by K. L. Noone
Elemental
By K.L. Noone
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2018 K.L. Noone
ISBN 9781634866880
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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For my fabulous editors, who make everything better! And also for Awesome Husband, who hates spoilers and therefore knows nothing about the plot of this story.
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Elemental
By K.L. Noone
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 1
The night stormed. The dark got darker.
Safely snug and dry in his study, Dan tossed a grin at the tempest. The rain spilled long silvery ribbons across his windows in wild gleeful answer. New York City sparkled beyond glass, a watercolor painting of lights and dazzle and color, blurred and gleaming and lovely as a whole kaleidoscope of stories. He’d always loved storms; he got breathless at the crackle of lightning through the air, electric and vibrant. Thunder snagged his pulse and tantalized his heartbeat.
He’d fallen in love with this apartment in part for the windows. They stretched upward in glorious towering panes; they offered up the world for his gazing. At home, cozy in faded jeans and an ancient long-sleeved NYC Writers Workshop shirt that’d never be allowed near celebrity author photos, he appreciated that world.
So many stories. Lots of history in this building. Old bones and new. Nineteenth-century secrets and renovated tales hanging out side by side.
The building was supposedly haunted; multiple tenants, moving out, swore up and down that they’d been watched. That they’d felt eerie presences. That lights’d gone on and off without explanation. That chilly spots lurked in rooms and furniture shook itself. Dan had rather liked the idea. Past lives and narratives remaining. Personalities. Again, stories.
Stories; and he sighed, left the storm alone, glared at his laptop. Writing. The next novel. Increasingly improbable spy-related thrills. Action and adventure and decently large royalty checks. Johnny Stone and his intrepid undercover team fighting evil everyplace evil popped up.
Movie adaptations, only just beginning—two films in, of six books, so far—but well received as popcorn entertainment. Glitz and glamor and expectations. His name, Daniel Rose, in shiny silver on book covers. Assuming he could come up with the next story.
He couldn’t come up with the next story.
Everything he could think of wouldn’t work. Either too over the top or too mundane. Too obvious, overdone, or else too preposterous. Cosmetics poisoning. Submarine redirecting. Retired adversaries from the past getting randomly angry. No, no, no.
Maybe he was finally done with the spy-novel action-hero world. Maybe he needed something new. A whole new genre. New life. New hope. Or just retirement. What old worn-down men did, right?
He glared at his laptop some more.
Thirty-one wasn’t even old, and he knew it. Felt older. Ancient. Drawn thin and out of ideas. Story-well run dry. Golden fleece spun to non-existence. Ink no longer flowing.
He’d already cleaned the apartment to within an inch of either his or its life. He’d ordered and consumed pizza. He’d done laundry. He’d made and drunk tea. He couldn’t come up with anything else to do.
More accurately, he could: what he should be doing. Except he wasn’t.
He did like rain. Rejuvenating the world. Petrichor and promises. Cool waterfalls and liquid rushing susurration. Nighttime mysteries, potentialities, unfurling roads.
He stared out the window. He tried to think, or to not think: whatever’d lead to a new plot emerging, on this crescendo of an evening. Himself and the storm.
The storm hammered, rappelled down crenellations, summoned up unlikely ideas.
Maybe Johnny Stone’s international spy team could fight a villain with weather-controlling satellite technology. One final send-off. A massive dramatic climax. They could have a battle in the rain. On rooftops. Calling and avoiding lightning strikes. Or localized hurricanes. Miniature personal ones.
The rain decided this was hysterical. Got noisier, chattering away.
His laptop waited, screen unhelpfully blank.
“Yes, fine,” Dan grumbled at it, “someday soon I’ll replace you, see if I don’t,” and tipped his chair back, balancing on two legs, leaning in the direction of noise and clamor and frenetic sheets of exultant water.
A knock bounced off his front door. Rattled through the apartment and down his spine. Startled both him and the rain.
Dan and his chair nearly fell over, got entangled, separated themselves. Rubbing a knee, he managed to arrive at the door before the second knock.
He did peek out before opening up. The building’s security kept its residents well-guarded, and as a writer he wasn’t that famous—more so after two red carpets and film premieres, but nowhere near the scale of a Hollywood actor—but he wasn’t expecting anyone. Might as well check and make sure.
He blinked. Looked again. Thunder crashed.
He knew the young man on the other side, for a given value of knew. The young man had, in fact, moved into the building the previous week; they’d progressed to the stage of nodding amiably at each other downstairs.
Dan usually flushed pink and forgot how to talk on those occasions, because the young man smiled like sunrise and had soft-looking stylishly upswept brown hair and generally dressed like a rainbow that’d collided with a trendy coffee-shop, all pink belts and blue leather jackets and multi-hued suspenders and much-loved boots. He also had a tendency to smile at his mail and his neighbors and the world as if they’d made him personally happy. Dan found this distressingly adorable, and never unearthed any good conversational openings through the clouds of vague rose-hued embarrassment.
The young man was currently leaning on his doorframe, and wearing navy-plaid pajama pants and an extremely orange long-sleeved shirt that should absolutely not have made any fashion sense whatsoever, and had unfairly precious blue-and-white striped sock-clad toes peeking out from the pants. Dan tried not to whimper at both the clashing colors and the wide-eyed cuteness. Everything he liked, and shouldn’t like: disheveled distracting exuberance that made his tidy soul simultaneously cringe and yearn to find out how those slim wrists might feel under his hands.
The young man tipped his head to one side, and crossed arms, and lounged, evidently content to continue propping up Dan’s door until it gave in and opened. He might’ve been a pocket-sized and cuddly James Dean, a lazy kittenish rock and roll star, a stray bit of celebrity come over to pop hypothetical pink bubble-gum and litera
lly experimentally nudge the door with one sock-foot.
He looked tired, Dan thought, and then wondered why that’d been the thought. Weariness in that posture? In the slump of those shoulders against the doorframe’s support? In the faint lines around those eyes, the smudges under pale color, like bruises threatening opals? In the glance back down the hall, and a defeated sort of shift of weight?
He became aware that he’d been staring creepily through his own peephole for far too long.
He swore at himself. He yanked the door open. Too fast, too fast and clumsy, though those pretty grey eyes didn’t even flinch—
“Hey,” said all that insouciance, tossing a glorious worn-out smile his way, not moving, “you wouldn’t happen to have any feverfew or curry leaves, that’s the plant not the spice, or at least some cumin or garlic, would you?”
“What?”
“It’d be really awesome if you did. I’m kind of out of everything, my fault, I didn’t realize how much I’d need in this building. And I’ve got the universe’s worst headache.”
“Are…you…cooking something? Come in,” Dan added belatedly, and shuffled a step back, making room. “I mean, um, I think I have aspirin or something? Somewhere? I also think I have garlic. Um. Hi. Seriously please come in. What was that about this building?”
“Let’s say I said yes to the cooking question. Is that a spice rack? Can I look through it? Oh, wow, that’s totally a picture of you with Tom Sloane, right? Is that from the film premiere of Stone Heart? He’s seriously the best-ever possible casting for Johnny Stone, with those shoulders and that super-heroic social media presence. Are those proper steel knives? Can I borrow one?”
“…what,” Dan said again, helplessly trailing sunny worn-out excitement into his own kitchen. His young man moved as if even breathing required energy and occasionally paused to rub a temple, wincing, but apparently was one of those people for whom exhaustion transformed into verbal rambling. Either that or some amazing drugs were in play, which was a distinct possibility.
Somehow he didn’t think so, though. Those pretty eyes were tired, but clear and focused. The fingers now investigating his spice rack—he’d barely looked at it, a housewarming gift from his agent, who occasionally tried to get him to be an adult and not live on pizza and frozen waffles—were swift and steady. “Oh, good, you do have cumin…and rosemary, awesome…dried, but that’s okay, I can work with that…”
“I do? What did you mean, let’s say yes about the cooking?”
“You do, and now I do.” Petite busy fingers paused, holding glass jars; one hip settled against Dan’s kitchen counter, casual and comfortable and completely at home. One eyebrow, forest-brown over frayed grey oceans, tilted at him. “Thanks. I’m Sterling, by the way. And I love your taste in countertops. This one’s really nice. Good support.”
“Is that a name or an adjective? Oh, just sit down,” he added, because the now-named Sterling had just wobbled slightly and the hand that landed on the countertop wasn’t for show. “Here—”
He got his visitor steered over to the sofa. Sterling went without protest and flopped down across expensive beige cushions—he managed to make even near-collapse graceful, in the way of baby colts and first steps—and shut both eyes, nearly dropping spices and a knife on his own foot. Dan, heart in his throat, fumbled around and caught everything. Sterling, eyes closed, did not witness this astonishing unprecedented act of coordination. Thunder applauded. Rain cheered.
He got down on the rug, equally awkward but less charming, and peeked tentatively at his visitor from eye level. “Um…are you okay? And also I’m, um, Dan.”
“Yeah,” Sterling said, and opened one eye and then the other, and grinned at him, “I know. Daniel Rose. Famous. I’ve read all the Johnny Stone novels. Kind of ridiculous, but in a fun way. You had him win a fistfight with a henchman who had actual shark teeth. Which, I mean, I can see how someone could do that, not that I could, but someone else, that’s just partial animal transformation, but why?”
“Partial what—? I know it was ridiculous! It’s not exactly realism! When did you even pick up my knife?”
“I’ve got talented hands.” They performed exaggerated finger-wiggling at him in illustration. “Your couch is nicer than mine. Your whole place is nicer than mine, I mean, wow, did you, like, hire a decorator or something? And it’s so clean. I’m feeling kind of intimidated here. Outclassed.”
“My sister’s a designer—I like clean—I don’t even know you. Why am I talking to you? You pillaged half my spice rack—”
“And a knife.”
“And my knife! Who are you?” He waved a hand around distractedly, realized he still had rosemary in it, shoved that onto the coffee table along with everything else. Wind billowed around corners and edges, racing like pulse-beats. “If you’re here to rob me—or if this is some publicity stunt—”
“Oh, perfect, the hot famous author is yelling at me while my head explodes, I needed that.” Sterling draped an arm theatrically over his eyes. “Why me. Why this building with you in it. Why everything, seriously.”
“What,” Dan said levelly, sitting back on heels on his rug, knife next to his hand, “is going on.”
Chapter 2
“About that. The what and why.” Sterling moved the arm. Batted eyelashes at him, self-aware and wryly playful, which despite the whole situation sent iridescent shivers right into Dan’s gut. Lower. “I’m a very good clairvoyant and kind of a demi-witch and your building really really needs therapy and it’s a half-moon and a conjunction-night and I so did not bring enough supplies for this.”
“For—”
“I can get more, but it’ll take a day or two, and I didn’t want to wait, because this hurts. And my intuition told me to come here. And I trust my intuition, usually. So I’m here.”
Dan remained very very still, and stared at him.
“I know you don’t believe me,” Sterling said. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t believe me either. I’ll get out of here and leave you alone, and you can never think about this again, I promise. Um. After I borrow your ingredients. Can I, still?”
“I don’t not believe you,” Dan said. Careful, careful: he was obviously talking to a delusional person, even if so far harmlessly so. Gentle responses. Caution. Compassion. “Is there someone I should call? To help you with…with whatever you need? You said you had a headache. Do you have anything that you take for that?”
“Yes,” Sterling said, “protective spells and hand-holding for cranky spirits. I appreciate you being nice about it, it’s kind of sweet even if you’re thinking I’m delusional, and you’re sort of extra-hot when you’re being kind. Look, I can show you, if you want? I’m a pretty decent judge of character and you feel trustworthy.”
“Sorry,” Dan said, bewildered by charm and compliments and impossibilities, “you can what?”
“I told you I’m not a very gifted witch.” Sterling sat up, winced, pressed fingers between his eyes. “I’m psychic, not a sorcerer. But I can at least handle this—”
He held out a hand, palm up. Light bloomed into being.
Radiance shimmered and coiled and fluttered, a tiny marble of fire, of scarlet illumination. It hovered over his hand; it danced and ran out along fingertips and back, scampering and alive.
Dan forgot how to inhale. And then how to exhale.
The world—his rug, his coffee table, the solidity of floorboards and apartment walls, the rain—became newly present and redefined, limned in leaping light, reassuring and yet remade. Delight and daydreams whirled through his heart. If this were real, if those words were real—if this all could be real—
It couldn’t be. Could it?
“Here,” Sterling said, and reached out and took his hand before he could think to protest. “You want to hold it?”
The fire-marble bounced onto Dan’s palm. Twirled in place, then spun itself through his fingers, weightless and hot but not unbearably so.
Not a trick. Not a
n illusion. No wires or strings or hypnosis. Nothing that he could think of to explain this: himself holding impish flame.
“Ow,” Sterling said, and the light went out. “Okay, I’m not actually feeling great, sorry. Normally I’m more impressive.” His tone tried for flirtatious; his face was pale, though. “Let’s agree to never tell my mother I let things get this bad, and I’ll owe you a favor? Probably more than one.”
Dan breathed, gazing at him, an echo and a wonder, “Who are you?”
Sterling gave him a crooked smile, a tiny wave, a dismissal of power: as if conjuring light into existence could be ordinary, everyday, unremarkable. “Sterling Friday. My mom’s the East Coast Family Head, which for the record is a stupid title because half the coven isn’t even related, they just like the metaphor and pretending we’re a big, well, family. Technically I’m supposed to be fixing your building. Which is only my third-ever assignment. Don’t worry, though, I am good at what I do. Despite current appearances.”
“Sterling…Friday?”
“That’s your first question? I knew I liked you. Yes, it’s my real name, and no, I don’t mind giving it to you. The family name part’s gone through a few translations over the centuries—don’t look at me like that, I’m only twenty-three, that’s years not centuries, and I’m as human as you are. Anyway your last name is either a verb or a flower, so no commentary, thanks.”
“You’re a witch. You’re a real—you’re really a—you’re magic.”
“Mostly I’m clairvoyant. I did say. Mom and Verity—my older sister, you’d like her, she worries about as much as you do—got most of the flashy physical power. I’m only me.” Sterling put a hand out, touched the jar of rosemary. His fingers shook, this time. “Do you mind if I take care of things here? I was going to do this back at my place but I kind of don’t feel like getting up.”
“Did that hurt you? You didn’t have to hurt yourself just to prove to me that you’re…magical.” He’d said it aloud. Audible. “Is there anything I can do?” He moved to join Sterling on the sofa; he put a hand out without thinking and found Sterling’s fingers, a thin wrist, a pulse that fluttered too fast under delicate skin. The memory of shared fire kissed his fingertips, made him bolder, enchanted. “What can I do? To help.”
