ALSO BY RACHEL A. MARKS
Winter Rose (novella)
The Dark Cycle
Darkness Brutal
Darkness Fair
Darkness Savage
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Rachel A. Marks
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Skyscape, New York
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Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Skyscape are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503946750
ISBN-10: 1503946754
Cover design by Eileen Carey
For my bashert, Joseph, because he knew before I did.
CONTENTS
BEFORE
ONE SAGE
TWO SAGE
THREE FAELAN
FOUR SAGE
FIVE FAELAN
SIX SAGE
SEVEN SAGE
EIGHT SAGE
NINE FAELAN
TEN SAGE
ELEVEN SAGE
TWELVE SAGE
THIRTEEN FAELAN
FOURTEEN SAGE
FIFTEEN FAELAN
SIXTEEN SAGE
SEVENTEEN FAELAN
EIGHTEEN FAELAN
NINETEEN FAELAN
TWENTY SAGE
TWENTY-ONE SAGE
TWENTY-TWO SAGE
TWENTY-THREE SAGE
TWENTY-FOUR FAELAN
TWENTY-FIVE SAGE
TWENTY-SIX FAELAN
TWENTY-SEVEN SAGE
TWENTY-EIGHT FAELAN
TWENTY-NINE SAGE
THIRTY FAELAN
THIRTY-ONE SAGE
THIRTY-TWO FAELAN
THIRTY-THREE SAGE
THIRTY-FOUR FAELAN
THIRTY-FIVE SAGE
THIRTY-SIX SAGE
THIRTY-SEVEN FAELAN
THIRTY-EIGHT SAGE
THIRTY-NINE FAELAN
FORTY SAGE
FORTY-ONE FAELAN
FORTY-TWO SAGE
FORTY-THREE FAELAN
FORTY-FOUR SAGE
FORTY-FIVE SAGE
FORTY-SIX SAGE
FORTY-SEVEN FAELAN
FORTY-EIGHT SAGE
FORTY-NINE SAGE
FIFTY FAELAN
FIFTY-ONE SAGE
FIFTY-TWO SAGE
EPILOGUE KIERAN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BEFORE
The flames came without warning at her touch.
She could do nothing. Only watch the fire consume him as her soul splintered.
His long black hair took wing with the blaze, twisting and melting into nothing as his screams filled the forest where they stood. The same forest where she’d kissed his human lips, reveling in his scent. Where she’d let him love her, their secret safe in the arms of the emerald trees. Now all was orange and golden light, eating him away.
She tried to quench the flames with her shawl, her hands, but still his perfect skin blistered and cracked, peeling off in flakes to float away with the sparks above her head. It happened so quickly. The face she’d kissed so many times disappeared in the dancing glow, unveiling a grinning skull.
Her cries of anguish echoed around her as his choked off, his charred body crashing to the ground.
Sweet mother Brighid, no! What had she done?
Silver smoke rose in pluming clouds, stinging her eyes, her nostrils, as the burns on her hands healed.
He was hers. Hers. How could the goddess take him?
Her love. Her shadow. But now . . .
Bones in the fire.
Her chest heaved with the weight of it, and she fell to her knees in agony.
No, it wasn’t the goddess who’d done this.
She’d done it. She’d killed him.
She’d lost control of the flame.
ONE
SAGE
I have this thing for fire. It terrifies me. Because when I feel the warmth on my skin, or watch the dancing flames, it’s as if the pulsing glow is speaking to me. It’s only a small whisper, but it’s crystal clear in my mind. A voice that merges with the rhythm of the flickering tongues of light: Touch. Feed. Control. I’m sure something is very wrong with me, but my crazy isn’t my biggest problem right now. It’s my lack of a place to crash for the night.
I flick my lighter on and pretend I don’t hear the whispers as I hold the flame up to the end of Ziggy’s cigarette.
She pulls in a drag and then coughs. She’s totally asthmatic, but for some reason she won’t quit. “I hope they have some of those blueberry scones left over,” she says, leaning on the wall beside the back door of the coffee shop. She twists one of her short dreadlocks around her finger. “They make me feel fancy. And I need to feel fancy on Halloween, like I’m in disguise.”
The alley is lit by the small yellow lamp above the door. It casts an odd glow over our surroundings, making the shadows look deep and dangerous. There’s even a raven cawing above us, perched on a buzzing power line, rounding off the All Hallows’ feel of the night and masking the sporadic rustle of rats behind the dumpster several feet away. This is our routine every other night now, dinner courtesy of Granada Grounds. Apparently, there’s some lame law that they have to throw the leftover “spoiled” food away. No donating it to the homeless, just the roaches and rats. But the owner’s daughter, Star, made a deal with us that on the nights she’s closing she’ll put edible leftovers in a sealed container before tossing them out. She usually puts something extra in there, like granola bars or bottles of sparkling water. I guess Ziggy and I are now her charity cases.
Whatever, I’m too hungry to care.
“You need meat, Sage,” Ziggy says, looking me up and down. “You’re totally bony, girl. Those tits are about to evaporate.” She shakes her head in disapproval, takes another drag, and coughs.
I look down at my chest and shrug. I’ve never been vain. Which is good, because at this point I haven’t showered in a week and I had to give myself a haircut with some guy’s pocketknife when I got goop in my hair that I couldn’t wash out. Ziggy actually cried. My “amazingly bamtastic fiery locks,” as she calls them, were ruined.
I’m so over it.
“I thought you liked skinny girls,” I say.
“Sorry to break it to you, but you’ve never been my type, white girl.” She winks at me.
I kick a rock her way with my boot. “Heartbreaker.”
“Look who’s talkin’.” She shakes her head. “You’ve been leavin’ puddles of drooling boys behind you for the three months I’ve known you. When was the last time you let one get up in that?” She motions to my body with her cigarette.
Try never. I don’t know why, but the idea of letting a guy get close terrifies me. I haven’t even let a boy kiss me since middle school. And that was just a peck—so maybe it wasn’t technically a kiss. How pathetic is that? It’s not like any guy’s ever hurt me; if anything, I think I intimidate them—Ziggy says it’s my stoic demeanor. But I don’t think that would stop a determined flirt. It’s just . . . every time I see a hot guy, someone I’d want to touch and kiss, my skin heats up like I’m a fifty-year-old woman having a hot flash. The urges I get in my head make me flush. So I just back away.
See what I mean about the crazy?
The door beside us squeaks, and Ziggy and I move deeper into the shadows just in case it’s not Star.
A blue head of hair peeks out into the alley. “Hey bitches, I got the goods.” She spots us and comes out the rest of the way. She’s dressed in this tight blue-checkered dress
that makes her look like Dorothy from some porno version of The Wizard of Oz. “And I have the best idea ever.”
Uh-oh. Last time Star had an idea, we all nearly ended up in jail.
“We’re just hungry for food tonight,” I say. “No adventure.”
Star frowns, and her fake freckles scrunch up under her eyes. I don’t remember Dorothy having freckles, but then her blue dress was also made with a lot more fabric than Star’s is.
“There’s going to be a ton of food there!” She grins wickedly. “And guys. Loads of guys.”
“Chips and beer don’t count as food,” I say.
“And I’m not into dudes,” Ziggy adds, clarifying, even though she doesn’t sound as negative as I am about the adventure. “Plus, Miss Sage here is a nun.”
“I am not,” I say. A nun is holy and pure. That I am definitely not.
“Great!” Star claps. “I’ve already got the Uber heading our way.”
“Are you thick?” Ziggy asks. She takes a casual drag of her cigarette. And coughs.
Star waves at the trailing smoke. “I’m only thinking of you. The other night you said you slept in a laundromat. Tonight, you could have a good meal, sleep in a warm house with carpets and couches . . . possibly go in a hot tub!”
And a shower. Oh my God, a shower. “Okay, we’ll go,” I say.
Ziggy glances sideways at me, then shrugs and throws down her cigarette. “Whatever the nun wants.”
Star’s face opens in a huge smile and I have no idea what’s made her so happy. Oh goody, two homeless girls are gonna crash a Halloween party with me! Doesn’t she have any real friends? She claps again and makes a small squeal in the back of her throat. “We’ll stop by my house and dress you guys up. I have tons more costumes, and—”
“No!” Ziggy and I say in unison.
Star raises her hands in surrender. “Okay, too far. I get it.” She tips her head and her blue bangs fall across her eyes. “So, no Halloween? Is it a religious thing?”
“Do we look like we give a shit about holidays?” Ziggy asks.
Star shrugs. “Just checking. I don’t want to give you the wrong kinds of cookies for Christmas.” She spins in her red stiletto Mary Janes and heads back into the coffeehouse, waving us in after her.
The party is in an old Chatsworth neighborhood. The Uber driver pulls up the street, parking in front of a driveway. Ziggy and I get out of the car and follow Star up to the house. It’s sort of rocking the 1950s American Dream vibe with a sprawling lawn out front, a curved driveway lined with flowers, and a porch with a swing. It’s decorated in the usual Halloween fare: pumpkin lights strung over the garage, huge spider decals in the windows, and a skeleton hanging out in the bushes.
A raven lands on the roof with a sudden flurry of wings as we walk up to the door. It perches on the rain gutter, looking at us sideways. My gut churns. You don’t usually see ravens out at night, and this is the second one I’ve noticed now.
But then I’m distracted by something hanging from the eaves that looks like a blow-up sex doll dressed in a tuxedo.
“That’s Jeeves, the butler,” Star says when she sees the confused look on my face. “I helped decorate,” she adds with pride.
“How do you know these people?” This is probably something I should’ve asked earlier.
“My cousin lives here. It’s his place.”
Shit, I don’t really know this girl at all. This was an unsafe move on my part. But Ziggy’s with me, and no one messes with her. I’ll just get my shower, she can get food, and then we’ll jet.
“We’re early,” Star says as she opens the door without knocking. “The real fun won’t start for another hour or so. But you should be able to duck into a room and make yourselves at home, no problem.”
Ziggy steps inside with Star, and I follow, hesitant. “Will your cousin mind?” I ask. The front room is decorated like a bachelor pad, with beanbag chairs and a pool table. At first glance, I see only half a dozen people, most of them dudes, except one girl. Poor Ziggy.
“Nope, Ben is super chill,” Star says, “as long as you don’t steal his stuff or punch a hole through a wall.”
Not planning on doing either of those things.
“Just lead me to those hamburgers you mentioned in the car,” Ziggy says. “I’m famished.” Then she turns and points to me. “And skinny’ll take two.”
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, ignoring her. I can’t waste time eating if there’s a usable shower in the vicinity.
“There’s a guest bedroom and bathroom in the back.” Star points to a hall behind her. “Last door on the left. Make yourself at home.”
I nod my thanks and zip past a couple of partygoers. The room is small, with an attached bathroom, and it has everything I need. I shut the bathroom door behind me, checking that it locks before stripping down. Then I slide into the shower and let the stream of warm water start peeling off the layers of street and smog.
I grab the soap and scrub more than I need to, mostly because I don’t want to get out. I haven’t had a hot shower in so long. Too long.
I try not to let myself feel my thin body, my ribs jutting through the skin, my scrawny hips and legs, my knees too sharp and bony, unhealthy, unattractive. It’s been a rough year. But I’d rather be here, scrounging for a random shower and a meal, than stuck in a group transition home. I hear those can be even worse than foster homes. I ran away from the last place the system put me in. I’ve always made sure to get out quick once some bitch or bitch boy gets pissed at my presence, since it inevitably turns into me becoming their personal punching bag. I’ve always made people nervous. According to my last social worker, I was “difficult to place.” I’ve seen the notes in my file: Lacks personal connection with peers. And: Inability to invest in relationships.
I’m not really sure why Ziggy puts up with me.
I’m broken, mostly because of the broken woman who spawned me. I swear, adults should have to get a license to make a kid. Prove they’ve got their shit together before they bring a child into the world. My mom tried, I think. She thought she could piece herself into something resembling a mother by dropping the drugs and dropping the need to feed her overblown selfish streak. But she failed. And so, at age ten, I was released from her forever. I bounced around foster care until it eventually became a blur of angry kids and overworked caregivers. The only place I felt safe was in my own head, where the sneers and fists could be ignored—I must’ve read a thousand books the first year or two. In the pages of the stories, I could catch killers or kill monsters. My favorites were the legends with angry gods, cursed kings, or castles in the murky fog. Not the romance novels—hell, no. I liked the novels that ended in blood-soaked battlefields best. Which is ironic, I guess, considering I’ve become a master at conflict avoidance. My default mode is: leave if things get too tense.
I make it on my own now. And while life’s gotten more difficult in some ways, it’s also much more peaceful. I can sit on the beach and read all day if I want. I can walk for miles and still be home. I’m not tied to anyone or anything. I’m free. I turned eighteen last month, so I could choose to get aid now, or job training, maybe go back to school, but the system can kiss my ass. If I’m going to figure my life out, it won’t be under some social worker’s microscope. I’m done with being a name on a file.
I get out of the shower and dry off, then fold the towel, placing it exactly how it was before I used it. I look at my pile of dirty clothes on the floor and sigh. I don’t want to put those stiff things back on. There’s a robe on the back of the door, so I grab it and slip into it, then walk into the bedroom. It drags behind me, way too big for my shrunken frame. The noises of the party seem louder now, but I don’t hear anyone in the hallway. I check the closet for clothes and spot a couple of things that might work; there’s a white cotton button-up on a hanger and a pair of jeans in a stack of folded pants on the shelf above it. Maybe I could wear them for now. I’m so tired. And I’m dying to h
ave clean clothes on for a second. I’ll put my own stuff on again before I leave.
The jeans are too big so I roll them at the waist, then find socks and a wifebeater in what looks like a small laundry basket. I put them on and slide the white dress shirt over the tank. I gather my dirty clothes and throw them into the basket, then shuffle over to the bed and plop down onto the heavenly mattress. I lean back on a pile of pillows so comfortable and soft, I can’t keep my eyes open.
I breathe deeply, and sleep pulls me under.
Wings rustle as he enters the stone room. The flames in the hearth behind me crackle as I take in the sight of him. At last I see him with my own eyes. My fate.
The King of Ravens.
His black hair is flecked with gold from the firelight, and his shadowed gaze glints with silver. The inking of a black raven is etched over his bare skin. It wraps around the muscles of his broad shoulders and covers his right arm. On his head he wears a silver laurel. Around his neck is the heavy iron torque that holds back his immense power.
He grips the body of a limp winter fox in one fist and a bloody dagger in the other. The white body drips crimson onto the stone floor as the king steps closer to me. I can’t look away from the rare fox, its beauty snuffed out by those beastly hands. That will be me very soon if I’m not cautious.
But even in my fear, I stand firm. I cannot cower from him. In spite of all I’ve done, I’m no craven thing. He is my punishment, my eternal cage. Because of what happened in the arms of the trees . . .
No. I can’t let myself think of the human boy I burned in the wood. How with a kiss I pulled life from him until there was nothing left. I was a fool to think I could control it on my own. I deserve punishment. This dark beast’s coldness is what I have earned.
The Cast’s envoy stands in the corner, watching my first exchange with the king. He’s a thin man, a bit hunched in his heavy furs, balding. Not what I expected from the representative of the powerful Cast of Seven, who live in the Otherworld, lording over all of us demis for their maker, the mother goddess, Danu. I would think the Cast would send someone more daunting in size to oversee the initial introduction of this match that they’ve allowed my mother and the Morrígan to draft.
Fire and Bone Page 4
