by Wendy Owens
Birth of Fire
A Tynder Crown Story, Episode One
Copyright © 2014 by Wendy Owens
Cover design by Claudia McKinney of Phatpuppy Art
Interior book design by Stacey Blake of Champagne Formats
Editing services provided by Madison Seidler of MadisonSeidler.com
Proofreading provided by Kristina Circelli
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted, in any form without the prior written permission of the author of this book.
This book is a pure work of fiction. The names, characters, or any other content within is a product of the author’s imagination. The author acknowledges the use of actual bands and restaurants within this work of fiction. The owners of these various products in this novel have been used without permission and should not be viewed as any sort of sponsorship on their part.
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Find other titles by Wendy Owens on Amazon.
Other Books
Dedication
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
About the Author
YA Paranormal
The Guardians Series (Complete)
Sacred Bloodlines
Cursed
The Prophecy
The Guardians Crown
Contemporary Romance
Stubborn Love Series
Stubborn Love
Only In Dreams
The Luckiest
The Wandering Hearts Series
Do Anything
The Tynder Crown Series
Birth of Fire
Episode One
coming in 2015
Blazing Moon
Episode Two
Blood Spark
Episode Three
Heat Storm
Episode Four
Night Flames
Episode Five
Death’s Inferno
Episode Six
This book is dedicated to my husband, Josh Owens. I'm so excited to
give you a series in a genre you love. Thanks for all your support.
You're my rock. I love you.
MY ALARM HAS BEEN BEEPING for the past twenty minutes, and I’ve managed to ignore it for so long, the noise has actually faded into the background. With my pillow secured firmly over my head, I’m determined to keep the world outside, where it belongs.
The night before had been like most others—bar-tending late into the night, dealing with one sleaze-ball after another hitting on me, until, at last, it was quitting time. By the time my shift ends, there are few places still serving, but the ones that are know me well. I can party with the best of them; the only problem is the head-crushing pain that follows the next morning. I’ve never quite mastered the skill of knowing when to quit.
Even with the hangovers, it’s my life, and I make my own choices. Of course, if my grandfather had his way, I’d be working alongside him. He’s some sort of high-end private investigator, and apparently a pretty good one. On mornings like this one—which is almost every morning—I wonder why I’m not working with him. Then I remember I like my freedom.
Life with Joe is anything but free. I love the old fool, but he is one controlling son of a bitch. If I have to hear one more of his lectures about growing up and accepting the responsibility that is due to me, I might lose my mind completely. I’m twenty-two years old; the last word I want thrown in my face is responsibility.
Sometimes I feel guilty. My dad bailed when my mom was pregnant with me, and my mom bit it when I was still a toddler. It’s been Joe and me for most of my life. But then, like the migraines, the guilt always passes.
The phone in the back pocket of my jeans vibrates. Damn it, I didn’t even get undressed last night. I swat at it as if this will somehow make the annoying tingling stop. Eventually, the device stops on its own. I take a deep breath; the world outside is not going away anytime soon. I toss the pillow off the side of the bed and angrily slap at the alarm on my side table until the sound stops. World wins again.
Through squinted eyes I take in the studio apartment. Yup—it’s still the total disaster I remember when I fell asleep. Clothes tossed haphazardly across random pieces of furniture, my bed, which folds up into my couch and does triple duty as my dining room, should probably be quarantined for the safety of the public. However, the random men I bring home from time to time never seem to complain, though I assume they aren’t here because of my housekeeping skills.
My phone vibrates again. Jesus, I’m up already. Slipping the phone from my back pocket, I peer at the name on the face. Joe. I’m the only one who calls my grandfather Joe; everyone else refers to him either as Josiah or Mr. Crown. I press the button to ignore, flick the switch to turn the volume back on, and drop my phone onto the bed. He can wait; it’s far too early for a lecture.
I stand and unclasp my jeans, running my fingers across the indentation of a button on my stomach. Damn it. I hate clothes; well, clothes that actually fit me. If I had my way, I would live in sweats, but a girl doesn’t get killer tips in sweat pants. I pull off the denim that has been cradling my body for far too long. Comfort, at last.
My phone rings. Again. Wow, I must have done something really bad to piss him off so much. Ignoring the ring tone, I walk out to the fridge and open the door. Examining inside, I realize it’s still as empty as my bank account. Grabbing a glass from the counter, I rinse it and fill it with water. My mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow.
Dammit, are you serious? I think as I hear the phone ring once again. I cross the room and look at the face to confirm the caller. Joe again. The phone stops. A total of six missed calls from him. A single vibration from the phone signals a text message. My grandfather doesn’t text, so this must be serious.
Important, need to talk.
I carry the phone over and place it on the kitchen counter, gripping my head as I moan in pain. Whatever the old man has to say is going to have to wait. A bubble bath, some painkillers, and a little hair of the dog are calling my name.
Grabbing the opened and only half-drank bottle of cheap merlot from the kitchen counter, I stumble in the direction of my incredibly small bathroom. Most people don’t believe how small my apartment is until they actually see it, but, as for the bathroom, it is seriously shocking how much they fit into such a tiny space. There is no door to the room, because it is so narrow it would have to be a custom fit, and who would put any extra dollars into a crap hole like this place. Ever since the great earthquake of 2023, San Francisco is more than just a little expensive; it’s highway robbery to even rent a studio. Unless I want to live across the bridge, which is on
ly good for junkies and bio freaks, this is what I can afford, most of the time. Sometimes, even this hellhole is outside my budget, and Joe has to help me out.
His text is so right, I think. We do need to talk, because I need to borrow money once again.
Stripping the rest of the way, I leave a trail of clothes behind me. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror—I’ve seen better days. Lifting my free hand, I comb my fingers through my mess of chestnut hair before pulling on the corner of the mirror and searching the medicine cabinet for migraine-strength pain relievers. Placing the bottle of wine on the back of the toilet, I fight with the childproof cap before finally freeing a dose.
Tossing back the tiny white pills of forgiveness, I take a quick swig of the merlot, wincing. Damn, that’s some cheap-ass wine. The steam fills the air around me as I fill my bath. I close my eyes and allow a calm to settle over me. I know the more relaxed I am, the sooner this headache will pass.
Sitting on the edge of the tub, my fingertips dangling over the edge, all I can think about is Joe. Why was he calling me so many times? What do we need to talk about? I’ve been avoiding him lately. If I’m absolutely honest with myself, it’s probably because I’m starting to realize he’s right. What am I doing with my life? Partying every night just to wake up feeling like this? Some months I can’t even keep the power turned on in my place. Is this really the freedom I’m searching for?
I grew up working for Joe—well, not officially, I suppose. I guess it was more like earning my keep; I was a glorified errand girl. He handles cases for the well-to-do families of the city. It always seems like there is lot of ceremony involved, and, let’s be real, that’s just not me. I suppose important people need to have someone available to investigate their issues, and it takes a level of discretion. One thing you can always say about Joe is that he is discreet.
The water tickles my fingertips, and I open my eyes. Leaning over, I crank the handles until they’re off, I slip one foot in and then another, sliding down and submerging my body into the hot liquid. I watch as my skin develops a nice pink hue from the heat.
Leaning my head back against the hard surface of the tub, I exhale all the air from my lungs, and sink a couple inches lower. What I need is to find a job that will pay me to lie around all day and soak in long, hot baths. The only ones that come close require having sex with random strangers, who are willing to pay, which, again, is not my bag. Well, having sex with strangers seems fine, but getting paid for it, I guess I’m just not ready to say I’ve sunk that low. Besides, the process of becoming a certified companion is far too much paperwork for someone like me.
Perhaps Joe’s right; maybe it is time we have that talk I’ve been trying so desperately to avoid.
I’m tired. I mean tired all the way down into my core. My soul shouldn’t feel this exhausted at twenty-two. I’m sick of feeling like death every morning. I’m sick of my hair reeking like stale cigarettes from the bars. I’m especially sick and tired of feeling like if I disappear off the face of this earth, absolutely nobody will notice—well, except for Joe.
Suddenly the water feels warmer. What the hell? I twitch; something isn’t right. My eyes widen. What’s going on? I can feel the temperature of the water increasing with each passing second. I sit up, my flesh now glowing a vibrant shade of red.
“What the—?” I gasp in disbelief, running my fingers against my arm. I’m hot to the touch—burning hot. I feel my scalp pulsating with the heat; sweat is beginning to pour down into my eyes. My heart’s racing, and I have no idea what’s happening to me. I’m terrified. Is this what spontaneous combustion feels like?
Before I can take another breath, there is a searing pain in my gut. I double over, water splashing everywhere as I jerk wildly. It’s like no pain I’ve ever felt before, as if five thousand hot coals have been shoved into my belly and are about to melt me from the inside out.
“Oh God!” I cry out in agony. This is it. I’m going to die, right here, right now. I’m going to die in my bathtub, in my tiny pathetic apartment, and when the paramedics find me, I’ll look like a freaking lobster.
I begin to convulse wildly, no longer in control of my body, vibrating as the water evaporates into steam all around me. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, fire might actually come out. My stomach begins to heave in and out as I struggle to breathe through the searing heat. I imagine the only thing keeping my body from burning the apartment down around me is the fact that I’m in water. What do I do when the water is gone, consumed by my heat?
Thoughts race through my mind in a chaotic blur. What the hell is wrong with me? Why won’t I just die already? Damn it, why didn’t I pick up the phone when Joe called? Josiah. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better granddaughter. Then everything goes black.
THERE’S NOTHING BUT DARKNESS ALL around me. I’m swimming through it, like an endless ocean. I can see nothing, and, though my arms swing and feet kick, I’m unsure if I’m making any progress with my movements. I pause, believing I see something at last. I do. In the distance I see the slightest flicker of color. A hint that something else exists in the darkness with me. Where am I? How did I get here?
I squint my eyes; I can make out the color orange. The flicker I saw is growing—it’s now a sphere—bright oranges and yellows dancing together. The intricate movements mesmerize me. Suddenly I realize I’ve stopped moving my feet, but I do not sink. I haven’t been swimming. I’m floating—floating in nothingness. Am I dead?
There’s no panic inside of me. Somehow this feels right, and I feel safe. Like this is somewhere I have been trying to get to my entire life. I glance back up as I see the sphere has quadrupled in size. Now the fear creeps in as I realize it’s not growing, but getting closer, and fast. I wave my arms wildly, trying to move in the darkness, to propel myself out of the path of the object, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t move. I’m stuck on a direct collision path with … What is that thing? A fireball!
I squeeze my eyes shut. A fireball? This has to be a dream. I must have passed out in the tub. All of this, it has to be a dream. The heat is now blazing against my face. From the other side of my eyelids, the glow comes closer. I’m no longer in a pitch-black chamber of nothingness; now it’s more like I’m on the sun. Everything in me is telling me not to open my eyes. If I keep them closed, when the massive fireball hits me, it has to jolt me awake, right?
I fight the urge for as long as I can, but the heat against my skin is so intense now, I simply have to look. I can feel my eyelashes starting to singe. Opening my eyes, shock washes over me. Directly in front of me is a massive bird-like creature, standing six feet tall. Its wingspan must be at least twelve feet, and where there should be feathers are instead dancing flames. There is a large halo around its head with seven rays of light beaming from it. The brilliance of it nearly blinds me, but I can’t bring myself to look away.
Its legs are covered in scales that look like they are made out of pure gold. I reach out, wanting to touch the shimmering material, but quickly pull my hand back when the gigantic creature flaps its wings of fire. I look up; my eyes are caught in the bird’s gaze. Those eyes—like sapphires—have me in a trance. In an instant, it’s as if our feelings are fused together.
What are you?
From nowhere, a clear thought forms in my mind: I was him, and now I’m you.
I shake my head, but I can’t break the connection between the bird and myself.
Why am I here? I’m unable to stop myself from thinking the words.
You are here to be born. The animal shifts its head as the thought silently solidifies in my mind. It’s talking to me. I’ve either gone mad or … yes, that’s it, I must be dead.
One must die to be reborn.
I don’t want this thing in my head anymore. “Stop it!” I demand.
Heat spreads across my body as the bird flaps its wings again.
“What do you want from me?” I shout.
No thoughts appear. The bird is just sta
ring now, as though I am the one who makes no sense in this reality. As though I am the one who must be a dream. And before I can react, the creature spreads it wings to their farthest point and moves in close to me. The heat is so intense now, I have no choice but to close my eyes and curl into a ball. The intensity only grows when I feel the fire wrap around me as the bird’s wings scoop me in and cradle me in its grasp.
I can’t fight it … I can’t even move. The heat is so overwhelming I assume if I’m not dead, I will be at any moment. Perhaps this is hell. It sears through every inch of my body. Please, let it stop. I can’t tell if it’s only seconds or days that I experience this pain because each moment feels like an eternity.
Alas, I can take no more, and my naked, limp figure releases its muscles, the tight fetal ball I was in coming undone. In that second, the flames penetrate me to my core, and with a cry, I am thrust back in the darkness. What I feel blazing inside me is greater than any pain I could have ever imagined. It’s burning fiercely in the pit of my stomach, and I pray it will consume me, putting me out of my unbelievably horrific misery.
It doesn’t end, though. My prayers fall on deaf ears, and I’m left to suffer. I can’t move my limbs … it hurts too much. No part of me is responding to the messages my mind is trying to send. At what point will the pain be so much that my body goes numb? But there is no relief.
Then, there is nothing—no burning, no pain, no light—nothing but a pulsing of warmth filtering throughout my body, all the way to my fingertips. I open my mouth and attempt to lick my lips, but there is no moisture, only the scaly texture of my tongue rubbing against my cracked lips. With a deep breath I squeeze my eyes closed. This can’t be real. It’s not real.
I wait, and then continue to wait even longer. Finally, I open my eyes, terrified I might see the winged beast, ready to swallow me again in its fiery embrace. But I don’t see the bright glowing wings, or the piercing blue eyes of the bird; no, all I see is the ceiling of my apartment bathroom. I’m lying at the bottom of my bathtub, there is no water around me, and the air in the room is thick and moist, the steam nearly choking me.
