The Sorcerer King and the Fire Queen

by Ana Lee Kennedy

  For my husband, Matthew, who has believed in me since once upon a time.

  Praise for The Sorcerer King and the Fire Queen

  “I read this story in one sitting and couldn't put it down. It's one of my favorite books and will read it again, again and again...”

  — Trinity Blacio, Romance Author

  “Packed with action, each scene moving forward at a clip-clop pace, don’t blink your eyes once or miss a single paragraph [this novel]. For if you do, you are sure to miss a piece of this literary puzzle! One serendipitous meeting after another takes Ruby, her white king, and her quirky, hitchhiker friend Maureen on a frightening quest to get to Key West. With paranormal elements throughout, the sexual tension high, and the edge-of-the-seat factor not to be ignored, I could not stop reading until I reached the very end.”

  — Maddie James, Romance Author

  “The Sorcerer King and the Fire Queen is a well-written, intriguing book. It keeps you on the edge of your seat wondering what will happen next. With strong, well-rounded characters and tantalizing foreshadowing, this makes for a pleasurable read. F.L. Bicknell pulls the reader in, combining the paranormal with reality to give you a tale you won't want to put down.”

  — Jade Twilight, Author

  “A road trip fueled by blue lightning and irreverent humor, The Sorcerer King and the Fire Queen jumpstarts a reader's heart!”

  — Tess MacKall, editor and Ellora’s Cave Author

  “Over the past ten years, I’ve read hundreds of books, my favorite authors being some of the big names, but I must say I've just added a new author to my New York author list: Ana Lee Kennedy. The Sorcerer King and the Fire Queen will have you laughing, crying, and yelling. I read this story in one sitting because I couldn't put it down! I can't wait to see if there will be a book two!”

  — Selene Noreen, Author

  “The Sorcerer King and the Fire Queen is an edgy, fast-paced thrill ride with twists and turns that will keep you on the edge of your seat. This is one road trip I highly recommend!”

  — Shiela Stewart, Author

  “The Sorcerer King and the Fire Queen has a fun voice that sucks you in and takes you on a fast-paced ride until its conclusion, rooting for Ruby all the way until you get there.”

  — Natalie Dae, Ellora's Cave Author

  © 2011 by F.L. Bicknell

  Originally published as Ruby, The White King and Marilyn Monroe by Turquoise Morning Press

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

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  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For more information contact:

  Riverdale Avenue Books

  5676 Riverdale Avenue

  Riverdale, NY 10471.

  www.riverdaleavebooks.com

  Design by www.formatting4U.com

  Cover by Insatiable Fantasy Designs Inc.

  ISBN 978-1-62601-086-4

  First RAB edition April 2014

  Chapter One

  Setting my boss’s bra on fire and losing my job was not the best way to end a workday. My life sucked. I hadn’t been laid in months, my uncontrollable powers scared the hell out of people, my father hated me, and it was so damn hot I could barely breathe.

  Humidity hung over the quiet neighborhood. Ascending the stairs to my apartment, I pined for rain to cool the summer evening and a long shower to soothe my body and my foul mood. A twelve-hour shift at the sewing factory had me tired and irritable, but at least my sudden unemployment happened at the end of the day. I smirked. And my boss’s face as she slapped at the flames eating her padded bra was almost worth it. Well, at least everyone wouldn’t wonder anymore if her boobs were real or not.

  Melting latex foam stinks too.

  However, most of my irritability stemmed from a feeling of unease and frightening visions, both of which had steadily grown worse over the past couple of weeks.

  About to put my key in the lock, I cried out as a picture flashed across my mind. Demonic motorcycles rolled toward me, their headlights aglow. A huge, imposing man rode a Harley with a horse head where the handle bars and gas tank should’ve been. The bike snarled, and I whimpered in terror.

  The vision faded. I slumped against the door, banging my head against the glass. My legs trembled beneath me. For a moment I just stood there willing the fear and nausea to leave. Sometime during the afternoon, steady pangs of anxiety had begun to assault me, some so severe I felt ill, but this premonition left not only dread in its wake but also a sense of impending danger.

  As I unlocked the door, entered, and shut it behind me, I tossed my purse and keys at the kitchen table, lunged for the sink, and turned on the spigot to splash cold water on my face. Braced against the counter, I willed the tremors in my knees to go away and my breathing to slow. I knew from past experience to never dismiss such feelings as stress or exhaustion, but just like my other visions of late, this one made no sense either.

  I groaned. If my boss hadn’t grabbed my shoulder while I was having such a vision, the end result wouldn’t have been Fahrenheit 451 tits.

  The A/C in the kitchen window kicked on. I managed to stand without sprawling out on the floor, and while wobbling, I moved in front of it with my arms in the air. Water trickled down my cheeks and onto my shirt. The cold air on my wet face and sweaty body helped bring me back to reality and settled my nerves. Slowly, the sense of danger evaporated with the dampness.

  Just inside the living room doorway, the phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID: Nutter, Jackson. I grimaced and answered the call.

  “Where’s my supper?” my father’s voice barked across the line.

  “I worked a twelve-hour shift today, Dad.”

  Inwardly, I cringed. If I called to ask him what he wanted for supper, he’d bitch that he was quite happy with his junk food and six-pack. If I didn’t call him, he’d telephone and yell about his meal being late. I couldn’t win with my father.

  “Don’t bother cooking, then,” he snapped. “Bring me a couple of Big Macs, and make it snappy.”

  The line clicked.

  “If you weren’t my father...” I whispered. I rested my head against the doorframe and suppressed the urge to scream. Letting my anger get the upper hand would awaken my curse, so I forced it down into the darkness. That was the sucky part about my frightening ‘abilities.’ I couldn’t control them.

  I placed the phone back in its base. “Well, Dad, you’ve waited this long. I’m taking a shower before I rush out to do your bidding.”

  My ire chased away the remnants of the vision and the sense of danger, but anxiety struck me again. The apprehension proved so intense it forced a gasp from me. I swayed, gripping the doorframe. Churning erupted in my stomach, and I bit back the need to throw up. I sensed things before they occurred and dreamed about places and people I’d never seen before, but I could seldom make any sense of it. However, something horrible was about to happen, something that was going to land right in the middle of my life again. The last time I’d felt such a strong sense of wrongness was the day before I accidentally killed my mother.

  As always, guilt pierced me at the memory.

/>   It’s one thing to dream about strange places and people or to sense something before it happens, but I didn’t know anyone else who could blast things with an invisible force. I could also start fires and move items or people around with it. And, if I was really upset, I incinerated stuff, blew them up. Mom’s death and my abilities were the reasons my father hated me.

  But the one thing I couldn’t hide, the one thing that terrified everyone when it happened, was the warning sign before I annihilated something. I glowed. Hell, I was the one who did it and it scared me silly.

  The shower beckoned me. My discarded clothes landed on the bedroom floor as I strode through it to the bathroom.

  Finally in the shower, I shampooed my hair, but kaleidoscopic images I couldn’t decipher assailed me. I fell against the wall, bracing my feet on the tub’s side.

  White.

  White skin, platinum hair. His ice blue eyes tantalized me. The man’s face remained obscured, but his eyes inspired fear. Something drew me to him, but that frightened me too.

  A narrow gold crown encrusted with jewels encircled his head, and a mass of long, snowy hair fell over his shoulders as he reached for me.

  The vision ended abruptly, and an overwhelming sense of loss consumed me. Although I hadn’t seen his face, the man was familiar. It didn’t make any sense. With my eyes closed, I sank to the bottom of the tub where I sat under the spray. The images had intensified my unease, but remorse, love, and a powerful sense of loss tumbled through my soul.

  Shaking, I gathered my wits and finished my shower, all the while trying not to dwell on the vision. Afterward, I combed out my long, dark hair and slipped on a simple white sundress and a pair of Sketchers Shape Ups.

  In the kitchen, I gathered my purse and keys, and yanked open the door to find my landlady standing on the landing, her hand in midair about to knock. Her mouth dropped open, and her coal-black eyes widened in fear.

  “Oh!” I stumbled back. “Mrs. Enoch, you startled me!”

  Heat flashed through my body until I thought I’d melt, and the air around me brightened as if someone had suddenly taken a shade off a one-hundred-watt bulb. The color drained from the woman’s lined face as she watched me change from a normal woman to one whose body glowed bright white with neon coppery colors infusing my hair and fingertips.

  “For God’s sake, Ruby,” the landlady squeaked, one hand shielding her eyes, “don’t blow me up!”

  “You should’ve called first.” I struggled with the tingling that surged down my arms. Finally, the light emanating from me dimmed, and the heat flooding my body disappeared. It left me feeling slightly drained.

  Last month, Mrs. Enoch arrived to collect the rent as usual, but witnessed my ability at its height. Some neighborhood riffraff had tried to mug me as I’d taken the trash to the curb. The thugs simultaneously frightened and pissed me off, and I’d lashed out before I could stop myself.

  The old woman gulped. “I’m here for the rent.”

  “I have it with me.” I pulled an envelope from my purse with the check in it and held it out to her. “Here”

  She motioned to the counter.

  Sighing, I placed the envelope on the worktop. She picked it up and slipped it in her dress pocket.

  “Mrs. Enoch, I won’t hurt you,” I said.

  “You’re not natural, so why take chances.” She turned to leave.

  “What I did to those thugs was an accident.”

  “You could do that to me, too, you know,” she insisted, a hard edge in her voice, one I recognized from my father and others who feared me. “Look, Ruby, I saw what happened.” She shuffled out the door. “It’s one thing to see you glow and your hair turn that weird color—and believe me that alone scares the shit out of this old body—but you blasted those kids with something not of this world.”

  Frustration ate at me. “I didn’t hurt them.”

  “No, but you could have.” Mrs. Enoch reached for the stair railing.

  I hated to admit it, but she was probably right. After all, the melted-bra incident could’ve been a disaster. Luckily, one of my co-workers had a big Styrofoam cup of ice tea nearby that she dumped over the front of my boss’ shirt.

  “You shot one boy up into the branches of the maple on the corner where he hung screaming for someone to get him down, and the other boy landed upside down in Mrs. Cabbershot’s chimney, his feet kicking as though he was running the Boston Marathon.”

  “I know, Mrs. Enoch. You don’t have to remind me.”

  Slight prickling began in my gut. I had to change the subject. Otherwise, she’d continue to upset me and maybe find herself stuffed in a chimney too.

  “If you’re so afraid of me,” I said, following her out the door and locking it, “then why don’t you evict me?”

  “Because you’re the only tenant I have who pays on time and sometimes a month ahead. This damn economy has everyone by the balls.” She hustled down the staircase to the side lawn as if she’d been goosed with a cattle prod.

  Too bad I’m now unemployed. I sighed and headed to my parking spot.

  Minutes later, I maneuvered my Jeep through a drive-through and bought Dad two Big Macs. He lived three blocks from my apartment, but the only time I ever saw him was when I stopped by.

  When I turned twelve and my powers surfaced, my close relationship with my father dissolved. Dad changed, telling me I was an embarrassment to the Nutter family. I had no idea where my special abilities stemmed from or why I possessed them, but after Mom’s death, things between Dad and me grew worse, and my every waking day was consumed with grief and blame.

  I liked to think that if Dad had been a real father, if he’d been there for me, and if we could’ve come to terms with Mom’s death together, then maybe things would have been different between us.

  At Dad’s place, I parked the car on the street. As I hurried along the walk to the front door, words whispered through my mind.

  COME TO US, RUBY. YOUR HELP IS NEEDED.

  Frightened, I halted, dropping the take-out bag on the walk. Although I’d heard the voice in my head, I still glanced around for the source of the words. The visions I’d had at my front door and in the shower popped into my mind, and I sensed they were somehow tied to the voice. Shaken, I picked up the bag and sprinted the last few feet to the door.

  “Dad,” I hollered as I entered the house with my knees knocking together.

  “It’s about damn time you got here,” he barked from his usual spot in the recliner.

  I handed him his artery-clogging meal.

  “What took you so long?” He opened a burger box.

  Still shaken, I retorted, “What difference does it make?”

  He snorted in disgust and bit into his food.

  “Have you...noticed anything odd lately?” I asked. The question would urge him to be snider with me, but I had to ask.

  “Besides you?” he replied around a mouthful of Big Mac. “Nope.” He took another bite. “Why? Or should I ask?”

  I knew better than to get my father going, but I always believed Dad had answers he stubbornly kept from me. I had to make some sense of things.

  Determined, I braced myself for a verbal sparring match. “I have this feeling that something horrible is going to happen.”

  He guzzled the last few swallows of his beer and tossed the can in a small, overflowing garbage pail. “Something horrible has already happened.”

  “Like what?”

  “You,” he retorted, chuckling. “You see spirits, ghosts and things that go bump in the night, and you blow things up. That’s about as horrible as it can get—unless you count killing your mother.”

  As always, guilt ate me from the inside out like a parasite hollows out a corpse.

  “Dad,” anguish squeezed my heart, “we’ve had this discussion a thousand times.”

  The misery in my voice pissed me off. Letting my father know he’d gotten to me was always a mistake, but bringing up Mom’s death was his method of
hurting me quickly. However, Dad couldn’t talk about Mom without revealing his true feelings either.

  I shut my eyes to avoid seeing my father’s miserable expression and steeled myself for more of his barbs. Finally, I opened them again and said, “You know her death was an accident.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He placed the burger in the carton and swallowed hard.

  The torment in his voice always pricked my heart. My father might have lost his love for me, but he’d adored my mother, worshipped her. However, he wasn’t blameless. Witnessing him talking to that “thing” in the garage that day had shocked me, and, unable to control my power, I’d set the building on fire.

  “Dad, I’m sorry, but you were—”

  “You saw nothing! Your mother’s death was your fault, plain and simple,” he ground out, his voice tight. “You shouldn’t have been in the garage.” He picked up his Big Mac again and bit into it with vengeance, but his other hand grasped the arm of the recliner so hard his knuckles turned white. “It was your infernal power that caught the rags on fire. You’re lucky the police believed my story about the grease rags and a hot ash from my cigar.”

  Although Dad knew what had upset me so badly that day, I’d never told anyone what I’d seen in the garage. Besides, no one would’ve believed me anyway.

  Leaning over, I reached out to Dad to apologize, but he jerked his arm away.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  I grasped the recliner instead. Desperation, frustration, and anger formed a ball in my throat. The stinging sensation coursed down my arms, and I tried to will it away.

  “Dad, I didn’t—”

  Smoke billowed up from under my hands, and I leapt back from his chair.