by Carmen Caine
Published by
Bento Box Books
Edited by
Louisa Stephens
Cover Art by
Lind
Copyright © 2017 Carmen Caine
Ebook Edition
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Dedication
To Naz, a true fireblood if I’ve ever seen one.
You add sparks to my life, little girl.
Smooch.
Table of Contents
The Touch of Fate
Rumblings of Things to Come
Emergence
Fallen One shows up
About the Author
Carmen’s Other Books
The Touch of Fate
“It’s a toilet, not a hot tub,” I scolded, looking down at the baby fire imps swirling around the toilet bowl. “It’s gross. Get out.”
The four-inch fire implings grinned back at me, all teeth and eyes, their tiny bodies little more than pencil-width wisps of black smoke. They’d been hankering to play in the toilet for weeks, but since fire imps and water—especially cold—don’t mix, they’d had to get creative. Cold water? Not a problem when you run a garden hose from the sink’s hot water tap into the toilet tank. And the fact it was, after all, water? Just seal yourself up in a plastic baggy. The implings peered up through the plastic of the bobbing sandwich bags floating in the toilet bowl, their mouths split into wide grins showcasing their many rows of teeth. As I stood there, clucking, one impling balanced on the handle jumped, causing the toilet to flush again and nearly to overflow.
“Out,” I repeated, struggling to maintain a stern face. It was hard, but after working with implings as long as I had, I was getting pretty good at it.
I zeroed in on the ringleader, by far my favorite impling of the lot: Olivia. With Richard Thaddeus Mavromoustafakis—an Elite Imp of the First Order—for a father, she was blessed with an extra helping of deviousness in that creative, devilish mastermind of hers. Obviously, the entire setup was her handiwork. She watched me slyly from one of the floating sandwich baggies, batting her long, smoky eyelashes in the way she always did when trying to get herself out of trouble.
“Not working this time, Olivia,” I said, batting my lashes right back at her. “The restaurant opens in an hour. Get moving.”
She stuck out her bottom lip. “But, Nazzzzzzz,” she complained, her squeaking voice coming out muffled through the plastic barrier between us.
I settled the matter by turning off the hot water and flushing the handle. As the toilet tank began filling up with the ice-cold variety once again, the implings abandoned the bowl, jumping over the toilet seat like lemmings. I grinned at the speed of the wet slaps of little feet skittering out of the bathroom stall.
Moving to the mirror, I surveyed my reflection and gathered my copper-tinted dark locks into a messy bun on the top of my head. A heart-shaped face, pert nose, and brown eyes sparkled back at me. Working with implings required a good sense of humor. Most imp instructors lasted less than a year on the job. Not me. I’d been at Edna’s Imp Haven for six years and counting—but then, I had my reasons.
To the outside world, the Imp Haven appeared only to be a tiny East Village underground Japanese eatery, replete with a traditional Chochin paper lantern hanging beside a bright red entrance door. Unbeknownst to the patrons, however, the entire New York City’s fire imp population lay behind the dining room’s red-curtained back door—in a massive complex of imp warrens and spelled protection rooms.
With a yawn, I gave my hair one last pat and stepping over a puddle of water, left the bathroom and headed down a narrow, wood-panelled hallway to the restaurant proper. Entering the eatery from the back, I ducked under the curtain and paused in the doorway to scan the place. All stood quiet. The restaurant wasn’t set to open for another hour. The smell of fish and soy sauce from the night before lingered in the air. The refrigerated display cases stood empty. Sushi chefs wearing their signature red bandanas would arrive soon to fill them with ice and slabs of raw tuna and salmon—but it was, of course, a charade. Yes, the public packed the place because the chefs could whip out a mean sushi roll, but they really weren’t sushi chefs at all. They were the frontline defense, skilled Charmed warlocks hired to protect Imp Haven by Edna, the eight-inch Godmother mobster of a fire imp that ran the place.
I eyed the high shelves that ringed the ceiling of the dining room, each stacked with rows of clay, tan-speckled, personalized sake bottles inscribed with names in black Sharpie. Little did the customers dining beneath them know the sake bottles had never held one drop of liquid, and if they were ever to peek inside, they’d see two large glowing eyes blinking back up at them, eyes belonging to an Imp Guard, the strongest and most agile of the fire imps—barring the Elites, of course.
“Time to get up,” I said, clapping my hands. “It’s a brand-new day.”
I picked up a long-handled lambswool cobweb duster, I walked around the room, running it over the sake bottles to wake up the occupants sleeping inside. The lids rattled in response and heavy-eyed imps slithered and slid out to stretch on the shelves. Here and there I heard a squeal as a waking Imp Guard booted out an impling who’d snuck into the bottle beside them. It was the daily routine. Implings weren’t allowed in the dining room because they were prone to pickpocketing the customers. What they lacked in size, they more than made up for in spunk. I counted the trouble-causers as the elder imps booted them from the shelves, sending them sailing to land with a little plopping sound onto the floor. Just a dozen today. Fewer than usual. That meant Olivia had drummed up another surprise for me. My lips split in a wicked grin. Bring it on, Olivia. Bring it on.
“Out of the dining room, and I mean now!” I barked, clapping my hands again to send them scurrying.
They snickered and giggled as they zipped off through the restaurant and into the back. A small flurry of movement near the refrigerated cases caught my eye, and I glanced over to see Olivia climbing a stack of bamboo steamers like a monkey.
I arched a brow. Just what did the scamp have up her sleeve now? “And that includes you, Miss Olivia. Move it.”
She glanced back at me, all smiles and long, smoky eyelashes, looking like anything but the Elite Imp I knew her to be. There weren’t many Charmed folk who believed in the existence of such imps, but I knew better. I’d been dealing with the special class for six years. Yes, they were capricious, but they were also incredibly powerful creatures, possessing a gamut of hidden powers that put most warlocks to shame.
Just how I’d gotten so close to these fabled creatures was a story all of its own, but it revolved around me being the family ‘dud’. I came from a long line of illustrious shifters, the Beauchenes, shifters of the majestic feline variety, mostly panthers and lions with a few tigers thrown in the mix. Misfires could appear in any shifter family tree, misfires as in children born without the ability to shift whatsoever. And our particular family line had never had a dud—until me.
My parents had been in denial at first. Shifters take their shape at the tender age of three, but certainly no later than five. So by my fourth birthday, they were really starting to worry. I couldn’t fail to notice the unfinished sentences and troubled expressions in their eyes, even as my mother
tried to assure herself and me each day saying, “With that fierce fighting spirit of yours, Naz, you’ll be a lioness!”
At puberty, they’d called it. I, Naz Beauchene, was the first, official family dud, and at the age of eighteen, I left Philly and moved to New York City, just wanting to get away from it all. So, while my siblings were out patrolling the clan borders, two as panthers and three as lions, I ended up working at Imp Haven, babysitting fire imps. I grimaced. There were perks, I supposed. At least, I could wear sweatpants and a T-shirt on the job.
Reaching around the back of the sushi bar, I dumped a few implings out of the trashcan and then glanced at my phone. Right on schedule. “Let’s go, folks, let’s go,” I ordered, shooing the rascals towards the red curtain.
I’d just reached over to snag Olivia swinging from a string of dried fish hanging above the rice cooker when the front door to the restaurant blasted open, and a man came crashing through, rolling onto the ground. He shouted something in a deep, vibrating baritone, and the next instant, the glass in the refrigerated cases shattered and the tables next to him splintered into toothpick-sized chunks.
I froze, shocked, as all the imps scattered.
Staggering drunkenly to his feet, the man lurched my way to tower over me, a six-foot plus solid mass of muscle with long, braided blond hair and a face so beautiful it made my heart hurt. His eyes, a startling gray, thatched with a tangle of wild, thick eyelashes, locked with mine and a strange moment of gravity passed between us. Recognition? But how? Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, falling right on me. I buckled under his weight and dropped to my knees as he slid over my body and onto the floor.
Startled, I pushed him over onto his back, taking in the dark purple welt on his cheekbone, the cuts on his chin, and the black scarf fastened around his neck with a dragon-headed brooch. The scarf struck me. Was it … a keeper’s scarf? I frowned. Surely not. Yet, he’d braided his white-blond hair up over his ears in keeper fashion. I stared in awe. The Reach Keepers were incredibly rare and powerful sorcerers tasked to police and protect the Reaches. They rarely left their districts to mingle with other Charmed folk. I’d personally never met one before, nor had anyone in my family. I had to admit, the prospect excited me.
Then I noticed the blood.
Gasping, I squinted closer to see three jagged cuts across his black body-armored chest, exposing angry, red and bleeding flesh.
“Edna!” I screeched.
But Edna, the Godmother of Imp Haven, was already there. Of course, she would be, all smoky eight inches of her. She ran a tight ship. At the first sign of trouble, she’d be there in a heartbeat and this time was no different. She stood at my side, wearing her favorite pink boa with a matching shade of lipstick and puffing at a cigarette in a black lacquer holder as she eyed the prone body on the floor.
“It’s Strix, Keeper of the Nether Reaches,” she announced. “And wherever Strix is, danger isn’t far behind.” Bending down, she blew a long blond strand out of the unconscious man’s face. “Quite the surprise, dawwwling, quite the surprise.”
“Then he really is a keeper,” I whispered in admiration.
Edna took a long drag on her cigarette and then nodding at several nearby imps, began to rattle off a series of orders. “You, send for Dr. Kip. You, fix the door, we have a restaurant to open soon. You, restore the tables and glass, and clean up this blood. The rest of you, sound the alarm. We’re going to need every witch and warlock to set every ward they know. We’re going to have company soon, dawwwlings, and not the pleasant kind.”
As the imps scrambled to obey, one of the sushi chef warlocks arrived, lifting a brow at the cluttered mess before him.
“Ah, you,” Edna greeted him, puffing hard on her cigarette. “Carry this Nether Reach Keeper to the Prime Protection Room, will you?” Turning to me, she nodded at the implings peering out from under the red curtain. “Naz, you can go…” Her voice trailed away and then her large yellow eyes widened and her pink lips drew back into a grin, revealing her many rows of teeth. “I didn’t see that coming, dawwwling, not at all,” she said, keenly observing me from head to toe with a humph of a laugh. “Well then, you’ll be helping with this keeper instead, won’t you? I’ll have Princess take over with the implings.”
“Uh, say that again.” I frowned in confusion.
“Later, dawwwling.” She brushed me off, this time aiming her cigarette at the pool of blood spreading out across the floor. “Let’s get the Reach Keeper patched up and this place ready for business. We’ve never opened the restaurant late and I’m not starting today. Though we should send word to Lord Rowle—”
“No,” the Nether Reach Keeper choked out from the floor. I jerked, surprised to see he’d regained consciousness. Struggling as if to sit, he continued hoarsely, “No, Edna, not yet. Lucian can’t take them on. Not yet. No one must know I’m … here. Tell … no … one.” Again, his eyes rolled back, and again, he passed out, collapsing onto the floor.
“Come now. Let’s move,” Edna snapped, clapping her smoke hands.
The sharp, cracking sound of a much larger creature—the creature I truly knew her to be—jolted everyone into action, including me. As confused as I was about my new job assignment, I scrambled just as fast as everyone else to carry out my designated task. After all, Edna wasn’t one to be crossed.
The warlock arrived at the keeper’s side and after casting a quick stabilizing healing spell, hefted the injured man over his shoulder and headed to the back. I followed, leaving the others to the business of cleaning up. I knew it wouldn’t take long. As I ducked under the red curtain, I caught a glimpse of the explosion as though it were a movie playing in reverse—debris on the floor flying up into the air, reknitting into tables and glass cases.
The warlock carrying Strix moved fast, so I quickened my step in order to catch up as he navigated the shadowy maze of imp warrens running underneath the restaurant. As Imp Haven’s most secure location, the Prime Protection Room lay in the heart of the complex. Imp Guards patrolled the surrounding corridors, and flanking the door of the room itself were a dozen or so sake bottles, at least six of which housed a fabled elite at any given moment. One sake bottle stood off by itself, empty as usual, and belonged to the leader of the group, Edna’s nephew and Olivia’s father, Ricky—one of the rare elites who ventured out into the human world.
As we approached, Edna suddenly zipped up from behind to stand before the bottles and tap one with her cigarette holder. The lid popped off and two large, grumpy green eyes emerged, followed by the body of an old grizzled imp, bent almost in half.
“Trouble is headed our way, so stay alert,” Edna commanded.
Snarling and complaining under his breath, the imp slithered back into his bottle and slammed the lid on tight. Knowing imps, I knew the grumbling wouldn’t stop him from doing his job. Imps were an overly expressive lot. They took every emotion to the max, experiencing it to its fullest. Most folk tended to think that made them capricious and untrustworthy, but they were also loyal to a fault, and I’d never met one who’d failed to deliver on its assigned task—although they usually finished the job with flavor.
Edna took a deep drag on her cigarette and then, flicking the butt out of her holder and into one of the occupied sake bottles—prompting a delighted, slurping sound from its tenant—opened the door of the most protected room in Imp Haven.
I’d never been inside it before. Oh, I’d chased many a wayward impling to its very door. After all, daring one another to poke the elites in their bottles was a favorite game of theirs, but no one—not even Olivia—had ever gotten past the elites to actually enter the place uninvited. I stepped over the threshold and glanced around in wonder. It was a largish room, about the size of your average master bedroom, maybe a little bigger, complete with a four-poster bed, rose brocade wingback chairs, walls covered with original oil paintings, and mirrors in ornate, gilded frames. And, of course, there was a large crackling fireplace for the i
mps—the thing took up an entire wall.
As the warlock lay the unconscious Strix down on the bed, a dozen or so imps scrambled out of the crackling flames to hop onto the bed and help. They had his keeper’s scarf off in a flash and three seconds later, the black body armor as well, revealing a bloodied, white tank top beneath. The tight shirt hugged every muscle of his carved chest in what would’ve been the most interesting of ways, had it not been for the three large, unholy scratches ripping right through his flesh. Claws? If so, his attacker possessed massive ones. Something dark in me stirred at the sight, something fierce and protective. What manner of creature had done this?
As I stood there looking down at him, Strix suddenly moaned and the ridge of his dark eyelashes fluttered. “They’re coming,” he choked in a strangled voice.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe here,” I assured, brushing a long strand of hair out of his face. His skin felt cool, but strangely familiar under my touch. Odd.
At a short series of raps on the doorframe, I looked up to see Dr. Kip had arrived, the best Charmed doctor in New York City—now that the Night Terrors were no more. With his bald head, handlebar moustache, and tattoo-covered skin, he looked more like a beefy biker dude than your classic doctor type. The taekwondo pants and crocs didn’t really help his professional image, neither.
Recognizing his patient, Dr. Kip’s jaw dropped as he stepped into the room. “It’s Strix? Strix? This is a surprise. I didn’t think there was a creature alive who could take this guy down.”
“Yeah, looks pretty serious to me,” I said, biting my lip to hold back the flooding tears I felt were coming. Ok, that was strange. I didn’t know the guy enough to be that upset.
As Dr. Kip went to work, I moved to join Edna where she sat in the fireplace, puffing her ever-present cigarette, or at least trying to. She got only one puff in before the entire thing would go up in flames, but it didn’t stop her from trying again. A dozen or so imps formed a line like a bucket brigade, each imp passing cigarettes as fast as they could from the pack, in order to keep her supplied.
