In Smoke And Ruins (Burned by Magic Book 2)

by Gina Shafer

  I peek at Elijah, whose sweaty skin glints in the sunlight. His gaze is hard and unmoving at the asphalt under his feet. As we grow closer, I feel the heat and energy radiate around the group. We’ve worked ourselves up so much that our magic is near the surface. There isn’t much time to gain control of it, because before I know it, we’ve stopped behind a cement wall and are looking directly at the building Vara sent us to.

  There’s a gas station across the street with its lights on and a convenience store attached to it. But in front of us is what looks like a semi-abandoned strip mall. A hardware supply store is a few doors down, with an OPEN sign above the door. She sent us to Suite B though, and it looks like a soul hasn’t touched it in years. There’s no sign of a single demon near the place, from what I can tell. The only way to know for sure is to get closer.

  We decide between us that Soren should go scope it out. No one knows his face, as far as we know. Elijah is hesitant, but he knows it’s our only choice.

  We duck down, keeping eyes on Soren, waiting for him to give us the go- ahead. He’s quick as he bolts across the street and sneaks up to the front door of the building. It’s all blacked out, but clearly unlocked by the way, Soren flings it open with more force than necessary. Any one of us would have figured it was locked. Why isn’t it? I’m confused, and a heavy feeling fills my stomach.

  Elijah looks at me and nods, and I pull my swords out from behind my back. The sun is just starting to set, and I don’t want to attract unwanted attention by lighting them. We hurry across the street at the same pace as Soren, meeting up with him before entering the dark, abandoned building.

  I was wrong.

  It looks like it’s been decades since anyone was here… except for the footprints disturbing the dust on the floor. The room looks like an old clothing store, with half-empty racks holding hangers and moth-eaten cloth. The footprints lead to the back of the store, to what seems like the bathroom. I grip my swords tighter when Elijah holds a finger over his lips. We walk in formation, Elijah leading, and follow the footprints. When we reach the door, he pauses for only a second before kicking it in with such force that the walls around us vibrate from the impact.

  We rush forward, but we’re met with nothing. It’s a sizable restroom, as expected, half coated in rust and mold. Water drips from the ceiling, brown stains forming under the paint. It looks empty, until we hear a groan coming from the largest stall. Elijah rushes in, and we follow quickly.

  A man lies against the disgusting tile with a black sack over his face. He groans again, and I lurch forward. It’s obvious this man is a prisoner.

  “It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you. Where are they?” I ask as Elijah helps me sit the man up.

  “I don’t know,” he utters weakly, followed by a cough that comes from deep in his lungs. “There hasn’t been anyone here for days.” He winces, clutching his side. He’s injured, probably a broken rib.

  “Why are you here?” Elijah asks.

  I pull the sack off on his head, and every bit of air is pulled from my lungs, like I’ve entered the vacuum of space without warning.

  The man looks so much like me, it’s almost like I’m standing in front of a mirror, if that mirror reflected a male version of myself. I fall backward, my elbows colliding with the hard tile floor. Elijah turns to me, concern etched on his face. He hasn’t looked at the man yet. I want to shout at him to look, but he’s too concerned for me to look away.

  I lift my finger and point. One by one, Elijah, Soren, and Lincoln lock eyes with the prisoner, and understanding dawns.

  This man has to be my father. What the hell is he doing here?

  “Mama, where’s Daddy goin’?” I ask.

  Mama looks sad. Her face is wet, and I think she’s been crying. I don’t want Mama to be sad.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” I tell her. That should make her feel better. But it doesn’t. She makes a sound that comes from somewhere in her chest, and for a minute I think she might be dying. That sound scares me.

  “Mama?” I say.

  “Not now, Karina,” she breathes.

  “But Daddy—”

  “I said not now!” she screams.

  I want to cry, but instead I just run away. I find my hiding place in the corner of my closet and start counting to one hundred, whispering so Mama doesn’t hear. Grandma told me it would help when I’m scared. When I get to ninety-nine, I don’t stop. I don’t finish, because it hasn’t helped. I’m still afraid.

  When I saw Daddy this morning, he didn’t say a word to me. He looked angry, and I didn’t want to get in trouble for being outside without shoes on. I ran back inside and went straight to my room. I’ve been practicing my letters lately, and if I can show Mama and Daddy that I can finally write my name, maybe it will make them happy.

  I hate when Mama and Daddy fight. Grandma says it’s not nice to get in the middle of grownup business. That I should go to my room and count whenever I hear them fighting. Grandma looks so sure when she tells me this that I don’t ever tell her the truth. It never works.

  “Karina!” Daddy shouts from somewhere in the house, and I drop my pen, splattering ink all over the clean page. A tear slips from my eye and gets the paper even more wet. I don’t want to see Daddy right now. Not when he sounds so angry.

  “Karina, get out here now!” he yells again. This time I shove the paper and pen under my bed and run to him. I don’t want him to get even madder because I’m not listening. Daddy hates it when I don’t listen.

  “Yes, Daddy?” I call. He’s kneeling on the kitchen floor near the back door.

  “I’m leaving. Come give me a hug,” he says. His voice sounds funny, kind of slow. And he smells bad.

  “Where are you goin’, Daddy?” I ask him as I get closer.

  “Your Mama don’t want me here no more, Karina,” he says. His arms are wide open, and he wraps them around me as soon as I’m close enough.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I ain’t got enough power for her, I guess. Gonna turn into one of those fuckers if she isn’t careful.” I don’t know what he means.

  “But, Daddy—”

  “That’s enough, Beckett. You need to leave now,” Mama says. I didn’t know she was standing there. I look up at her from behind Daddy’s arms. She looks all crazy. Her hair is sticking up all different ways, and her makeup is running down her face.

  For a second, he squeezes me tighter, and I want to panic. Then he lets go. He doesn’t say another word as he gets up, opens the door, and walks out. He stumbles once or twice and then gets on his bike and zips down the road.

  The only thing I think is that Daddy never took me for a ride on that thing, like he said he would.

  “Don’t cry, Karina. There’s been enough cryin’ in this house. Be a big girl and pack your stuff. We’re going to Grandma’s,” Mama says.

  I wipe the tear from my cheek and say the only thing she would think acceptable right now. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Hello, can you hear me?” I ask the man. He’s passed out on the couch in the house we’ve been squatting in for the last three days. I don’t get an answer, as per usual.

  I pick myself up from a squatting position on the floor and plop into the big comfy chair to the right of me. This house isn’t so bad. A little different than what we’re used to, but it does the trick, and it has enough rooms for everyone to finally live comfortably. We didn’t want to go back to Elijah’s house after the attack, and we agreed it would be safer if we all had a change of address. Even Scarlett and Micha’s baby, now affectionately known as Rayna, has a room with a crib.

  I wiggle my toes along the large Oriental rug under my feet. It must be about ten different shades of beige. As a matter of fact, now that I think about it, this house is full of beige. Beige lamp shades, beige throw pillows sitting on the edge of beige linen couches. So much damn beige The people who lived here before must have had stock of the color.

  I tilt my head back and close my eye
s for a few minutes. Three days we’ve been here. By the time we got back from our little helicopter trip to Texas, carrying one extra passenger than we departed with, most everything had been moved here, and the rest of the Sicarri had made themselves at home.

  The man hasn’t spoken since that day we found him in that disgusting abandoned bathroom stall. I’m assuming he’s my father, but I have yet to actually say the words out loud. He mumbled something about how he hadn’t eaten in days and passed out. Lincoln was not pleased when I told Elijah to help me get him back to the helicopter. We were squeezed tightly like sardines in a can during the flight back. I would have laughed at Lincoln’s sour face if the situation weren’t so fucking ridiculous.

  I mean, my dad? How is this possible? I haven’t seen the man since I was five or six years old. I can’t even remember. I do remember that in the memory I have of him leaving, he was drunk, almost stumbling, rambling about my mom becoming one of those “fuckers.” I let out a tiny humorless chuckle. I guess he was right.

  I feel Elijah’s presence in the room before I have the chance to open my eyes. He slinks up behind me and places him palms on my shoulders, rubbing my tense muscles.

  “Any luck?” he asks.

  I don’t have to open my eyes to see the concern thick on his features. I can hear it. He’s worried about me. I haven’t slept, and I’ve hardly eaten since we’ve been back. Hell, I’m worried about me too.

  “Not yet, but I did get a little water in him earlier,” I tell him, nodding in the direction of the water glass sitting neatly in its coaster on the end table. It used to have ice in it, but the warmth of the room has melted the cubes. Now the outside of the glass is coated in condensation.

  “I should refresh that,” I say. Anything to busy myself.

  “I’ll do it,” Elijah says, but he makes no move to grab the water. Instead, he continues to rub my shoulders. I’d be lying if I said I wanted him to stop.

  I jolt when I hear a cough sputter in the room. The man is sitting upright on the couch, his head hanging between his knees.

  “Water?” he asks.

  I swear I have to stop myself from laughing at the irony of it all. Elijah hands the man the old water glass, and he gulps it down in seconds, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. I briefly consider the fact that maybe I should have changed his tattered clothes. It looks like he’s wearing an old flannel shirt, but it’s riddled with holes, and the fabric is so faded that I can’t tell what color it started as. He looks weary and old. His scraggly dark brown hair is the same color as mine, and his long unkempt beard has a few grays in it.

  It isn’t until his eyes lock on mine that my breath leaves my lungs, much like it did the first time I saw him.

  “You know who I am?” he asks, his voice scratchy.

  “Do you know who I am?” I ask him back.

  “You’re my little girl,” he says, so plainly I’m taken aback by the term.

  I haven’t felt like a little girl in a long time. Elijah senses my discomfort, because he steps closer to the man and holds out a hand.

  The man takes it, shaking it hard before trying to release. Elijah doesn’t let up on the pressure though. He grips harder. I frown, confused. I’m about to tell him to let go when I realize what he’s doing. He’s chanting something under his breath. He’s using magic?

  Panic rises in my chest. He can’t.

  Before I get the chance to open my mouth, Elijah releases the man’s hand in a movement so fast, if I had blinked, I would have missed it. I catch a glimpse of Elijah’s palm and notice a small black mark in the center, almost like a soot stain. Shit. Why did he just do magic?

  “Elijah?”

  “I just had to be sure he wasn’t one of them,” he answers. I realize he was testing him, forcing power and magic into his palm to see if the man would be greedy and take it. A trick that used to be heavily used in the Sicarri before we realized it turned more people into demons than it helped. Elijah just took himself to the edge for me. I stare at him, realizing the depths to which we would go for each other.

  “You coulda just asked,” the man says. His voice breaks my connection with Elijah and I look back at him.

  “You might have lied,” I tell him. I want him to know that I don’t trust him. Why should I? I haven’t seen or heard from him in so long. Should I believe he’s just a good guy?

  “Karina—”

  “It’s Beckett, right? At least that’s what I remember Mom calling you. I don’t need to know your life story, nor am I interested. I just want to know why the demons had you, or why Elijah’s ex-wife told us where to find you.” My voice is harsh, stern. Good. I don’t want him to know how much all of this really affects me.

  “Your ex-wife?” Beckett turns to Elijah, brow furrowed. I’m sure he’s wondering what’s going on between the two of us and who the hell Elijah is in all of this.

  “Vara,” Elijah spits out, like he hates the taste of her name on his tongue. Beckett pales as soon as he hears the name.

  “You know her?” I ask.

  “Know her? She was the one who held me prisoner. First it was Abe. Then after a while, he never showed up to question us no more. Then one day she came, broke a few of us out, and I’m assumin’ she scattered us about, because I ain’t seen another soul besides her for months.” Beckett sighs and grips his side, and I’m reminded of how much pain he must be in. I make a mental note to have Lincoln take a look at him, see if there’s anything we can to do speed up the healing process.

  “Back up just a sec. Did you say us? Meaning there are more prisoners out there?” Elijah asks.

  Holy shit, I missed that.

  “There were about fifteen of us in total. Sometimes we were allowed in groups, though most of the time we were chained up alone,” Beckett replies. “Do you think I could get somethin’ a little stronger than this?” He asks, holding out the empty glass that held stale water only moments ago.

  “Uh,” I mumble, thrown off by his question.

  “Sure,” Elijah says, crossing the room and bending down in front of a small wooden cabinet. He pulls out a bottle half full of dark amber liquid and pours some into the glass dangling from Beckett’s outstretched arm. Beckett throws back the glass and swallows the liquid in one swift movement, sighing and slouching back into the cushions of the couch when he’s finished.

  Elijah and I both sit, staring across the room at the man who gave me life.

  “Where was I?” Beckett asks.

  “Prisoners. There were more of you,” I tell him, crossing my arms.

  “Ah, yeah. There was an older woman. I think her name was Bridget, but we all called her BB. And a scrawny little kid, Tristan. Picked him up by the scruff of his neck once for stealin’ more food than he was welcome to, and he cried, beggin’ for his mama. Oh, and there was a girl, June. Kind of reminded me of you, sweetheart.” Beckett tilts his head in my direction and squints, like he’s studying me.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why? Ain’t that what you are? You’re my girl,” he says.

  “No, I’m not. I haven’t been a little girl since the minute my Mama tried to get her demon boyfriend to gut me in my grandma’s backyard and steal my fire,” I spit out. Maybe now he’ll get the point.

  “But—” Beckett starts to say, but he’s cut off by Elijah.

  “I think we should just stick to first names from now on, Beckett.” He says politely. Except I know Elijah, and he’s feeling anything but polite right now. I catch a glimpse of Elijah’s face. His jaw is clenched, his teeth gritting together like they’re itching to mash through bone.

  Beckett finally nods. Maybe he realizes Elijah isn’t someone he wants to cross. Normally the fact that a man just had to defend me would leave a sour taste in my mouth, but coming from Elijah, and knowing his passion to protect the people that he loves, well, let’s just say I don’t mind it too much.

  “Where were they keeping you?” I ask.

  Beckett c
lears his throat, shifting uncomfortably through his pain. “I’m not sure,” he says quietly.

  “You’re not sure?”

  “No, I never did figure it out, okay? I don’t know why they had us, why they kept us so long without so much as lettin’ us piss without being guarded. All I know is, it was fucking hell.”

  He’s angry. I’ve ticked him off by questioning him. For a second I think about backing down, then I remember he fucking left, drunk no less, when he knew how messed up Mama was.

  “Why did you leave?” I ask, unable to hide the hitch in my voice. I feel Elijah’s gaze piercing the side of my face, but I don’t take my eyes off Beckett.

  “You mean how did I get away? ‘Cause in case you didn’t realize, I never did,” Beckett says, completely oblivious to what I’m really asking.

  “No, I don’t mean that. I mean why did you leave me with her? Why did you go? Where did you go? Were things that fucking bad that you left me with a psychopath who would kill her own daughter for a little more power?” Somewhere in the middle of this, I’ve stood. I’m towering over Beckett, tears in my voice but not in my eyes. I’m damn near screaming at him.

  Elijah moves slowly behind me and places his hands lovingly on my shoulders, but I can’t take it. I don’t want to feel the calmness his touch brings. I shrug him off and give Beckett one last look before striding from the room. It’s not until I reach the backyard and am staring over the algae-covered pool that I realize Beckett hadn’t even tried to answer me.

  “There’s no excuse,” Lincoln calls.

  “No excuse for what?” I ask, holding my stomach, knowing I’ll regret taking Lincoln’s bait later.

  “His behavior, leaving you like he did. There’s no excuse for a father leaving his child,” Lincoln says, approaching behind me. The sadness emanating from him is surprising and completely out of character. So much so that I spin around with what I hope is suspicion painted across my features.

  “And how would you know anything about it?” I ask. I’m met with a smile, a complete one-eighty from his mood only seconds ago.