Kings of the Fire Box Set

by Lily Cahill

  Joy sighed. “Me, too.”

  Arryn felt a wash of relief; he knew that his fight wasn’t his fault, and that no matter what, Natasha would have come for him and his brothers again. Still, Marta was trapped at his house, and he felt responsible. He didn’t want any more innocents caught in the cross fire.

  “I’ll fly in first,” Damien offered. He was the biggest of the four of them. “I’ll swoop in and try to draw her attention. Once I have it, you three start going to town on the shields around Arryn’s house. I’m talking as much firepower as possible. Meanwhile, Felicity will be on the ground, working with this witch’s magic to take it down piece by piece. She’ll get in and grab Marta, and then she’ll teleport the two of them out.”

  That sounded risky. Teleportation spells took a large amount of power, and Felicity had already done one today. Furthermore, she’d be expending even more energy protecting herself amidst the battle and working to take down whatever spells the witch had put up.

  “What will she do if she can’t teleport?” asked Arryn. Felicity gave him a sharp look. “No offense. But you’ll be doing a lot, and under a lot of stress, and I just want to make sure that Marta is safe.”

  “Marta is Arryn’s fated match,” Joy chimed in, very unhelpfully.

  Five pairs of surprised eyes turned toward Arryn, who refused to meet any of them, choosing instead to glare at Joy.

  Damien’s voice was soft. “Arryn, is that true?”

  “Yes,” he said. His voice sounded stilted to his own ears. “We have to save her.”

  “We will,” Vincent said. It was the first time he’d spoken since the meeting began, and just hearing his brother sound so steady, so sure, calmed Arryn’s nerves.

  Damien took a few steps toward the stairs that led back up to the rooftop. Blayze stood, bringing Ramona with him. As they reached for each other, Arryn looked away. It was too private a moment to intrude. On either side of him, Damien and Vincent were having similar moments. Arryn’s heart beat quickly in his chest. They would get to her in time. Marta was going to be fine.

  After all, he thought, it was them that this witch wanted, not Marta.

  Chapter Nine

  Marta

  MARTA AWOKE TO A STABBING pain behind her eyes, and she let out a groan before she thought better of it.

  “Welcome back,” said a strange, high voice from somewhere behind her.

  If Marta could have smacked herself without making her headache much, much worse, she would have. As it was, she took a deep breath and quickly thought over her options. It didn’t take long because she didn’t have many. She pushed herself up to her knees and turned to look at her captor, wincing at the tenderness she felt all over. She was probably covered in bruises.

  The owner of the voice wasn’t immediately noticeable. The world was fuzzy and out of focus, and Marta blinked her eyes several times, willing her vision to clear. As things came into place, she made out the features of the cabin. It was dark inside the living room—an unnatural kind of darkness. A cloaking spell, maybe?

  Marta felt out her own protections—they were all stripped away. She was completely vulnerable, and she didn’t have her wand.

  “There’s no point in running,” came the voice again.

  Part of Marta felt stupid for not even thinking of attempting it, but it was clear from the set-up that there wasn’t much point. She swallowed, her throat dry. It clicked audibly.

  “Okay,” she said, before going into a cough. “Can I have some water?”

  There was movement, then, ever so faintly on the far side of the room. Marta concentrated, squinting at the shape as it began to move and coalesce under her gaze. The witch moved closer and closer, growing more and more in focus as she did.

  She was—not who Marta would have expected. She was strange and cold, with dark hair and eyes, her complexion milky white. Her nose was large and a bit beaky, but there was still something striking about her. Her long black dress fell to the floor and completely covered her feet, and she was completely unadorned of jewelry except for a large emerald ring on her right hand.

  Natasha’s face was impassive, her features expressionless, but her eyes were sharp. Marta felt them upon her like the blade of a knife.

  The witch rolled her wrist and a glass of water appeared there. That kind of conjuring was not easy, and though she didn’t want to be, Marta was impressed. And afraid—if Natasha was capable of that kind of magic, she would not be so easy to beat.

  She handed it to Marta, who took a few greedy gulps. The cool liquid soothed her throat and helped her to get her head back on straight. Marta noted that her hands and feet weren’t tied. Natasha, whoever she was, was really not worried about Marta trying to run away.

  “I put up a barbed wire spell around this place. If you try to leave, it’ll cut you to ribbons.” Natasha took the empty glass from Marta’s hand and vanished it away. “But don’t worry. If you cooperate, I will make sure that it will be quick for you.”

  The words turned Marta’s stomach to stone. She resisted the urge to shudder.

  Her eyes darted around the room again—no sign of Arryn. He had probably made it out, then. That brought her some measure of comfort, at least. He was going to come to rescue her.

  Marta sighed but said nothing. The witch quirked an eyebrow.

  “Not so talkative, then?”

  “You’re Natasha, then? The witch that threatened Joy and Vincent at the wedding?” Marta asked. There was a shift in the mood of the room as she felt Natasha’s anger flare. It felt dark and molten, and it made Marta want to flinch away. She’d never felt that kind of hatred before.

  The witch frowned. “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

  “Natasha, if you let me go, I am positive that the Dragomirs and the Valdez will be much kinder to you for it. They are not your enemies.”

  Natasha leveled a glare at Marta, her face a near-perfect mask. The only thing that gave her away was the way her nostrils flared.

  “You know nothing of my enemies,” she said, her voice full of deadly assurance. Hearing it made something inside of Marta quiver, but she refused to let it show on her face. Still, from the smirk that curled Natasha’s lip, she was aware of it, anyway. She added, “Or, well, I guess you know a bit about one of them. I heard it all, actually. Fun, was it?”

  Marta could feel herself going beet red. There was no sense in being ashamed—she wasn’t ashamed! In fact, she rather resented Natasha making her feel like she ought to be.

  “Maybe you would not be such a bitch if you had a little bit more of that kind of fun,” she spat. She got to enjoy the look of outrage on Natasha’s face for all of a second, and then a lashing pain hit her cheek. She put her palm there, anger bubbling inside of her when her hand came away covered in blood.

  “I am not scared of you,” she said, and it was mostly true.

  Natasha’s grin was a crooked, unholy thing. “You ought to be.”

  The whole room suddenly turned a strange red. Marta blinked rapidly as everything went back to normal, then to red again—an alarm? Triumph poured off of Natasha, so it seemed the answer was yes. All of Marta’s muscles seized up, and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly.

  Someone had tripped up some sort of ward. Someone was there. Possibly several someones, all of them very magically gifted and very much in danger because of Marta.

  Natasha held out a palm in Marta’s direction, and all of a sudden every inch of her was locked in place. Marta couldn’t speak, couldn’t blink, couldn’t twitch. It was if someone had cast her in stone. She fought against the bonds holding her rigid, but none of her struggling even resulted in the slightest bit of movement.

  If only she had her wand—or better yet, if she didn’t need a way to funnel her magic, like Felicity. Felicity was the only witch she’d ever met who didn’t need a conduit—before that, Marta hadn’t actually been convinced that any witches like that existed outside of rumors and fairy tales. Every witch she’d eve
r known had had a wand, or a familiar, or—

  Or a ring. The ring on Natasha’s finger—it was probably the way she channeled her magic! If Marta could get it away from her, or find a way to destroy it…

  If only she wasn’t trapped and completely immobile.

  Suddenly, Natasha cut a wide arc with her hand, and the roof to the cabin broke away from its walls. The sound of crunching, grating wood was terrible, and Marta could not even wince.

  The roof lifted away, and then tipped over on itself, falling uselessly into the front lawn.

  Above them was a dragon.

  He was large and silver, his scales gleaming in the sunlight, making him so dazzling to look at that Marta wished she could shield her eyes. She had never seen any of the brothers in their shifter forms except for Arryn, who was green. Part of Marta wondered if she ought to feel disappointed that he had not come for her, but the truth was, all she felt was relief. He was safer, far away from this mess. He had told her himself that he didn’t like using his dragon form; he was not the least practiced of all the brothers, and she didn’t want him in a fight against a powerful witch.

  There was something about the silver dragon—even though she had never seen him like this before, Marta felt it in her bones that this was Damien.

  Suddenly, Natasha was there, just beside her. There was a cool hand against her head. The touch quickly went from light to gouging, as Natasha’s long, thin fingers dug into her skull, her fingernails putting impressions in the skin there.

  When Natasha spoke, her voice was a hundred times louder than it had been before.

  “Is this what you seek? This insignificant witch?” It seemed impossible, but Natasha’s grip tightened. “If you or your brothers or that Valdez girl—yes, I can sense her here, lurking—try to attack me, I will kill your precious nurse.”

  Damien’s hulking form gently began to settle down, going toward the ground. Natasha did another wave of her hand and the outer walls fell away, the inner ones crumbling. The floorboards beneath Marta’s knees cracked and split.

  Anger burned inside of Marta, and she struggled again. Arryn had worked so hard, and she was casually destroying everything, and for what?

  Because the house was now nothing more than furniture scattered across an open lawn, Marta could see Damien, settled on the grass in his dragon form. She could also see Felicity, coming out of the nearby woods to stand at his side, and—Marta felt her heart skip a beat—the other three Dragomir brothers, landing in quick succession behind their brother.

  Arryn was there, and she was paralyzed, useless. What if he needed her?

  Felicity spoke now, her voice just as loud and clear. “Let Marta Petrenko go. She is innocent, and she does not deserve your wrath.”

  Natasha snorted. “Innocent, is she? Is she not the fated match for that piece of scum?” She pointed at Arryn, her voice quaking with emotion. “She is one of you.”

  Marta had to admire the coolness with which Felicity regarded this woman, this threat. She did not blink, did not shy away. Maybe she had initially been reluctant to lead, but she was clearly born to do it. She did not run because something was hard.

  Well, now Marta didn’t, either. Arryn had taught her that. If only she could get out of this binding spell and prove it…

  “Marta has done you no harm. Neither have I, nor has my sister or any of the Dragomir brothers. Tell me, what is it you seek to accomplish with this?”

  Natasha muttered a few words under her breath, and Marta’s blood turned to fire in her veins. It coursed inside of her, horrible and hot, scorching her from the inside out. She felt like she was boiling alive. Screams licked at her vocal chords, but she couldn’t find the strength to break the spell and let them out.

  The pressure on her skull suddenly ceased, as did the pain—for the most part, at least. There were aftershocks inside of her that made her want to cry. It was like scraping a raw nerve. Everything was sensitive, everything hurt.

  The spell that kept her still suddenly lifted, and Marta couldn’t help it. She collapsed into a heap on the broken floorboards. Tears sprang to her eyes unbidden, and she let them slip out. She was suddenly so tired.

  Arryn’s distinctly human voice came through the pain. His wrath was thick in the air around her. Even with everything happen, with the high emotions coming from every person, she felt him distinctly. “What are you doing to her? I’ll kill you, you—“

  The fear made Marta’s adrenaline spike, and she found the strength to shake her head. “No, Arryn! What are you—“

  Felicity held out a hand, casting a shield over Arryn just as Natasha sent a nasty spell his direction. It bounced off the shield, traveling back into the ether.

  He looked glorious, gleaming in the sunlight, his skin flushed red with anger. Felicity snapped her fingers and he was wearing something heavy—it looked like some kind of armor. Not silver and out of the middle ages, but something form fitting and protective.

  Natasha placed her hand back on Marta’s head, and although she applied no pressure, Marta flinched.

  “So, the youngest dragon wants to test his fire against me?” She laughed, but it was completely devoid of mirth. “I wonder how my brother felt when he died in the protests before the coup. Protests against your parents’ corrupt rule. I wonder how my lover felt when he joined the great beyond only to find that his murderer was walking free because he was related to a crooked city councilman, who was assured his seat because your father,” she pointed at Felicity, “bought it for him.

  I am one of thousands. Kill me and more will rise in my place. We will no longer stand by while our oppressors live happily at our expense—not now when both lines, one just as immoral as the other, have come together to rule.”

  Felicity nodded. “I am sorry you have suffered this way. I can’t say anything that will make it better, and I know that. I assure you that my goal is to get power away from the Valdez name and back in the hands of the people. All Others deserve their voices to be heard.”

  Natasha spat in Felicity’s direction. “More lies. You say what everyone wants to hear, but so does every politician. You are a duplicitous, lying bitch.”

  Arryn stepped forward, moving to stand beside Felicity. “What is it you want, then?”

  “You can have the girl back,” Natasha said, pointing at Marta. “If you promise me the right to rule.”

  Everything went dead silent. It felt as if no one breathed for several seconds.

  Felicity found her tongue first. She shook her head. “I cannot and will not promise you that.”

  “Then she dies.”

  Natasha snapped her fingers and then there was no more air, no more anything, just pain and choking and the surety that she would not survive this battle.

  Chapter Ten

  Arryn

  ARRYN WAS RUNNING BEFORE NATASHA had even finished her spell. His vision was a haze of red; he could not see past this woman, this evil, manipulative woman. He would tear her limb from limb with his teeth.

  He was only a few feet away when, suddenly, his feet would no longer move. He looked up, baring his teeth at the witch. One of her palms was outstretched toward him, the other was aimed at—Marta.

  She was crumpled on what remained of his floor. Her face was bright red, and he watched helplessly as she clawed at her throat, her eyes staring at him, panicked.

  There was strain on the witch’s face, beads of sweat popping out on her forehead. He pulled hard against the magic holding him in place, but she snarled and he felt them grow tighter. This may have been difficult for her, but she was clearly up for the challenge.

  Held in place, he looked over his shoulder at his brothers. Why wasn’t anyone helping him, or stopping this?

  They were all struggling against similar, invisible binding. Even Felicity was fighting them, her mouth forming the words of spell after spell.

  Marta’s hands were slowing, her movements becoming less frantic.

  Arryn’s, on the other
hand, were becoming exactly the opposite.

  “Wait! Let her go!”

  The witch narrowed her eyes at him, but did not remove the bonds. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I’ll let you have me, instead.”

  Marta took a gasp of breath, her chest heaving as she coughed. She writhed in place as she struggled to breathe.

  Arryn, however, could no move. And because his brother’s angry cries at him not to do this were still at the same distance, he assumed that they were unable to do much of anything, either.

  “You have twenty seconds to explain,” the witch said, “Before I choke her to death.”

  “Marta has done nothing wrong. Her only crime is that she met me. I am a dragon, I am one of those that is responsible for your brother’s death.”

  “Yes, but her death will hurt you more than yours will hurt you,” she quipped.

  “Maybe, but my death will hurt my brothers.”

  The witch blinked. Behind him, Arryn heard Damien yelling angrily about how this was not happening, Arryn, you’re not doing this.

  But he was. He would. To save Marta, he would.

  Across from him, just a few feet between them, the witch smiled. She dropped the hand she had had out in Marta’s direction. Arryn watched, relief flooding through him, as Marta got to her knees. She was okay, and she was going to be okay. He would make sure of it.

  “Please, Arryn, do not do this,” she pleaded.

  He kept his eyes on her. It wasn’t so bad, dying, since he knew she was the last thing he’d ever see. He tried to project all of his love to her, hoping that she could feel it.

  “She wants a dragon,” he said, voice steady. He felt strangely calm, despite everything. “I’m a dragon. I am done battling my nature.”

  Her face went pale, and her perfect mouth began to form his name, and then there was nothing but inky darkness all around him.

  Arryn opened his eyes, and blinked against the strange, over-brightness of the world. It settled soon enough, and he could see—everything, just as he’d left it. The witch was before him, her features frozen in anger, her pose rigid and unmoving. He glanced behind him to see that everyone else—everything else was the same. Nothing was moving or living—even the trees and the tall grasses were completely still, as if the entire world had been paused.