King Of Flames (The Masks of Under Book 1)

by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

  Sharp and dark like a knife in the shadows.

  “As delightful as this may be to watch, it does make conversation rather dull.”

  The figure she could barely see through the liquid moved closer as if crouching to look down at her through the surface of a frozen lake. It reached down, a black-gloved hand appearing before her. Palm up, fingers stretched, offering.

  Anything to get out of the water.

  Lydia grasped the hand, and it took hers in return. When it tugged, she was no longer in the water. She was standing in the middle of…well, nowhere. Lydia was standing on top of a black glass surface that stretched on endlessly in all directions. The shine on the glass floor surface faded to darkness and left everything else utterly empty.

  Except for the man standing in front of her. Clothed entirely in black, the only reason he stood out from the darkness around him was that there still seemed to be a source of pale light coming from somewhere, separating him from the shadows.

  Lydia watched him for a moment, wondering if he was going to leap at her and tear her to pieces. Wondering what he was going to do. But he clasped his hands behind his back and seemed content to give her a moment.

  Lydia had vague memories of fever-like dreams after drowning, but she wasn’t quite sure how much of that was real or simply a product of her own mind. Here, there was a fifty-fifty shot.

  “I’m still dreaming?” she finally asked.

  “Yes.” Aon sighed, disappointed. “Regretfully. But,” he took a step toward her, his voice suddenly turning into a dark, dusky rumble, “now I am strong enough to take control of our little…rendezvous.” Aon took another step. Lydia made a reflexive step back, and he merely chuckled in response.

  With that, he vanished, blinked out of existence in front of her as if he had never been there. Before she could even whirl around to see where he might have gone, an arm snaked around her waist from behind and yanked her abruptly against his chest. The smell of old books, of leather and dust, the scent of decaying paper was all around him like a strange cologne.

  “Where do you think you may run, here in this world I control?” he teased. It would have sounded playful if he hadn’t just grabbed her.

  The tips of the sharp claws of his gauntlet were resting against her throat and close under her jaw. They felt like the points of knives. As he applied the slightest pressure, it forced her to tilt her head back and against his chest where it met his shoulder. It was that or risk being sliced open. Both her hands flew to grab at his wrist, trying to yank his hand away from her. But it was hopeless. She could barely budge him.

  The touch of cold metal against her face brushed against her, and she realized his head was close to hers, almost nuzzling in toward her neck and her cheek. He made a low noise in his throat, and the arm around her waist pulled her tighter against him. “You are quite the lovely one, aren’t you? Such fire I can sense within you. Tell me, my dear,” he murmured, his voice a low, pleased rumble that dropped in tone as he lowered his volume, “how many times has that great dunderhead had his way with you already?”

  “What?” She somehow took shelter in her indignancy at his question. She made sure not to open her mouth too far—or press herself into the dangerously stinging tips of his clawed gauntlet.

  “Hmm?” He loosened his grip on her slightly and pulled his head back. “Edu has not taken your body yet? Surely, you jest. The oaf cannot keep his paws off anyone.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Lydia yanked on his hand again. “Let me go.”

  “At least you have finally found your voice again.” He released the grasp on her neck obediently. For a moment, she thought she was free of him, but no such luck. He let her only turn around in his arm before squeezing her back against him, and now she was face to face with him, her body pressed against his.

  Lydia placed her palms against his chest and tried to push away but only managed to lean herself back a few inches. Before she could speak, his gauntleted hand was on her again, this time carefully taking her chin between his thumb and fingers and turning her head slowly left then right, as if inspecting her. He didn’t need to press hard for her to obey, as the points of his claws were needle sharp.

  He was looking for a soulmark, she realized. The thing she should have but didn’t. “Perhaps whatever nearly took your life saved you from such an insufferable event as being coerced into sleeping with that overgrown man-child. What happened to you? I felt you on the edge of death. I was there when you fought to live. I have seen your terrified visions of water and drowning. Why?”

  Lydia couldn’t respond with his knife-edge claws digging into her skin. But Aon didn’t seem concerned. Instantly, the man struck her as someone who enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He was asking himself the questions, not her. Aon let out a low, thoughtful sound and leaned in closer. His mask, though featureless and black as obsidian, was unnerving and eerie. It sent chills up her spine.

  He continued to speak, uncaring for her input. “You have been to the pool. I can sense it on you,” he muttered. “Yet you bear no mark, and you are alive. How is this possible?”

  Aon released the grasp on her just barely, running the tip of his pointer finger along her temple, stroking her hair back behind her ear, as if to get a closer look. The feeling of the sharp line being drawn caused her skin to break out in goosebumps.

  “I don’t—I don’t know. Nobody does.”

  “What a wonderful little mystery! Thrown away by the Ancients who chose you to join us. You are a threat to the natural order of things. How utterly charming,” he said ponderously. He traced his claws around behind her ear, making her shiver. Aon let out another low chuckle in his throat at her reaction and leaned in closer. If he were not wearing a mask, she would fear he might move to kiss her. “How I will delight in unraveling you,” he purred.

  The dangerous threat and even more confusing sexuality that dripped from his voice was enough to make Lydia finally risk pulling back away from his nails. “Stop!” she said in a small squeak.

  “Why?”

  That jammed her thoughts and brought her to a straight, full stop. Why? “Because this isn’t…” She trailed off, shocked that anybody would question why you weren’t supposed to act like this.

  “Yes? Isn’t what?” Aon prodded, a playful, mischievous tone to his voice.

  “I don’t know,” she stammered. “It isn’t…” She grasped wildly at words until she found the first one and yanked it from the Rolodex, accuracy be damned. “It isn’t polite,” she exclaimed, frustrated that he seemed keen on somehow making this her problem.

  “Well! Do forgive me.” Aon laughed and turned his head away, so as to not laugh so loudly in her face. It was as sharp and dangerous as the points of his clawed hand. Vincent Price would have been proud.

  Still, he let her go and took a step back from her, his hands held out at his sides. Theatrically, he took another small step back and, with a flourish, folded a hand in front of him and another at his back. Long tendrils of black hair fell forward as bowed low.

  “My dearest lady, allow me to introduce myself. I am Aon, King of the House of Shadows. High Lord of Warlocks, and—if you are to ask any others—the paramount madman and sadist in Under,” he said with a sarcastic and affected sense of false propriety. “How honored I am to finally formally make your acquaintance.” He nearly hissed the last word and lifted his head to glance at her, even as he didn’t straighten from his bow. “Does this better suit your sense of etiquette?”

  Aon was mocking her. That shoved all Lydia’s fear away into a corner and replaced it with anger as quickly as the toll of a bell. She had been chased, threatened, and nearly killed. Now, she was probably going to die anyway. The last thing she was going to do was be insulted by some freak in a mask. “Okay, look, you asshole—”

  In the blink of an eye, he disappeared again. Lydia stammered to a stop and turned, terrified of where he might have gone. In an instant, her anger was gone and re
placed with fear. He had called her bluff without having to do anything.

  “Careful, my dear…” Aon purred from the darkness. “I am not one to be trifled with. I would not so casually insult a king.”

  “I thought Edu was king.”

  A growl of frustration floated from nowhere. “Edu is a king. Hardly the only one to rule this world. I am equal in rank to him, and far greater in all other matters, I assure you.”

  “Uh-huh,” Lydia turned about slowly, hopelessly looking for him. “You weren’t at the Ceremony of the Fall, or whatever you weirdos call it.”

  “I lie in my crypt. Asleep, but not for long. I think perhaps, my dear, you have woken me early from my century of slumber. Therefore, I would be far more prudent with your words before you decide to levy invectives in my direction.”

  “I’m having a really rough couple of days, all right? I’m sorry. But I don’t need to be insulted on top of everything. It’s bad enough that I get chased, hunted, and nearly drown. You’re haunting my dreams, and now I’m locked in a goddamn cell, and—”

  “What?”

  The voice came from directly behind her, and she screamed and whirled around. She likely would have tripped over her own legs and fallen if Aon hadn’t interceded. He cackled and caught her around the waist with an arm, snaking it around her and pulling her up against him.

  Lydia shoved her hands against his chest, trying to break away from him, but he was immovable. When his clawed and metal hand went to her throat, she froze. He seemed content to settle his hand against the crook of her neck where it met her shoulder. “You are a prisoner? Whose?”

  “Edu’s,” Lydia peeped out.

  Aon snarled deep in his throat, and his grasp on her tightened. “And what, precisely, does that mountainous waste of flesh intend to do with you?”

  Lydia swallowed thickly. “I don’t know.”

  “Does he know we are already acquainted?” Aon asked. Lydia shook her head. “You listened to me? Good. Then heed my words again, my dear. Edu will seek your death. One way or another. Be sure of it.”

  “But I have nothing to do with any of this.”

  “It matters not. Trust me.”

  “Lyon said some people are going to have a meeting to decide what to do with me. He said it wasn’t decided yet.”

  “Lyon is a compassionate fool who wished to foster in you some semblance of false hope. Edu will seek to take your life within the week, I am certain. No one has ever returned from the Pool of the Ancients unchanged. You are a threat to the natural order of our world. And if he believes I have anything to do with your misfortune, he will murder you in a heartbeat to spare this world whatever plot he thinks I have concocted. I needn’t remind you of the continued importance of not speaking of our conversations.”

  “Do you have anything to do with this?”

  “I am flattered.” Aon chuckled. “But, sadly, no. I fear you will pay the price, regardless. Tell me, do you wish to die?”

  “No.” Lydia didn’t hesitate.

  “It will spare you much torment and suffering. Death at his hands will be quick. You are a mortal in a world of monsters who hunger to see things like you twisted, broken, and consumed.”

  “Does that include you?”

  Aon chuckled again, pleased with her jab. “Oh, yes,” he purred and pulled her closer to him. Lydia realized she had walked into that open door and probably shouldn’t have. “You cannot begin to fathom what I wish to see done to you.” The insinuation in his voice dripped like hot wax, and she tried once more to recoil from him, desperately hoping to shrink away.

  The clawed hand at her shoulder slipped around her throat and tightened. Aon snapped from one mood to another without warning. One second, he was having a conversation with her. The next, he was digging the points of his claws into the sides of her throat, bringing tears to her eyes as it stung dangerously and threatened to break the surface. The man was quicksilver.

  “You may count me first and foremost on that list, my darling. So, tell me…” He tilted her head back, the claws now digging in a little harder. Lydia cried out as she felt them pierce her skin, but here in the dream, at least she knew it wasn’t real. But it didn’t stop it from feeling real. “Knowing that creatures such as I wait for you, do you change your mind? Do you now wish your life to end?”

  “No,” Lydia insisted through the fear.

  “Even knowing I will come for you?”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  “Good girl.”

  Her mind went white as his claws dug deep into her throat.

  ***

  Lydia awoke with a start to the sound of harshly squeaking metal, of rust on rust. Oh, Christ. She shuddered. Coming out of her nightmare, Lydia sat up. Her heart was lodged in her throat as the sudden jolt out of sleep and the contents of her dream sent her into pure flight mode. For a beat or two, she had no idea where she was or what was happening.

  She should be in her bed at home. Instead, she was in a medieval-esque jail cell, with flickering torches and rough-hewn stone walls. Right. This mess. The noise had been the door to her cell opening, and a man was putting a tray of food on the rickety little table Lyon had been using previously. The man had a large red swatch of a spiral along his left jawline and cheek.

  He barely glanced at her before he exited the cell, shut the door, locked it, and left. Lydia swung her legs off the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands.

  “Bad dream?”

  She looked up at the unexpected voice. In the cell next to her was a young woman leaning against the wall, a tray in her hands. The first thing she noticed was the woman’s red hair, that kind that some people would kill for, and others would love to get rid of. It was a mop of tight natural curls that seemed almost impenetrable around her face. It was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail at the back of her head, with plenty of the red spirals left to escape around her freckled, pale face.

  The girl had one of those faces that made her look younger than she probably was. She had a bright purple soulmark on her cheek just under her right eye. It was about the size of a half dollar and didn’t detract from her beauty. The girl was stunning, in that “good ol’ American countryside” kind of way. Something about her just spoke of cornfields and cows to Lydia. Her eyes were a dark tone of yellow, almost amber. Something about the purple marks made their eyes go yellow. Maverick, Gary, and now this girl. Weird.

  “Yeah,” Lydia admitted weakly.

  “Sounded like a nasty one,” the girl said. She had a tray of food in her lap and was already picking at it.

  Oh, yeah, she was a country girl, judging by the accent. Somewhere in the Midwest, a land that was as foreign to Lydia as Norway, if she were honest.

  “Lotsa mumbling.” The girl let out a noise that indicated she remembered her manners and laughed. “Sorry. Always getting away from myself. I’m Evelyn.” She stuck her hand through the bars from her neighboring cell. “But everyone calls me Evie.” Her face was brimming with a show-stopping smile that was gorgeous and innocent at the same time. “Nice ta’meetcha!”

  Lydia found herself smiling in response even if she hadn’t meant to. Something was so gosh darn bubbly about the girl—who was also locked in a jail cell—that was infectious. She stood from the cot and moved closer to shake her hand. “Lydia. Or Lyd, either work. And…you too.”

  “Pleasure.”

  How could someone be so chipper in such a dire situation? Lydia would kill for an ounce of that level of optimism. It just didn’t come naturally to her, no matter how hard she tried.

  Evie gave her hand a hard squeeze and a firm shake and was still grinning as they mutually let go. “Well, better get to that dinner of yours before it goes cold. It ain’t too good when it’s warm, and it sure ain’t any better when it’s not.”

  “Adorable” was the word that came to mind for Evie. Lydia smiled at her and went to get her tray of food. She could have sat on her cot to eat, but instead, she found herself sitti
ng opposite the bars from Evie, leaning up against the same wall and mimicking the girl’s pose, with the tray in her lap.

  The redhead was still smiling broadly. She dropped her voice, mimicking the sound of a man, and gruffed, “So what’re you in for, bub?”

  Lydia laughed, and man, she needed a laugh today. It sent her off in a peal of laughter that was so wonderfully cathartic. She let it trail off and found the girl was smiling at her, broad-faced and proud of her accomplishment.

  “I’m here,” Lydia started, “because, apparently, the Ancients or whatever they are can’t make up their goddamn minds.”

  Evie grinned. “I heard. I just hadda ask, anyway. Only get to make that joke a few times, y’know? The Priest was sittin’ here for quite a while, fussing over you, wonderin’ if you were gonna cash in your chips.” She let out a whuf and stuffed a piece of bread in her mouth, chewing on it even as she spoke, making everything afterward come out muffled. “Never seen him worried before.”

  “Does this place only have one priest? Everybody calls him the Priest.”

  “Only one that matters, only one worth the title,” Evie responded with a shrug. “Don’t pinch the details.” She shifted excitedly, nudging closer to the bars. “You got marked, you got fetched, you got thrown in, and then…”

  “Nearly drowned, apparently,” Lydia said. The dress she was wearing had short sleeves, and when she looked down at her forearms, there was no mark on either arm. Well, one had a faint light patch where the healed skin was left from her home surgery attempt. Maverick did good work, she had to admit. “Now Edu has me locked up here. He thinks I’m a threat.”

  “Psh, Edu may be a helluva baby grand, but that fella doesn’t think much before he acts. Stuck you in here until he could work somethin’ out.” Evie ripped off a chunk of bread again and shoved it into her mouth.

  “Where’re you from originally?” Lydia asked, still finding herself smiling. She picked at the food on the tray, finding the fruit and a few pieces of cheese more interesting than the hunk of bread and the small bowl of…some brown stew.