir. Please get cleaned up. Your car will be here soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Please don’t strip out here, Mr. Evans.”

  Mumbling curses under my breath, I snatched my laptop and hurried to rescue Annamarie from my idiot father before he finished tossing his common sense to the four winds. I stormed into the reception area in time to watch the dark fabric of Dad’s jacket hit the floor along with his shirt and tie.

  “Please put your clothes back on, Mr. Evans.”

  “I thought I’d go like this. It’d make an impression.”

  Sometimes I really wondered how anyone took Ralph Evans, CEO of Pallodia Industries, seriously.

  Instead of waiting for Annam
arie to find him a change of clothes, Dad made a run for it the instant she was gone, leaving me to follow or be left behind.

  It was so, so tempting to make a hasty retreat to our office and hide under my desk until I died of old age. We left the safety of our reception area and headed through the executive wing of the building. Glass-fronted offices offered our co-workers and employees a clear view of my half-naked father, who strutted down the hall with his bloodied jacket and shirt draped over his arm. Why he had opted to wear his tie was beyond me.

  At least he had wiped the blood off his face.

  When Harthel, Vice President of the company, stepped out of his assistant’s office, he halted, his mouth hanging open. Unlike Dad, who went to the gym every day and dragged me along with him, Harthel visited every last donut shop in New York City, doing his duty to keep them in business.

  “Ralph?” The rank smell of the man’s breath made me want to pinch my nose to spare myself. If the stench from his mouth wasn’t bad enough, he was wearing a new cologne.

  Why was breathing necessary?

  Curious employees, ranging from administrative assistants and accountants to department heads, peered out of their offices to watch the fireworks.

  While most of the men watched with wide eyes, the women focused their attention on Dad. I caught Harthel’s assistant fanning herself, her gaze firmly locked on my father’s chest.

  Since dying of embarrassment didn’t seem to be an option, I needed an exit strategy, stat. Why had Dad decided showing off his physique was necessary?

  Our employees were probably snapping photos on the sly. If at least one of them didn’t surface in a tabloid showcasing my father as one of New York City’s most eligible bachelors, I’d be torn between surprise and disappointment.

  Newspapers paid a lot for photos, and Dad enjoyed the attention and positive press it brought to the company. Unfortunately, they were probably taking a few photos of me, too.

  Dad and I were quite the team; the instant I had turned eighteen, I had joined him on the charts, claiming an even higher spot on the eligible bachelorette column.

  Dad made the list because of his money and his looks. Me? I had no idea why the hell I was on it, but I wanted off the ride.

  To make matters worse, the media loved father and daughter pictures, especially when the father’s newest hobby involved sculpting his chest and abs.

  Unfortunately for me, he was good at it. Some men had a midlife crisis and bought a new car, got a new wife, or dropped everything and went on a multi-month vacation.

  My dad worked out and loved it.

  Harthel cleared his throat. “Ralph? What’s going on?”

  Dad made a noncommittal noise in his throat.

  Living as the CEO’s daughter, partner, and general accomplice had rules. Rule one involved smiling. Smiling helped convince people I didn’t want to stab them in the face to get rid of them. Rule two involved resisting the urge to stab annoyances in the face.

  I really hated rule two sometimes, especially when Dad decided to pull an impression of me, refusing to offer his second-in-command an explanation for why he had blood on his clothes and was walking around half-naked.

  In reality, Dad kept sharp, pointy objects away from me to protect me from the Evans family curse. If he learned about my violent thoughts, he’d either have a heart attack or give me the spanking of my life.

  Dad wouldn’t even care I was eighteen, an adult, and fully capable of making the decision to stab someone in the face. I’d happily serve a jail sentence if it meant Harthel wouldn’t bother me—or anyone else—ever again. Dad would light my ass on fire so I wouldn’t be able to sit for a week, but I’d earn it. He had raised me better; stabbing people for being intolerable jackasses was beneath me.

  Inflicting physical harm was beneath an Evans woman. Financial and social ruin, however, was permitted and encouraged. As long as I smiled and didn’t stab anyone—in the face or elsewhere—Dad would probably forgive me eventually.

  Both rules sucked. Smiling made creeps like Harthel think I liked him when I didn’t. I smiled so it wouldn’t look like I wanted to murder him when I did. I smiled until it hurt.

  My broken eyes made my discomfort around Harthel even worse. Not only did my eyes dislike colors, they hated greedy slobs and were determined to make certain I knew exactly what sort of man Harthel was. A miasma almost as vile as his Eau de Skunk cloaked him, radiating a chill potent enough I got goosebumps.

  Dad dealt with my colorless world with far more patience than I deserved. The last thing he needed was to know shades of gray weren’t the only things I saw.

  Dark, cold tendrils stretched from Harthel towards my father. I stepped in the way, shivering as I came into contact with the shadows of the man’s presence.

  I wouldn’t allow Harthel to contaminate Dad.

  Dad had darkness of his own, but it had faded over the years, and I wasn’t going to let some egotistical, corporate brown nosing so-and-so bring it back. “Please excuse us, Mr. Harthel. We have to leave for a meeting. Good day.”

  The onlookers sucked in a collective breath, and the weight of their attention crashed onto my shoulders. I clutched my laptop to my chest with one hand and grabbed Dad’s elbow with the other to drag him down the hallway.

  At the rate I was going, I’d blow through my self-imposed yearly allowance of spoken words by the end of the day, and it was only March.

  While Annamarie had scheduled our business meeting and ensured we knew when we needed to leave the office to arrive on time, she had neglected to inform me we had to fly to get there. Not only had she neglected to inform me of such a basic detail, but the fact we were taking a commercial flight seemed to have slipped her mind, too.

  I triple checked my phone, looking over my calendar. Nope, there was no mention of any sort of flight anywhere. In fact, I had had several in-office meetings with Dad, and sometime during the thirty-minute ride to the airport, they had been cancelled.

  I had been conned, and our driver was in on it. Sam grinned as he handed me my passport along with a carry on bag. Dad waved our itinerary before stashing it in his pocket, ensuring I couldn’t have a peek to learn the location of our business meeting.

  At least my bag had just enough space for my laptop. A cursory glance informed me someone, probably Dad, had packed everything I’d need for an overnight stay. The only thing missing was my camera and the charger for my laptop. I turned the full force of my glare on Dad.

  He ignored me, taking his luggage from Sam. The bloodied shirt, tie, and jacket were exchanged for new ones, but instead of dressing like a sane man, Dad draped them over his shoulder.

  “Camera?” I whispered, pulling out my phone to act as a stand-in. I snapped shots of the terminal, of the people, and several of Sam, who kept grinning like an idiot while posing for me.

  Taking pictures would distract me from having no idea what was going on or why. It would also provide me with some entertainment on the flight, since I hadn’t thought to grab my tablet so I could read.

  My laptop’s battery was fully charged, but without any idea when I’d be able to acquire a new cable for it, I didn’t want to use it too much.

  “Go buy a new one,” Dad replied, pulling out his wallet and handing it to me. “There’s a shop in there somewhere with one, I’m sure. I have a few things to discuss with Sam, so I’ll meet you at security. We’re early, so we have time. No more than thirty minutes, though. If you can’t find a camera you like, I’ll get you one once we land. You can use your phone until then, right?”

  Taking his credit cards and identification would serve him right, but instead of pursuing financial revenge, I left his things intact and stuffed his wallet in one of his jacket pockets. However tempting it was to remind him I was a paid employee, I shouldered my bag, snorted, and headed inside the airport.

  I’d pay for my camera with my own money and ignore Dad’s protests while proving I was capable of fending for myself.

&nbs
p; I stopped just inside the doors, turned, and snapped several photos of Dad with Sam. Dad laughed and waved me off, and I responded by sticking my tongue out at him.

  If I had to fly commercial, leaving my maturity and dignity at the doors was one way I’d survive the flight with my sanity intact. Security would be only the first of my nightmares. Security expected me to talk to them.

  In a perfect world, I’d answer their questions with as few words as possible and breeze my way through. In reality, I’d open my mouth, nervousness would take over, and I’d stammer my answers, resulting in a lengthy questioning session.

  Said session would end in tears, a missed flight, and a rebooking, which involved even more talking. I shuddered and marched through the pre-security terminal in search of a camera.

  I found an electronics store with a selection of cameras, and while most of them were overpriced pieces of junk, I found a midrange camera sporting enough features to please the average photographer, which was what I’d remain until the day I died.

  People liked things like color balance in their pictures. Lighting to enhance the colors of the real world meant little to me. At least I had an edge on black-and-white photographers. Sometimes I even allowed Dad to strip the colors from my pictures to show to his friends.

  I turned my attention back to the camera. It had a larger body than most of the cameras, which intrigued me. A quick scan of the camera’s features revealed it, unlike its brethren, used AA batteries.

  I grabbed the box and tucked it under my arm, and on a whim, I snagged one of the slender portable cameras. To complete my hunt, I grabbed a camera bag and accessories I’d need to make good use of my acquisitions.

  As a bonus, I found a charger for my laptop, which I snatched up on my way to the counter.

  The store clerk wasn’t interested in a conversation, ringing up my purchases and swiping my credit card with the customary greetings. I declined a bag with a shake of my head and beelined for the nearest bench so I could tear into the packaging.