Crystal Fire

by Jordan Dane

  Caila. He let his mind picture her face, the girl who’d been taken with him, by the Believers. He sensed her and knew they still had her. As long as the Believers had the girl, they had him. She was the only thing that kept him alive and struggling for every breath.

  Caila.

  Oliver imagined whispering her name in the dark and pretended to hear his voice doing it. Her name stirred something in him. Something real, something he could truly feel. He remembered her hesitant smile and the way her ice-blue eyes lit up when she looked at him. She’d planted a piece of her in him like a precious seed. Caila had branded him, using her gift. It’d been the only thing she could do before the Believers separated them. He had plenty of time to remember what happened.

  The night they were taken, they’d been trapped in that dark alley outside the warehouse, surrounded by armed men who moved with the precision of a SWAT team. Some of the details were fuzzy, but the girl’s face remained sharp in his mind. He remembered everything about her, and when he’d lost all hope for their escape, Caila took away his fear. She wrapped him in her arms and kissed him. That kiss shocked him, but something powerful overcame his panic. She made him forget the danger. For that split second all he saw—all he felt—was her. A fragile part of her, trapped in that frightening and intense moment, had stayed with him.

  Now the seed of Caila’s memory had sprouted even more and deepened its roots in him when he needed her most. He wanted to be with her and pulled every memory he had of her to trigger his senses. When he felt her as if she were with him, a change began. A tremor started deep in his brain—the source of his power—an excruciating, glorious pain. A dim light in the distance pierced the darkness. It stabbed his eyes and blinded him. His head ached from the false light.

  Like dust adrift on the wind, his body splintered into countless tortured pieces. He welcomed the agony, as he would’ve welcomed death.

  Oliver lifted from the weight of his body and became free of its pain. Still tethered, he hovered over his empty shell and looked down at it. What he saw shocked him. Only his lips and chin showed. Beads of sweat covered what little skin he saw. His lungs gasped for air and his muscles fought the restraints that held down his arms and legs. He couldn’t feel any of that. Nothing.

  He was strapped to a weird lighted table in a dark room. Parts of his body were covered by a slick black material that adhered to his skin as if it were painted on, hooked to tubes that drained and fed him. Machines in the room tracked his vitals and scanned the colors of his brain activity.

  He didn’t look or feel human. Not anymore.

  But after his initial shock—of seeing his failing body—he realized Dr. Fiona had given him a gift. She’d freed him and forced him to leave his body. He felt stronger. She’d turned him into something far greater than he ever thought he could be. Oliver didn’t think about what he looked like now and he didn’t care. He only focused on one thing.

  Caila.

  This time when he thought of the girl, he felt her inside him and knew where to find her.

  Haven Hills Treatment Facility

  Ward 8

  After midnight

  Caila Ferrie sat in a corner, locked in a darkened cell. With her head down, she let her dark hair fall over her face as she wrapped her arms across her chest. Nothing warmed her, and every echo outside her door made her skin crawl. Soft footsteps and the hushed murmur of voices kept her edgy. She thought they’d take her again. People in white uniforms came for her, day or night, giving her tests and taking blood. They never explained what they did or answered any of her questions. They took, and gave nothing in return.

  Ever since they had separated her from Oliver, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. What were they doing to him?

  She rocked against the wall until her shoulders and spine felt bruised. Through the shadows of her mind, Oliver’s mesmerizing green eyes consumed her. She’d brought this on him. The Believers had come for her, something she’d instinctively felt after Zack went missing.

  That kiss. She’d betrayed Oliver with a kiss. She could blame her gift, but what would be the point? She was the carrier, the one who had done it to Zack and now Oliver. What she’d done to them hadn’t been the first time.

  After her parents divorced, that’s when her troubles got worse. She remembered countless hours alone and she got shipped between her mother and father as if she were a punishment. Her mother remarried a drunk and her sperm donor was a verbally abusive man who reinvented his life by living with women who had kids. Being a stupid kid, she got attached to her new pretend family until her father found a way to crush her hopes of normal. Overnight he’d force them to leave and never tell her so she could say goodbye. When she cried over losing a sister named Ashley she adored, words she’d heard her father say came back to her in a rush. “Shut up and quit your crying. Shit happens.” She’d given up any hope of having a real family. It hurt too much.

  After she lost Ashley, she quit trying.

  When the isolation got to her, her gift took over in subtle ways and in measured pieces that she never saw coming. Little by little she stole memories from other people—normal memories, better ones, to smother those in her real life on days when she felt bad. Her mind filled with faces and smells and the homes of others until those images and sensations replaced her pathetic life. It didn’t take long for everything to get mixed up in her head.

  She used to keep a diary to remember stuff, until she simply stopped writing it down. After she gave up fighting it, she lost track of what had been real and eventually she forgot where home was. Even if she wanted to, she didn’t know how to get back or who she’d be going back for.

  Ashley was gone now.

  That’s when Caila’s survival instincts kicked in and she hit the road to search for a place where no one would judge her secret life. She couldn’t imagine a future where her happiness depended on people who only hurt her. For a girl with nothing to lose, anywhere else would be better than where she’d been, but now she’d brought her troubles to Oliver.

  Oliver. Forgive me.

  When she called to him and didn’t feel him, Caila jumped to her feet. She ran for the small mattress in her cell and curled under the blankets and covered her head. Her skin prickled and sent chills over her body. It felt as if tiny spiders crawled over her. Big spiders she could tolerate, but something about the little ones terrified her. She couldn’t stop rocking and her whole body shook.

  But when the small room lit up, she saw the light through the covers and she felt the weight of a presence in the small space. She held her breath and stopped rocking. She didn’t dare move. She couldn’t remember hearing the cell door open. How did they get inside? When no one grabbed her, Caila pulled the covers from her head and peered out from under the blanket.

  Her eyes grew wide when she saw Oliver. He looked dead. No, it can’t be. She’d had this nightmare before. He’d come to her in her dreams, bloodied and mutilated, but this time he looked real. Caila couldn’t believe what she saw.

  “Oh my God. What—?” She couldn’t finish.

  Oliver had come to her. At least she thought it was him. He wore the same thing she remembered from the first time they’d met through Zack. Oliver stood tall in worn jeans and an unbuttoned chambray shirt that left his chest and stomach exposed. She had a memory that she’d picked out that shirt for him from a donations bin, but she didn’t know if that was real or something she’d done with Zack. When Oliver cocked his head, his long hair fell over his eyes, the way Zack’s used to do. She wanted to brush it from his face as an excuse to touch him.

  But something was different about Oliver.

  His hair, dark as a raven’s wing, shone in blue shimmer as if moonlight dusted its magic over him. The light came from inside him. It pulsed and felt warm against her skin. Seeing the strange unnatural glow wedged her throat tight. Until he sm
iled a fragile shy grin and she realized it was really him. She wanted to run to him, but a horrifying thought stopped her.

  “Are you...dead?” Her voice cracked.

  Oliver didn’t answer her. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The effort looked as if it pained him. Caila trembled and her eyes burned from the tears she held back as she stared at Oliver. His gentle blue light shone and lit the shadows of her room. My fault. This is all on me, she thought. When he took a step toward her, she flinched. Caila couldn’t hide her fear of him, and from the expression on his face, that hurt Oliver.

  “I don’t understand. How can you be here with me...like this? How did you get in here?” She didn’t expect him to answer, but before he tried, she had a desperate urge to ask, “Can I touch you?”

  She didn’t wait. When she stood and reached for him, her fingers drifted through his body, yet she felt something odd. She felt the sucking pull of gel, as if he were almost solid, and her small hand left an impression on his stomach like pressing into clay. When she looked up at him, to see if he felt her touch, she got her answer. He shook his head and a tear trailed down his cheek.

  He felt nothing.

  “What have they done to you?” she asked.

  What have I done?

  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t hide the shock on her face. He pulled away from her—looking hurt and alone—before he vanished into a swirl of mist that lingered. Caila rushed to where he’d stood and breathed in his vapor and felt his chill on her skin like a winter fog.

  She didn’t know if Oliver was alive or dead...or something else.

  “No, please...” she cried, with her arms clutched around her as she crumpled to the floor “...don’t leave me.”

  3

  Stewart Estate

  Bristol Mountains—east of L.A.

  Next morning

  Rayne Darby had on her lucky stuff, a black Guns N’ Roses “Sweet Child O’ Mine” T-shirt with her favorite jeans that were shredded on the thighs and her dark brown café racer motorcycle boots. Both wrists were laced with leather, and beads coiled around them. She wanted to kick ass today in her best gear. If her parents had been alive and knew she planned on declaring war on a church, they would have totally grounded her.

  A spotlight shone down on her as she stood in the cool darkness of a large room and stared at a man’s lighted silhouette twenty-five yards away. The tiny details of his face didn’t matter to her. Only one guy haunted her mind whenever she held a gun in her hands, like now.

  The Stewart Estate had a firing range located in its basement, along with other rooms Gabriel and his uncle Reginald had dedicated for training. The Stewarts came from a long line of Indigos. The family had taken every opportunity to hone their abilities because they knew they’d need every protection possible. The others had powers that made weapons unnecessary. Rayne was the only one who clocked time at the firing range. At first Gabe had resisted the idea of her with a gun, but when she told him that he might not always be around to be her white knight in blue flames, he reluctantly agreed to lend her a handgun and show her how to use it.

  She’d come alone to practice with a Glock 21, but Gabe’s ghost dog Hellboy had followed her. She welcomed the company, but the dog must have sensed her jittery mood and paced the floor behind her, whining.

  “Settle down, boy. I can’t kill you, remember? I’m the only one in danger here. I could shoot my eye out.”

  Guns made her nervous. She had to get over that. Not long ago, she’d pointed a gun at Boelens, a cruel man who hunted kids for the Believers. He’d made fun of her for not knowing about the gun’s safety. She was determined that wouldn’t happen a second time. If she ever had that man in her sights again, she’d know which end to point and how to wipe the smirk off his face.

  Staring at the paper target of a man’s silhouette, she imagined facing someone who could shoot back. She got the cold sweats every time she pictured standing in front of Boelens again. With her eyes on the target, she slipped on her protective goggles, but before she donned her ear muffs, a low voice with a faint British accent sent shivers down her arms.

  “You look quite fetching in those goggles.”

  When she turned to see Gabriel standing on the edge of the spotlight, she smiled and put down her weapon.

  “That’s something a girl doesn’t hear every day.”

  He walked up and pressed his warm body against her back. He fit in all the right places as if he’d been made for her. Rayne couldn’t help it. She stifled a gasp when he ran fingers through her hair and she felt his breath on her skin.

  “Protection is important,” he whispered in his sexy British accent as he nuzzled and kissed her neck.

  “Are you here to give me a...lesson?” She leaned back against his chest and let him wrap his arms around her.

  “You need one?” He put his lips next to her ear. “Anything you want, I’m your guy.”

  Rayne heard the smile in his voice. She fought a grin too.

  “Give me the rundown one more time and do it slow. I want to remember everything.”

  It would have been easy to stick with the flirty teasers and kiss Gabriel all afternoon, but he took weapons seriously and she did too. Too much was at stake and she hadn’t forgotten the reason she wanted to practice. After Gabe pulled away, he stayed at her back and spoke in her ear as she stared at the target, the second object of her growing obsession.

  “You must do one very important thing before you ever pick up a gun,” he told her.

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “Read the manual. Not everything comes with instructions, but firearms do. Take advantage of that.”

  After she moaned and flashed back to high school, she said, “Okay, I got a homework assignment. What comes next?”

  “Find a suitable target, preferably very bad men. Not me,” he said. “And don’t fire at Hellboy. You’ll only piss him off.”

  “I’d never shoot your dog.” Rayne winced. “Not on purpose.”

  “Ah...your confident assurance makes me feel much better, but my four-legged friend is another matter.”

  When she looked down at Hellboy, the phantom dog cocked his head and perked a blue shimmering ear.

  “I swear he understands every word you say.” She smiled.

  “Funny. He never listened when he was alive. Being dead has improved his disposition.”

  “Okay, don’t shoot dead dogs. Got it. What’s next?”

  Gabriel went down the list, cautioning her to keep her finger outside the trigger guard unless she was ready to shoot. He had her practice holding the gun until she felt more comfortable and watched her rack the slide to load the chamber.

  “Spread your feet, shoulder width.” He moved his fingers along her arms as she aimed and repeated what he’d told her, about where to place her feet, knees and elbows.

  “Firm grip and lean forward a bit,” he said. “Now align the front sight with the rear one and aim for center mass. No fancy head shots, Annie Oakley. When you’re ready, take a deep breath and let it out before you squeeze the trigger.”

  Gabe slipped her earmuffs over her head and put on his own gear before he stepped out of the way. When he gave her the thumbs-up, she took her deep breath and aimed her Glock.

  Rayne squeezed the trigger and blasted the target. This time she didn’t close her eyes.

  Stewart Estate

  Afternoon

  That’s it! You’re there. Don’t stop.

  Lucas Darby kept his eyes shut and strained to hold on as he listened to the voice in his head. His body shook as if every fiber of his being were about to shatter like a frag grenade.

  I can’t do this, he argued.

  Yes, you can.

  He stood alone in a training room belowground on the es
tate. When the acoustic tiles on the ceiling and red carpet under his feet shifted, his stomach reacted to the unsettling vertigo. In seconds everything went black and he didn’t feel the floor under his feet. Streaks of white bombarded him like blowing snow, but each particle made noise. Shrieks and whispers echoed by him as if he were speeding past.

  His outstretched arms ached as his mind raced through the blur of entities too countless to truly feel. He didn’t know if the minefield of souls was dead or alive. The act of sifting through them felt like drowning. They squeezed in on him and smothered him with their maddening need to link to him.

  He sensed the spirits of the living and the dead, both human and animal. They pinged off him as light would reflect across countless mirrors, building speed. Everything came fast and nothing made sense. His strongest instinct was to protect himself, as if he were under attack.

  Not ready. I can’t breathe.

  Hold on! You’re almost...

  Lucas stopped listening. He couldn’t slow down and he couldn’t stop the pain. Heat burned in his belly and burst through his arms and legs, detonating him into splinters of hurt. He hated it. He should have been in control, but every second felt as if he’d been free-falling through hell. An outsider had crawled into his skin and wore it. That stranger, who punished his body from the inside out, was Gabriel Stewart.

  Hang on. Don’t...

  “Shit!”

  Lucas shut the voice off—shut down everything—and dropped to his knees. He couldn’t take it anymore and let go. The release hurt almost as much. His abrupt freedom sent agonizing waves of energy coursing through his body like the sudden stop of centrifugal force. He could breathe again, and everything slowed when his muscles released their tension, but the aching hollowness of his failure replaced the worst of it.