Pyromancist SECOND EDITION: Art of Fire (7 Forbidden Arts Book 1)

by Charmaine Pauls

  “Need anything?” he asked, throwing his bag over his shoulder.

  “No.” At least, nothing he’d give her.

  As he brushed past her on his way to the bathroom, she inhaled the clean smell of laundry detergent and the masculine scent of his skin.

  “The door is locked,” he said, pausing in the frame. “Don’t even try.” He smiled down at her with those cold, gray eyes, a warning sparking in them, before vanishing into the bathroom, taking the tablet with him.

  For good measure, she felt the door. It was locked like he’d said. Whatever weapons he had were in the bag he took with him. She sat on the edge of the bed with her heartbeat drumming in her ears as she listened to the water in the bathroom come on. At least Joss was honest about one thing. It wasn’t safe to go home. Did she want to run for the rest of her life? What if she was guilty? The troubling thought wouldn’t leave her alone. Wouldn’t it be better for the fires to cease before someone got hurt or killed?

  The bathroom door opened. Joss exited, wearing the same tracksuit pants from earlier. The dusting of dark hair on his chest was damp, water still glistening on his skin as if he’d dried off in a hurry. She couldn’t help but drag her eyes over the hard lines of his body. Seeing him half naked with his wet hair brushed back felt like a forbidden sight, like looking at a lover.

  He watched her through hooded eyes as he dumped his bag on the chair. “You shouldn’t look at a man like that. You may give him the wrong idea.”

  Her face lit up with heat. “I wasn’t looking at you like anything.”

  His gaze travelled over her cheeks, which had to glow like red lightbulbs, and settled on her eyes. “How many boyfriends have you had, little witch?”

  “That’s none of your business,” she said, straightening her spine. “Why is everyone suddenly interested in my relationship status?”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “No one.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You never answered my question. Are you seeing someone?”

  “Are you?” she deadpanned.

  “I’ve already answered that.” He stared at her for two beats. “Who is he?”

  “Who is who?”

  “Don’t play that game with me.” He took a step closer. “The man who’s interested in you.”

  She scooted up to put distance between them. “No one.”

  “No one. Good.” His jaw flexed. “Is someone bothering you?”

  “What do you care?”

  “There are many things I can tolerate, but not what Iwig tried to do to you.”

  She didn’t want to be reminded of the embarrassing event where Joss most probably realized she’d been spying on him because she had a crush on him. The way Joss had tasted her blood always made her shiver. Which made her think…

  “You said you knew I’m not the pyromancist because you tasted my blood.”

  He took a step closer. “Don’t try to change the subject. Answer my question.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No one is bothering me. Now answer mine. How could you know I’m not a pyromancist?”

  After a moment, the tight set of his shoulders relaxed a little. “I knew you’d ask sooner or later.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “I was hoping for later.”

  “What did you mean by that?”

  He sat down next to her, steeping his fingers together. “I can tell things by tasting blood.”

  Her lips parted on a silent gasp. “You drink people’s blood?”

  “I’m not a vampire,” he said in a chastising tone. “It only requires a drop.”

  “Let me guess. That’s how you ended up investigating paranormal crime.”

  “We all have our specialties.”

  “What are Lann and Maya’s?”

  “Maya is a hydromancist, someone who can manipulate water, and Lann is an aeromancist. His element is air.”

  “What do you call your gift?”

  “It doesn’t have a name. It’s not one of the seven forbidden arts. Mine is not considered a gift. It’s an anomaly.”

  Since he seemed to be in a generous mood, she pushed for more information. “If the powers to manipulate fire, water, and air are three of these forbidden arts, what are the other four?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Should I?”

  “Earth, spirit, animal, and time.”

  Her curiosity was piqued. “What kind of things can you tell?”

  “Various stuff. It depends.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of catching diseases?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

  “I’m immune to infection via blood.”

  “What did my blood tell you when you tasted it?”

  His eyes moved to her lips. “Back when we were kids or yesterday?”

  She swallowed. “Both.”

  He considered her for a moment. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  After a short hesitation, he said, “That day in the forest, I knew you weren’t a witch. Yesterday confirmed it. You didn’t start those fires, despite what everyone says about your mother.”

  She wanted to believe it, but the doubt she carried in her heart wasn’t going to be uprooted that easily. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Blood doesn’t lie.”

  “You could’ve made a mistake.”

  “I don’t make mistakes like that,” he said in a harsh tone.

  She held out her hand. “Cut me.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to cut my finger and taste my blood.”

  His eyebrows snapped together. “Why?”

  “I want to be sure.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “Do it, Joss.”

  He regarded her from under his dark lashes. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I’m asking you to double check.”

  “This won’t accomplish anything.”

  “What do you have to lose? Cut me, or I’ll do it myself.”

  “If that’s what you want.” He got up, went to his bag, and took out a hypodermic needle. After removing the wrapping, he came to stand in front of her. Pushing her legs open with his thigh, he placed himself between her knees and took her wrist. “It’ll only be a prick.”

  He held her eyes as he swiftly brought the needle down on her index finger. It didn’t hurt, not much, but she flinched. Without breaking their gaze, he left the needle on the nightstand and squeezed her finger until the droplet of blood grew big and plump.

  The color of his eyes turned into the dark gray of a stormy sky as he brought her finger closer. Parting his lips, he sucked her finger into his mouth. Her heart rate spiked as he wrapped his tongue around the tip and licked her finger like it was candy. She grew wet and aching, trying to squeeze her knees together, but he still stood between her legs.

  The flick of his tongue was light, but it was far from innocent. His heated expression did wicked things to her body. Her breasts turned heavy. Her breath came faster. She tore her gaze away from those smoky gray eyes to the hardness his sweatpants barely concealed. She remembered how he’d felt in her hand, inside her, and even if this was all wrong, she couldn’t deny the need he ignited. Even as desire coursed through her, astonishment registered in her mind. Joss was turned on. By her.

  “Joss?” It was a question, a plea. A plea to finish this? A plea to stop?

  The spell broke. A shutter dropped in front of his eyes. Releasing her finger, he dried it on his pants, precariously close to the bulge under the soft cotton fabric.

  His smile looked more like a grimace. “Tasting blood can be a very erotic experience for me.”

  The declaration was a jab in her heart. The blood turned him on. She wasn’t the cause of his arousal. Except for last night, but did it count if he’d been too drunk to remember?

  Her gaze shifted to his hard-on again. “Does this always happen?”

  When he didn’t answer, she lifted her eyes and caught him watching
her with an intense expression.

  “The truth?” he asked.

  “Always.”

  “With you, it does.” Placing his hands on her knees, he brought his face close to hers. “Truth?”

  Mesmerized by the seductive look in his eyes, she nodded.

  “It’s not you. Not a stitch of magic in your bones.”

  Oh. She’d expected him to elaborate on his lust. He still looked like he wanted to devour her, but she was grateful he’d brought them back to the subject she should be concentrating on.

  Ashamed of her thoughts, she said, “Are you sure?”

  His gaze was level. “Yes.”

  Why wasn’t she relieved? A part of her still doubted his verdict.

  “Can we go to bed now?” he asked, straightening. “It’s been a hell of a day. We can both do with some rest.”

  Was he suggesting—

  “Don’t worry,” he said, his smirk back in place. “I won’t touch you.”

  She took a deep breath, inhaling the stale, musty air of the room. “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  She ran a finger around the bandage on her wrist. “Are you going to handcuff me?”

  “I don’t need to. I’m a light sleeper.”

  “Can’t you sleep in another room?”

  “There’s only this bed.”

  She wasn’t going to show him how little confidence she had in her self-control. Lying down, she moved to the edge of the mattress. He climbed onto the bed and turned on his side, throwing an arm around her waist.

  She stiffened. “What are you doing?”

  “Restraining you,” he mumbled, unfazed about his hard-on that pressed against her backside. “Go to sleep.”

  His arm was heavy and his body warm. Even if she scooted closer to the wall, the bed was too narrow for their bodies not to touch. The irony didn’t escape her. How many times had she dreamt about being in his bedroom and sharing his bed? She’d imagined the scene a myriad of times while standing under his window, watching him smoke, but she could never have guessed it would be like this.

  When his rhythmic breathing fanned over her neck, she let out the breath she’d been holding. The tenseness left her body. The scent of soap—a plain, white bar—chased away the musty smell of the wall.

  She wanted to stay vigilant, but the last two days had been exhausting. Soon, her eyelids drooped. Despite her resolution not to give in, she fell asleep quickly. Her dreams were filled with erotic images of Joss. Those scenarios tortured her, making need pulse between her legs until she woke up sweating and hot, her back still flush against Joss’s chest. Her body ached from being in the same position for too long. Trying to move as quietly as possible under the heavy weight of Joss’s arm, she turned.

  She’d barely settled on her back when Joss striked. Clamping a hand around her neck, he tightened his fingers with bruising force. She tried to cry out, but the only sound that escaped her lips was a croak. She couldn’t breathe.

  She swatted at him, but he only squeezed harder. She clawed at his arms. He was going to strangle her. She fought rougher, trying to kick and throw him off, but he easily stilled her efforts by rolling over her, pressing the little air she had left from her lungs with his weight. She dug her nails into his biceps, but her efforts were futile.

  Just as black spots popped behind her eyes, Joss’s eyes focused. His pupils contracted in the soft glow of the lamp as shock registered on his face. He withdrew his hand as if from a fire, finally giving her access to much needed oxygen. She gulped air into her burning lungs. Sitting back onto his heels, he stared at her with round eyes while she tried to steady her breathing.

  “Fuck, Cle.” He slipped his hands under her arms and pulled her into a sitting position. “Breathe. That’s good. Just like that.”

  She was like a ragdoll, fighting a dizzy spell that made her head turn.

  “You frightened me,” he said.

  She pushed on his chest to create distance between them and said in a hoarse voice, “So you strangled me?”

  He climbed off her. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he threaded his fingers through his hair. “I could’ve fucking killed you.”

  “Isn’t that the plan eventually?”

  He glanced sideways at her, the look in his eyes haunted. That look scared her more than the fingers he’d had clamped around her throat a minute ago, because she saw the conflict in those silver depths. The truth. It was as good as admitting out loud it would come to that.

  Swinging her legs off the bed, she pushed past him. She had to escape, even if it was only as far as the bathroom. She needed space from him.

  A big hand clamped down on her shoulder, holding her back. “I’ll sleep in the hall.”

  She couldn’t look at him. She waited for him to lift his hand, but he kept her in place.

  “It was the dream,” he said, offering another olive branch.

  She didn’t want to take it. She didn’t want to know. There was only one way this could end. She made to stand again.

  “Cle, wait.” His hand tightened on her shoulder. “You asked if it was always the same.” He continued in a quiet tone. “The answer is yes. Night after night, I watch them being slaughtered, unable to do a goddamn thing.”

  How could he stand it? She wasn’t excusing his behavior, but she couldn’t wish this upon anyone. “You can’t stay here, Joss.”

  “There’s nowhere else to go.”

  “You could go to your safe house.”

  He laughed. It was an ugly sound. “You won’t even be safe at the safe house.”

  The impact of his words hit her like a fist in the stomach. She wasn’t safe with his people. She wasn’t safe with him. She wasn’t safe here. There was nowhere she’d ever be safe again.

  “Hey,” he said, trying to pull her close, but she pushed away.

  He dropped his hand from her shoulder. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come back.”

  Too late.

  “You want to know the ugly truth?” he said. “You were wrong. It was my fault. All mine.”

  “Joss, I don’t—”

  “I can’t beat these ghosts.” He rubbed a palm over his chest. “They’re invincible.”

  “Maybe they’re just undealt with.”

  He turned his head to look at her. His gaze homed in on her like nothing else was real. Like that day in the woods, he saw her. He saw everything. She tried to shelter her feelings—the longing, the vulnerability, and the need. For an awful and wonderful moment, she was the girl Joss had noticed again. Her heart crumpled like a ball of paper. It wasn’t fair. He had no business prying into her soul. Not any longer.

  His gaze slipped to her neck where a vein was throbbing, a telltale sign of fear and unrequited love. Stupid love. With his eyes locked on the pulse in her neck, he reached out a hand, but she leaned back before he could touch her.

  “I left marks,” he said. “It’ll bruise.”

  His marks went much deeper. He knew. He saw her. He knew.

  “I’m a bad man, Cle.” He said it searching her eyes, looking for something. Acceptance? Absolution?

  “I know,” she whispered. The dream tried to warn her, but she didn’t listen. Her bad boy had grown into a very bad man.

  He smiled, then gave a small nod, accepting the judgment, which, for some reason, broke her heart. She was just like everyone else in town, always expecting the worst of him.

  “He broke down my door first.” He stared at the door as if he could picture his father standing there.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “You wanted to know,” he said in a hard voice. When she flinched, he softened his tone. “You know how I used to be. You of all people.” He lifted a finger toward her cheek but then dropped it again. “You saw me, the real me.”

  Her face heated in shame. If he noticed, he didn’t acknowledge it.

  “The fact that I was an arrogant little fuck didn’t help. My mother wouldn’t tell a
nyone because of the shame. You know how the people here are. They’d rather pretend it didn’t happen.” He chuckled, the sound bitter. “When I’d try to stop him, he’d tie me up and whip me with his belt, breaking my skin with the buckle.”

  She flinched at the picture he was painting, remembering his haunted eyes, his wildness, and the pain she recognized in his defiant smiles.

  “I took the beating like he told me to,” his lip curled, “like a man, knowing the day would come that I’d be stronger.” He uttered a cold laugh. “That’s when I knew I’d be a killer one day, that I’d be capable of taking a person’s neck in my hands and squeezing until the bones crushed.” He glanced at her again. “Just like I had your neck in my fist tonight. I knew it the day Iwig laid his hands on you. If you hadn’t been standing there, I might’ve killed him.”

  The confession crossed another line. Joss was making himself vulnerable. He was making this personal, impossible for her to hate him. “I don’t—” want to hear it, she was going to say, but he didn’t give her a chance.

  “That night, the night it happened, I came home to find my father dragging my mother up the stairs by her hair. I wanted to kill him. I meant to when I grabbed him by the collar and threw him down the stairs.” His eyes were fixed on the wall, unfocused, somewhere in the past. “The bastard got up.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to do this.”

  He carried on as if he hadn’t felt or heard her. “I hit him until he went down, and then I kicked him. Over and over. I would’ve killed him too. Wanted to so damn badly. Should’ve. It wasn’t my mother’s screams that stopped me. It was my brother. He was standing at the top of the stairs, watching.

  “I told my mother to leave the bastard on the floor, and I sent my brother to bed.” He rested his head in his hands. “I took off to the beach and drank a lot. I didn’t think my father would come to his senses so soon. When he did, he was in a rage. He went hunting for me in the house, and when he found my room empty, he took his shotgun.”

  It was too late to stop him now. The confession had tied them together. He was forcing her to see him too, to see all of him. All she could do for him was listen.

  “He shot my brother first,” he said. “At least, that was what the autopsy said.” His mouth twisted. “In his fucking bed, just like the coward my father was. The only solace is that my brother must’ve been asleep. My mother must’ve woken from the noise. Her body was in the hallway. Then my father went back to bed and painted the walls with his brains. That’s how I found them when I got home wrecked and careless. Fucking careless. Selfish.”