A Fate of Wrath & Flame

by K. A. Tucker

  He leaned in to inhale her intoxicating scent of rosewater, more potent after their exertion. “If not here, then in Za’hala.” That was a fool’s dream, for it was doubtful his kind would ever pass into that hereafter, but it was a dream worth wishing for. He scraped his teeth against her delicate skin—merely a harmless act of seduction in the past. This time, however, she arched her back, enticing him with the rush of blood that surged through her veins.

  Sofie blinked away the fog of unconsciousness while staring at the dense velvet canopy draped above. Murky daylight glimpsed through the window, casting shadows in the bedchamber. Church bells tolled, announcing early service in the village. The faint, sweet scent of smoke and honey lingered in the air.

  She smiled, the crushing fear of failure lifting from her chest. She had succeeded.

  Weakness weighed down her limbs. Elijah said that would be the case. But already, she sensed that she was changed. Within her body a new heart thumped, slow and steady. This was a new dawn for her. Fates willing, she would see countless more with love and friendship at her side.

  “Elijah?” she croaked, her throat raw with thirst. She pawed the mattress beside her, searching for his formidable shape. “It worked. We did it.”

  Silence answered.

  She turned to the side and found the bed vacant. It was odd that he would abandon her on this morning of all mornings, but perhaps he had gone to fetch breakfast from the staff. He knew how she enjoyed her first meal in bed, and he was always eager to please her. Though, she supposed her meals might look different, especially in these early days.

  She could still sense that innate spark deep within her core flickering in idle wait. Another oddity, given she had tendered her power to Malachi in exchange for this new, immortal form. She tried to call it forth now, but she was too weak, and the magic remained where it was, out of reach. Or perhaps it was now simply a phantom from her past life, a missing limb that tricked its owner by feeling whole.

  The burn in her throat was unbearable. Elijah had said she would need to feed quickly to quell the discomfort and build her strength, and that he would be here to guide her through it. So where was he?

  She heaved herself out of bed.

  The sight of Elijah’s naked body in a heap on the rug stole her breath.

  She dove for him to give his shoulder a waking shake. “Elijah!” she called out in vain, her dread rising. His skin was chilled beneath her fingertips. Something was not right. His kind did not collapse like this.

  Using whatever strength she could muster, she rolled him over.

  She gasped at what stared back. “No, no, no …” She cupped his cheeks within her shaky palms. Gone were the soulful brown eyes that reminded her of lush soil after a heavy rainfall. In their place was a vacuous gray haze. “Elijah!” She shook his limp body violently, even though she already suspected it was useless.

  On instinct, she closed her eyes and called to her powers again. This time they rose to the surface, uninhibited. Malachi had not taken them after all. She couldn’t worry about what that meant at the moment, though, as she sent probing tendrils into Elijah’s still form, searching for answers.

  Her heart stirred with hope at the image that materialized. He was alive, wandering through a thick, endless fog. “Elijah!”

  “Sofie?” His voice echoed in the void, her name laced with fear.

  “I see you!” she cried, willing him to hear her.

  With a gut-wrenching scream of pain, he crumpled to the misty ground. The image vanished from her mind, slicing off their connection.

  “No!” she wheezed, flowing her magic through him once more. This time it recoiled the instant it touched him, fizzling to ash. Again and again, she tried to reach him, until no more would rise to her call, her powers exhausted.

  She let her forehead fall against his chest as she wailed in despair. Her time with the guild had taught her of this horror. The oldest texts spoke of a place between the folds of time and dimensions, where the fates would banish souls to wander an eternity alone, a hollow nothingness that was neither Za’hala nor Azo’dem but worse. Most cast it off as more ramblings of the seers. But Sofie knew now that the Nulling was real, and Elijah was trapped in it, far beyond her reach.

  This was not supposed to happen. This was not what Malachi had promised! Was he watching? Did they relish her pain? “I do not understand! I am a chosen one!” she cried out, hoping he was listening. Did she not deserve this happiness? She’d been nothing but devoted. Had she not praised him enough? Had she somehow wounded his brittle ego?

  Perhaps this was merely a lesson. Perhaps Malachi would free Elijah from this curse yet. She clung to that scant thread of hope as she wept, ignoring her hunger as sorrow overwhelmed her and she longed for yesterday’s return.

  By nightfall, she shook from weakness and ached from loss. But more than anything else, she burned from regret. It was a mistake to trust Malachi. She saw that now. And yet he had not stripped her of the immense power she had tendered to him. That could only mean one thing—he was not finished with her.

  “I will fix this,” she promised Elijah’s still form, her voice barely a whisper, hoping her words could reach him where her magic could not. “I will never stop.” She would feel the warmth of his touch and the tenderness of his kiss once again.

  Or she would die trying.

  2020

  * * *

  Under the dim glow of lanterns, Sofie’s slender figure remained as still as the body in the stone casket, her powers focused in prayer. She spent many hours here each day, on her knees in the crumbling vault beneath the chapel, until the stones cut into her flesh and her blood seeped into the ground.

  Nearly three centuries of pleading.

  Nearly three centuries of empty promises.

  The years had been long, plagued with war and famine, with loneliness as she learned to survive, hiding in the shadows while she embraced her new immortal nature. She’d had to reinvent herself countless times to avoid unwelcome attention—changing identities, fleeing homes in the night, erasing any trails that might suggest to the guild and her other enemies that Sofie Girard had not long since perished.

  In all of this, she had remained unwavering in her appeal to Malachi for mercy. The others would never acknowledge her, even though she’d tried to reach them. It was to the Fate of Fire that she was forever bound.

  But Sofie had reached the brink.

  She rose to her feet, ignoring the trickles of blood that ran down her shins from wounds that would heal within hours as if they’d never existed. With numbing calm, she climbed into the spacious sarcophagus to take her place next to her beloved.

  In the early years, she had kept Elijah with her in the bedchamber of her various homes. It was not without difficulty, especially when disobedient servants stumbled upon what appeared to be a fresh human corpse in her bed. Rumors of wickedness and witchcraft followed her wherever she went, and she began to worry that she would not be able to protect him.

  Finally, she reclaimed their first home together—the castle atop the hill—and chased the humans away. The decaying undercroft where no one ventured had become their haven.

  It was here that she built a new sanctum where she could summon Malachi daily without fear of discovery. Sometimes, like today, her prayers were met with silence. Other times, with an audience. Malachi would arrive in his corporeal form to order her to be patient, for her day with Elijah would come. He had sent her on odd missions that she could not make sense of and was told not to question—part of a web of schemes he was concocting, surely. Occasionally, he would demand she undress and offer herself to him on the altar, so he could use her in ways that made her body and heart ache for different reasons. Those visits were growing more frequent as of late, the requirements bolder.

  After three centuries, Sofie no longer believed Malachi had any intention of granting her husband his freedom.

  She smiled sadly as she stroked her fingers across Elijah’s chee
k. He was as handsome now as the day Malachi took him from her. It was callous to preserve him so impeccably. It would have been easier on her had nothing remained of him but dust and bone. That was what the fates dealt, though—cruel tricks for even the most loyal.

  “Forgive me, my love.” She gripped the smooth obsidian bone handle of the dagger, allowing the fire’s light to flicker off the sacred metallic blade. She was not certain the wound she was about to inflict upon Elijah would free him from this curse, but she knew it would release her from hers—the curse of eternal anguish.

  “May the fates be merciful,” she whispered, knowing they would not. She brought the tip of the blade to Elijah’s chest, gathering the courage to drive it through his flesh.

  A glimmer caught the metal, stalling her hand. Again it flashed, hinting at movement, and the sound of scraping against stone followed. Rodents lived in these walls and felines hunted them, but she did not sense their heartbeats, and besides, none made such a noise.

  Sofie’s pulse raced as the glow blossomed within the vault, illuminating the cracks in the stone ceiling and walls with warm, flickering light. Dropping the dagger, she climbed to her knees.

  Her mouth dropped in awe at the looming silhouette in the center of the dank vault, his majestic horns alight with flame. She had laid eyes upon him countless times, but never like this.

  “The time has come,” Malachi’s deep voice rumbled. “Are you my loyal servant?”

  She scrambled out of the coffin to drop to her knees and press her forehead to the ground before the Fate of Fire. “For eternity.” To bring Elijah back, she would do whatever was asked of her.

  Chapter One

  “Caviar, miss?” The starchy waiter blocks my path through the milling crowd, thrusting the silver tray forward.

  I made the mistake of accepting once. It was my first assignment for Korsakov, and I was nervous, eager to blend into my high-society surroundings, so I accepted the ceramic spoon of tiny black balls that other guests were flocking toward like ducks to strewn bread. It took every ounce of my strength to force the slippery mouthful down my throat.

  Offering a curt head shake as I snake past him, I head to the bar in the corner. My heart beats with the steady rush of adrenaline that always accompanies me on these nights. “French 75,” I order, settling in to survey the landscape of lavish floral topiaries and designer dresses. Precious jewels wink at me from every angle. For a charity event intended to raise funds to combat hunger, it’s ironic that the amount of money hanging off wrists and encircling fingers could likely feed the country’s starving for years.

  These people have no clue how the other side lives, but they’ll take any opportunity to pat themselves on the back for a good deed while sipping their flutes of Moët & Chandon.

  My mark stands twenty feet away, the black tuxedo he chose for tonight flattering on his trim stature, his graying hair freshly cut during his afternoon visit to the gentlemen’s club on 57th. He smiles as he watches the violinist draw her needle across the taut string, weaving a haunting tune. To the unaware, it would appear he is merely a connoisseur of fine classical music. I’ve been casing him for the last few weeks, though, and I know better.

  The young musician’s eyes are closed, lost in the melody, but in between each piece, she always makes a point of meeting his steady gaze and adjusting herself in her seat, as if she can’t bear the wait until she can straddle his lap in the SoHo apartment he rents for her later tonight.

  How his wife, standing ten feet away, hasn’t picked up on her husband’s taste for the doe-eyed college student, I do not understand. Or maybe she has and considers it a fair trade-off for their Upper Eastside life and the digits in her bank account.

  “It is a lovely instrument, no?” A female voice laced with a smooth accent fills my ear.

  “Hmm.” I hum my agreement but otherwise pay the woman no heed. I don’t talk to people while I’m working. Conversation leaves a trace, which leads to a trail, and trails that lead to me could end in a visit to the bottom of the Hudson River with a concrete block tied to my ankles.

  I collect my drink, noting with disdain the smudge of graphite on my index finger. I did a poor job of washing my hands after my art class, but that is unimportant. What is important is moving to a safer vantage spot, one where no one feels compelled to talk to the solo woman by the bar.

  “What is it that Viggo Korsakov is paying you to steal from that man?”

  I freeze. A sinking feeling hits my gut as I turn to meet the owner of such a careless and dangerous statement. A striking woman with emerald eyes and hair the color of a freshly minted penny watches me intently. She’s unfamiliar to me. I’ve never seen her at one of these events before, and she is someone I’d remember.

  It takes me a few heartbeats to gather my wits and plaster on a baffled look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Her painted red lips twist in a knowing smile, as if she can hear the alarms blaring inside my head. But then she dips her chin. “I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

  “Yeah. Definitely.” I shrug it off with a wooden laugh while I steal a glance around. Whoever this woman is, she’s polished and regal, and attracting curious looks from every direction. She’s the last person I should be standing next to tonight while I’m trying to remain unnoticed. “If you’ll excuse me—”

  “Was it not you who took that diamond necklace at the gala in the summer?” She leans in to whisper conspiratorially, her eyes flickering with mischief. “I heard you plucked it off that woman’s neck without her notice.”

  My heart hammers in my chest as I struggle to school my expression. That heist made headlines here in Manhattan. She could be guessing. “Sorry, no.”

  Her brow pinches. “And was it not you who made off with that actress’s million-dollar diamond bracelet last spring?”

  “Who the hell are you?” I can’t keep the shake from my voice. That she would peg me for the Cartier robbery in Chicago is far too coincidental. She can’t be a cop. Korsakov has too many of them in his pocket for us to not hear about an investigation.

  Her head falls back with husky laughter. “I am not with the authorities, if that is what you are thinking. I am, how do you say … an admirer?”

  She’s crazy, is what she is. And she speaks oddly, like she belongs in another era. “I’m flattered, but you’ve got the wrong girl.” I down half my drink as I scan the ballroom for the two security guards on Korsakov’s payroll. They’re supposed to be within a head-nod’s reach in case of emergency, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

  As much as I want to run, I need to know how big a threat this woman is to me. Leaning into the bar, I match her coolness. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Sofie,” she offers without hesitation. Fake, I’m sure. But even fake names can become real if they’re used enough. Everyone on the street knows me only as Tee, short for Tarryn—the name of a grifter I met at a shelter when I was fifteen. She took me under her wing and taught me how to steal and not get caught. At first, it was food, books, clothes—necessities. Eventually, that turned to nail polish and hoop earrings, and then wallets stuffed with credit cards and cash. When Tarryn got busted for grand theft auto and locked away, I assumed her identity.

  But I’ll play along with this act. “So, do you live in New York, Sofie?”

  “No. My husband and I reside in Belgium presently. It has been some time since I’ve been here. Almost a decade, I believe.” A tiny smirk curls her lips. “Elijah has yet to visit this city of yours, but I imagine he would be beguiled by it.” She takes a long, leisurely sip of her wine. If she was at all wary or nervous about approaching me tonight, it doesn’t show. Every inch of her exudes fearless confidence. Normally, I would envy that.

  Now, I’m deeply unnerved.

  The violin music has ended. The brunette musician is in the corner, tucking her instrument into its case. Nearby, my mark is in conversation with another man, but the frequent gl
ances at his watch tell me he’s trying to cut away. I’m going to miss my window if I don’t make a move soon, and I cannot miss this one.

  “What would you say if I offered you double what your employer is paying you for tonight?”

  Sofie startles me yet again, pulling my attention back to her. It’s pointless to keep denying that I’m the thief she has pegged me for. Someone has been feeding her solid intel, and I’ll get more information out of her if I play along. “And what is it you think I’m going to steal?”

  She shrugs, her astute gaze locked on the mirror’s reflection behind the bar. “I have no idea, and I care not. But if I were to hazard a guess, I would say those cuff links would be of significant value.”

  Those cuff links are worth four hundred grand based on what the rich prick forked over at auction last year, not that I’m about to confirm her suspicions. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to decline.”

  Her impeccably sculpted eyebrow arches. “Triple, then?”

  I falter. While I didn’t start out earning much, now that I’ve proven my worth, the bundles of cash after a job well done more than pay for my living expenses. Triple that amount? Most thieves in my line of work would bite on that lure. But they’d be idiots, because no one crosses a guy like Viggo Korsakov and gets away with it.

  Then again, if I don’t show up in his office tonight with those diamond-studded cuff links in hand, it’ll be my second miss in as many months. My worth to him is already on shaky ground.

  “Who sent you?” Everything about this situation screams of a trap. If I weren’t literally in the middle of a take, I’d think Korsakov himself was behind this, a way of testing my trustworthiness.

  Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Malachi.”

  “Never heard of him.” But I’ll definitely be asking around.