Fire and Flame

by Anya Breton

  His exclamation jogged loose a forgotten memory. Sara bolted upright in her seat. “The Rule of Succession.”

  Brent’s features crinkled as he shook his head. “Pardon?”

  Sara cast her gaze across the kitchen, into the dining room, and then toward the living room. Soon it snapped back to the driveway and the cars parked there, as if she could see Fintan’s kingdom in a single glance.

  “It’s all yours,” she choked out. “Everything here, it now belongs to you because you killed his killer.”

  Her pink bedroom. Her Lexus. Her every possession. They had all been gifts from her daddy and thus it all belonged to Brent. She could hardly hold herself upright.

  “There was an immediate living heir,” Brent reminded her. “This is all yours now.”

  Sara shook her head. That wasn’t how it worked, was it?

  “In any case, the reading of the will is this afternoon,” Brent explained far too calmly. “We’ll find out what Fintan wanted then.” After a beat he said, “I’m not very good at making breakfast. How about we get dressed and find someplace to get some eggs?”

  Woodenly she nodded because the Rule of Succession still concerned her. She’d always heard a witch’s killer was entitled to his or her empire. Would it have been different if she hadn’t lived with her father? Perhaps that was what the word “immediate” had meant.

  Sara would worry about it once the will had been read. Fintan would have noted how he wanted his empire to be handled after his passing. And Brent would surely respect the final wishes of his esteemed mentor. After all, it was the very least he could do for failing to keep her daddy alive.

  ****

  Brent had never particularly liked Fintan’s lawyer and Curt Hourig had made no bones about his dislike of Fintan’s protégé. So when Brent settled into the seat in front of the man’s desk, he couldn’t help but adjust the cufflinks on his crisp shirt.

  Sara had been quiet since the meeting in the kitchen. In fact, she’d been quiet since she’d shouted at him after he’d kissed her.

  She’d thought it had been a play for sex. And while it had been, it hadn’t been what she thought. Brent didn’t want her to do her duty with him—he didn’t want one instance of intercourse when she was at her most fertile. He wanted her. And once he had her, he didn’t intend to give her up.

  Brent cast a look to his right where she’d settled herself into Curt’s second leather chair. She looked beautifully dour in her black chiffon dress with its satin trim. It draped just so over the inviting curve of her knee, a knee he’d like to set his fingers to before he slipped them beneath the hem… He made himself look away because they had an audience.

  The others named in the will sat in the chairs lining the outer edges of the room. The back portion of the large office was standing room only. Fintan had been generous.

  Curt silently counted the attendees then checked the clock on his mantel, making sure he began at precisely two on the dot. He lifted a skeleton key from his thick ring as he stood. Curt approached the giant maple chest against the wall behind his desk. After a twist in the old lock and the creak of the heavy cover, he drew out a piece of folded parchment with a wax seal holding it closed. It was an old styled will for a priest who straddled the line between the old ways and the new.

  Curt returned to his desk after securely locking his chest. He held up the folded paper for all to see. The McKenna family crest was embossed in the crimson wax above the familiar signature of Fintan McKenna. All those gathered could clearly see the will hadn’t been tampered with since the high priest himself had scrawled his name. Once satisfied everyone had seen the unaltered state of the document, Curt cracked the wax seal, and then pushed his silver glasses over his nose.

  As with every other Fire witch last will and testament Brent had heard, Fintan had begun with the smallest of bits, working upwards. They heard of the thousand dollars he’d left for this charitable act and that. The plot of land he’d bequeathed to the Earth witches of Carmel. A business of which Fintan had been partnered in that was given over to the sole remaining partner. And the boat on the Pacific was given to a Water witch friend of long ago. Curt began reading the larger sums of money—shares, bonds and property that had been willed to his covens in the river valley. This would go on all afternoon.

  “‘And finally, I ask that you send everyone but the final two away to hear the remainder of my will’,” the lawyer relayed. “‘If they are still with us, I ask that only my beloved daughter, Sara Vesta McKenna, and my most trusted confidant, Brenton Titus Conley, remain to hear my final wishes.’”

  Curt lifted his gaze to the others. “Leave your name and contact information with my secretary as you leave and we will arrange to send you your portion of the inheritance.”

  Brent clasped his hands tightly in his lap as the others left. He wasn’t sure what to think of Fintan writing him into his last will and testament. Or about the strange request that Brent remain while Sara’s portion was read.

  Worry churned in his gut. Had the high priest written that Brent was to vacate McKenna House at once? Fintan’s premature death meant Brent had failed as an assistant. It would serve him right.

  Though he’d amassed considerable savings, Brent didn’t want to be forced out onto the streets with no notice. Sara would put him out the first chance she got. Especially after that kiss. She’d want to be rid of him even though there was plenty of other Ena offspring left to attack her.

  Curt took up the paper once more, fixing his glasses atop his straight nose again. “‘To my beloved daughter, I will two thirds of my remaining assets so she may realize her true potential in whatever fashion she sees fit. I also leave the home we made together to her.’”

  Brent’s neck heated as his fears began to take form in words.

  The lawyer went on with an unexpected caveat, “‘On the understanding that she will continue to provide a home for the son of my soul, Brenton Conley.’”

  He wasn’t the only individual in the room staring at the lawyer as if he’d burst into blue flame.

  “‘To my closest confidant, I will one third of my remaining assets.’” Curt paused, clearing his throat with a noisy rasp. “‘With the qualifier that Brenton Conley will personally see to my beloved daughter’s duty.’”

  Sara’s reaction was a sharp inhalation of breath while Brent’s had escaped his lungs in a shocked gush.

  “‘Let it be known that neither party will receive their inheritance until the deed is done, a Healer has given testimony that a child grows, and both parties have sworn under honored oath that my final wish has been carried out. If my wishes aren’t heeded within two months, the inheritance passes to my nieces and nephews as stated in my addendum.’”

  Brent’s neck heated for a far different reason. It flared hotter when Sara shot up from the chair, jabbing an angry finger at him.

  “You did this!” She growled the words deep within her lovely elongated throat. “You persuaded him to write this nonsense into his will!”

  “I didn’t,” Brent exclaimed as the blood rose in his face. “I never wanted to be the one!”

  Her mouth dropped wide even as hurt filled her blue eyes. Brent spread his lips for the explanation that he’d never wanted to be the one, but that he wanted to be The One. The words froze in his throat.

  Sara’s golden lashes fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings as he mutely worked out what to say to fix this. She inhaled the ragged breath he’d heard her make at Fintan’s funeral.

  The sound tore at his heart. Brent held out a hand to her.

  “Stay away from me,” she hissed.

  Helplessly he watched her dash out of the lawyer’s office.

  Chapter Ten

  If she’d ever been this furious in her life, Sara could not recall it. She’d always known Brent was a bully but he’d gone too far this time. And that Daddy had gone along with it…

  No. She couldn’t think about it.

  She rushed out t
he door, barreling through the witches who had lingered. No doubt they were still here to gossip about what had gone on behind closed doors.

  “Watch it,” a sharp female voice snarled to her left.

  She pinned a glare on the source. Dimpled-cheeked and glossy-haired Vanessa Aine was ready with a glare right back. The brunette hoyden had dressed for a movie premier rather than the somber occasion it was. Her olive dress was sleeveless, short, and had a zipper that travelled in an inviting way around and down the garment. Vanessa was beautiful by all standards with her perfectly dainty little nose, swooping crimson lips, and wide bronze eyes. Sara had always disliked her and it was only partially because the girl two years her senior was bitchy.

  “Sara.”

  She tore her glare from the female and fixed it on the male that had emerged from the office. With a wavy forehead and crinkled eyebrows, Brent had never looked more beseeching. She could almost believe he was innocent of any wrongdoing.

  Sara swung away from him before she could fall prey to his seeming remorse. She searched out a kind face in those who hovered around the law office’s doors in the warmth of the spring sun. None of her friends had stayed for support. It shouldn’t have surprised her after the way they’d treated her with begrudging shows of feigned sympathy at the funeral. But it did.

  In a small group to the right, she found what she’d been looking for. The only truly sympathetic face belonged to one of her father’s old friends, a woman who may or may not have been his lover at one point. Without needing to be asked, Jess Ignacia took Sara’s hand in hers and led her to a nearby sedan.

  “Sara, wait,” Brent called after them.

  Though they were all technically subservient to Brent now, Jess didn’t stop. She made quick work of unlocking the doors and even putting the car in drive. Seconds later they pulled out of the parking lot. Brent grew tinier in the side mirror by the breath.

  Jess—a stately woman with burnished copper hair that was beginning to gray, eyes the color of a fresh lime, and flawless alabaster skin—made no mention of the scene they’d recently fled. Instead, she offered silent solace and a single squeeze of her hand. It was what Sara needed. For a while.

  Jess drove around the city until she reached a small bistro with plenty of outdoor tables. Sara decided she could eat. It was certainly preferable to going home.

  Her teeth clenched tightly when she thought of home. Words tumbled from her mouth as they sat around a small round metal table beneath a broad navy canvas umbrella. “He willed the house to me on the condition that I let Brent continue living there.”

  Jess kept her expression placid while she sipped her iced tea. She nodded as if she weren’t surprised to hear the news.

  “And he willed two thirds of his assets to me,” Sara continued. “The other third goes to Brent.” Sara inhaled a slow, furious breath that lifted her temperature. “But neither of us gets any of it unless I do my duty…with Brent.”

  The older woman’s finely shaped eyebrows lifted slightly. She set her iced tea aside with a thoughtful motion. After a moment of silence, she asked, “That was a stipulation written into the will?”

  Sara gave a slow nod.

  Jess’s gaze scanned over Sara’s face. Her lips parted but she didn’t speak.

  “Brent made him do it,” Sara declared when her friend remained silent.

  The woman’s head cocked to the left. “He admitted this?”

  “Of course not. He’s not stupid.”

  Jess spoke at a cautious speed. “Fintan wasn’t easily influenced.”

  “Fintan didn’t call everyone the ‘son of his soul’,” Sara replied sourly.

  “He called Brent that?”

  “Yes. In the will. The son of his soul. His most trusted confidant.”

  Sara didn’t realize how tightly she’d clenched her arms until Jess’s gaze dropped to where they dug into Sara’s chest. It was difficult to ease her pose while she was still furious.

  “If Fintan’s will called Brenton these things, then there are only two possible explanations,” Jess said in her calm way. “Either the will wasn’t written by Fintan. Or Fintan truly respected and cared for Brenton.” After a thoughtful pause, Jess continued, “We all saw Curt open the will. It was locked away. And that was Fintan’s signature. I’ve seen it many times.”

  Sara had as well. And it had looked like her father’s handwriting. As had the scrawl on the interior of the document. Fintan hadn’t simply dictated the will. He’d personally hand-written it in ink on fine parchment.

  She had to admit her daddy had respected and cared for Brent.

  Sara slammed her back against the metal bistro seat. “But by respecting and caring for Brent did he have to disrespect me?”

  Jess’s lips softened into a small smile. “I am sure Fintan did what he thought was best for all. He always did.”

  Yes. He always had.

  But not this time.

  ****

  Seven o’clock was too early to go home but Sara had run out of things to do without buying twice as many shoes as she already had. Though she had savings, it wouldn’t keep her long if she didn’t get any more money from her father’s estate and she was also forced to delay her career. Especially not if she continued buying designer shoes. Limited Sunday hours certainly helped with the money issue.

  And so at a few minutes past seven, her cab pulled up to the driveway of the two-story ice gray house with maroon shutters that had featured daily in her childhood. An unfamiliar hybrid was parked behind Sara’s Lexus. Perhaps one of her father’s acquaintances had stopped by to extend their condolences. Could she get away with only speaking to them for a few moments?

  Usually shopping was the cure for whatever ailed her. But after hitting the fashion mall as well as two others, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach had only increased. It was time to go inside and face whatever Brent had to say to her.

  She handed the fare plus a tip over to the waiting cab driver and then gathered her bags. Lethargically she made her way up to the side door that would enter the kitchen. The scent of food—beef to be specific—tickled her nose as she neared the wooden deck steps.

  Brent was visible through the side door’s glass window, resting lazily on his forearms at the kitchen island. The new priest’s attention was fixed on the female sautéing food in a pan on the stove. The female turned, revealing that none other than brunette hoyden Vanessa Aine was messing up her sauté pan. Sara drew in a long, angry breath through her nose.

  A smug smile spread across Vanessa’s mouth when she caught sight of Sara outside. She leaned forward in a move that displayed far too much of the breasts within her low collared dress. Brent took his fill of looking.

  It was the final straw. Sara burst through the door, attempting to breeze past them as if she hadn’t a care in the world. But she was far too angry to succeed. One of her shoe purchases smacked Brent. He grunted even as he scrambled up guiltily.

  “Sara,” he called after her exactly as he’d done outside the lawyer’s office. “We need to talk.”

  “Can’t talk.” Her voice echoed in the stairwell. Sara winced at the roughness she heard in the echo. “I’ve got to get ready to go out.”

  “You were just out.”

  She’d started this lie. She had no choice but to see it through. Attempting a flippant tone, she said, “No, I was gathering supplies to go out. Now I’m preparing to go out.” Sara bit down on the urge to snarl that he should go back to the bitch in the kitchen.

  Brent, however, was not one to control his urges. He snarled every bit as sourly as she’d tried to avoid. “Your father not in the ground two days and you’re already gallivanting around the city?”

  She faced him with a shaky swivel. Her loot was a satisfying barrier between them. But Brent ignored the bags—his piercing gaze fixed on her face as though nothing could shield her.

  “Daddy would have wanted me to be happy.” Sara inhaled a shaking breath upon recalling his f
inal wish. Whirling back around, she ground out, “Final wish aside.”

  And then she slammed the door to her pink bedroom in his face.

  Sara dropped her bags where she stood. Dramatically she threw herself on her full sized bed, shoving her face into her pillow. She didn’t want to cry but there was no avoiding it.

  An inheritance contingent upon Brent hadn’t been bad enough. No, Brent had to invite the foulest witch in the entire region over for dinner the very same night.

  As if he had any room to criticize her!

  She pressed the pillow tightly to her eyes. Sara didn’t want to remember that kiss—the amazing, mind-scrambling kiss. But she’d been unable to get it out of her head. Why did it have to come from him?

  There was only one way to forget about a kiss like that. Find someone who kissed better.

  ****

  The whole kissing replacement scheme had been a good idea in practice. However, in execution Sara found her heart simply wasn’t in it.

  She was in mourning.

  The backbone of her existence was gone. What would become of her life without her father? Fintan had played a role in all of her hopes and dreams. He’d encouraged her in everything from the smallest whim right on up to her grand vision. And even though she’d intended to move to New York, she’d always known she would spend holidays back home. Now holidays would be empty without her family.

  Sara stared out the Lexus’s windshield at the lights of downtown. The brief trip to her favorite sports bar had been uneventful. She’d ordered a single beer then sipped it in silence as she’d watched the highlights of the day’s games. Two guys had tried to talk to her. She’d ignored them.

  It was Sunday, far too late to call up her school friends. They all had careers and real jobs that would start early in the morning. If life had continued on her prescribed course, she would have joined their ranks in a few weeks. Now she hadn’t the first idea what would happen next week, let alone in a month.