A Fate of Wrath & Flame

by K. A. Tucker

  Though I never witnessed it myself, I know Korsakov killed people. He would rage at their betrayal and blame them for forcing him to exact retribution. But for weeks after someone disappeared, there would be a solemness to his demeanor. Somewhere very deep down, despite his justifications, I think ending a life haunted the man.

  I see no hint of remorse in the eyes that stare back at me now, and the way they drag over my neck and chest makes me shrink into my wool blanket.

  I shift my attention to the small portal window next to me, absorbing the constant hum of the engines. Far below, the city lights fade in the distance. I’ve never been on a plane before, let alone a private one. I couldn’t help the stir of intrigue when the white SUV pulled up beside it. “Where are we going?”

  “My home.”

  Belgium, if what she told me earlier is true. Despite everything, I feel a smile touch my lips.

  “This pleases you.” Sofie peers over her newspaper again, watching me intently. The sociable, mischievous woman from the bar is gone. She guards her expressions and her tone so well, I can’t begin to read her mood.

  “I’ve never been to Europe. I mean, I planned on going, someday.” Korsakov demanded that I always be within an hour’s reach unless I was robbing someone for him, so escapes to London and Rome weren’t an option. Truth be told, I think he worried that if I left, I wouldn’t come back.

  I can’t believe he’s dead. I never liked the man, but I cared that he found value in me. Who knows what I’ll feel when this shock wears off, if there will be anything beyond relief.

  “Fear not. You will see many new places, soon enough.” Sofie peers out her own window. “I didn’t leave my home city of Paris until I was twenty-one. Same age as you are now. That was when I met Elijah. He wanted to show me the world.”

  And yet he’s never been to New York?

  She knows how old I am. Or rather, the man who sent her knows. “So, you work for Malachi?” Saying that name out loud doesn’t trigger any familiarity.

  “I serve him, yes. It will all make sense soon.” She pauses. “Romeria is a pretty name. Unique.”

  I swallow against my unease. It’s been years since I answered to my real name, another lifetime ago. “It’s Romy.”

  “I wonder why your parents chose it,” she muses, in a way that suggests she already has an idea.

  “They never told me,” I lie. My mother said it came to her in a dream one night, before I was born.

  “Did you know it means ‘pilgrimage’ in Spanish?”

  “No. I’m sure it’s coincidence.” I doubt my parents could put ten Spanish words together between the two of them.

  “‘One who journeys to a foreign land,’” she recites as if quoting a definition, her attention still out her window.

  “Like Belgium?”

  Her lips purse. “Though, the Spanish version would likely refer to the religious connotation. There was a time when humans routinely took long spiritual journeys in search of truth and meaning, and to make offerings to their god.” Ridicule touches her tone.

  But it’s her word choice that makes my eyebrows pop. “Humans?”

  “It’s an interesting thing, what we do in the name of our gods and our own salvation. Did you know they used to burn women at the stake, claiming them to be witches and devil worshippers?”

  My stomach constricts.

  “Even today, there are still those who search for a truth they cannot see, a truth they fear. Who will kill in the name of their god and in doing their god’s work.” She peels away from the window to pierce me with her sharp gaze. “But you already know that, do you not?”

  I sense where Sofie is so smoothly steering this conversation.

  “Your mother—”

  “Is dead.” My pulse pounds in my ears as I match her stare, daring her to challenge that.

  Only the faintest twitch of Sofie’s eyebrow hints of a reaction to my lie. “I see I’ve found a weak spot in your armor. So, you do not support her cause?”

  She knows about my mother. Of course, she fucking knows. I school my expression. Losing my temper will only reveal my vulnerability. “You mean, her psychotic cult’s cause?”

  It began harmlessly enough—an invitation to a group grief-counseling session in a church basement, meant to offer solace to people who had suffered a loss. That’s what it felt like—the loss of my father, even though he was still physically here, wandering the streets. We’d had our entire world flipped upside down, and I was relieved to see my mom making new friends.

  But within weeks, our conversations took an odd turn. She started questioning whether maybe demons and witches did exist, and that what my father saw had been real.

  Talk soon shifted to whispers of creatures living among us—hiding in plain sight—while the government covered up the truth and witches masquerading as nurses stole newborn babies from maternity wards. She even claimed she had seen proof of magic, though when I pressed, her explanation sounded more like vague riddles than anything resembling fact.

  Talk of conspiracies and witchcraft and monsters consumed my mother’s every waking moment. I was fourteen and didn’t understand what was feeding these growing delusions, but I’d already lost one parent to the demons in his head, and I was afraid I might lose another.

  She would leave for days on end, spending her spare hours in the old Baptist church that this group who called themselves the People’s Sentinel had purchased. We were barely surviving as it was, relying on food stamps and soup kitchens for meals and secondhand shops for clothes, but still she gave them all our money. I wasn’t surprised the day she announced we were moving into a run-down building the Sentinel had purchased for their growing “community,” in preparation against the coming war against evil. I screamed and railed, told her I wouldn’t go, that I’d run away. She held strong. I’d see the truth, she promised me.

  I wanted to believe her.

  For weeks, I ate and slept under the Sentinel’s roof, listening to these people—all branded with a tattoo of two interlocked crescent moons on the fleshy part of the thumb, the mark of “a disciple”—talk of otherworldly power and the spread of evil, hiding in the skin of the human form.

  It was so consuming that a part of me wondered if there was truth to it. It would explain what my father saw, though it wouldn’t explain what happened to him afterward.

  For her part, my mother was in her element within those walls. She quickly moved up in rank. I didn’t know what her role was, but she no longer worked at the grocery store, and everyone referred to her as “Elder” when she spoke.

  She’d promised I’d see the truth, and I did, the night she took me to a wooded area outside the city. I witnessed her and the others tie a “witch” to a post on a pile of dry kindling and strike a match.

  That’s the night I ran.

  In some ways, I feel like I’ve been running ever since, running from what my mother did.

  From what I didn’t do.

  I still sometimes hear that woman’s screams in my sleep.

  “And your father? Is he also dead?” Sofie asks, her tone mocking.

  Mention of Eddie reminds me of Tony’s assault on him. Alton would have called for an ambulance. “No, but he’s ill.”

  “And what ails him?”

  “Don’t you already know?” What is this game she’s playing?

  After a moment, she nods, confirming my suspicions. “So, you grew up surrounded by talk of demons, and yet you do not believe in them.”

  “I guess it’s a good thing I have a better grip on reality than both my parents.” And a healthy fear of becoming like either of them.

  “Perhaps.” Again with that curious tone. She doesn’t pry further, but she also doesn’t offer condolences. “How did you find yourself in this career path?”

  I shrug. “One thing led to another.” And I like not starving.

  “You did not want a new family, a new home? A normal life?”

  “My life was never
going to be normal.” I considered going to the police after that fateful night in the church basement, but I didn’t have any faith in a system that had already failed my father. I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me, or worse, they’d force me to go back to her. I balked whenever the youth shelter workers asked questions—What’s your name, hun? Where did you used to live? What can you tell me about your parents? I knew they were only trying to help, but anonymity made me feel safer. And then I met the grifter Tarryn. We had big plans to move to LA and live in a van near the ocean, until she got arrested, and I was dragged into the back of an SUV by Korsakov’s goons.

  These last few years I was on my way toward something that vaguely resembled “normal.” I earned my GED and enrolled in art classes. Just last week, I was eyeing programs at the local community college. That’s what normal twenty-one-year-olds do.

  I keep feeding Sofie information about myself—that she somehow already knows—and gathering almost nothing in return. “So, is your husband in prison?”

  “Of a sort,” she says cryptically.

  “I don’t know the first thing about breaking a person out of jail, unless you need someone to steal a key, which I’m sure one of them can handle.” I nod toward her assassin squad.

  “Perhaps you should present yourself as more useful rather than less? You will find it is in your best interest. People tend to keep those of value alive longer.”

  I can’t tell if that’s a lesson or a threat. “I just don’t understand why you chose me.”

  “I did not choose you. Malachi did.”

  “But why?” And who is this man!

  “I will admit that I do not entirely understand it myself. I am worried. But you have impressed me, especially for one of your age.”

  “My ability to steal impresses you?”

  “Is that the only value you see in yourself?” She cocks her head, her attention drifting over my lengthy black hair. It was as silky as a raven’s feather when the night began, but the drizzle has unraveled the stylist’s work. “You are proficient in that skill. So proficient, in fact, one might say you were blessed with a godly talent for it.”

  “I’m pretty sure there’s a commandment against my talent.” Though sometimes I’ve surprised even myself with how effortlessly I’m able to separate people from their belongings.

  She smirks. “I see a shrewd young woman who has learned to survive and adapt, despite being betrayed and abandoned by those closest to her, who is acutely aware of her surroundings and suitably wary of dangers, but who has the fortitude to keep her wits about her, even in the most perilous situations, who knows when she has no other choice but to make the best of her circumstances. All these things will serve you well.”

  My cheeks flush. I’m not accustomed to someone doling out compliments in my direction. I can’t remember the last time it happened. But I don’t miss her underlying meaning—whatever she has planned for me, there is no escape. “Have I met him? Malachi?”

  “You have not, but you may, eventually.”

  Sofie is evasive, which means she has something to hide. Another question burns for an answer. “What about after I help you free your husband?”

  “Your task will be complete.”

  “And I won’t owe you? You’ll let me go?” I won’t be able to go back to my life in New York. Not with Tony alive. Maybe I should have let Sofie kill him.

  Something unreadable flashes in her eyes. “It is I who will owe you a debt. One that can never be repaid.” It’s an echo of what I said to her earlier about Korsakov.

  “But I’m not being given a choice.”

  “You are not.” Her voice has turned hard. It’s as if the suggestion that I might refuse to help infuriates her. That makes sense, though, if her husband’s life is on the line.

  The sound of a blade drawing across its scabbard pulls my attention to the yellow-eyed man. He is putting away Sofie’s sword after cleaning it, and yet I sense an unspoken warning.

  I swallow against my rising nerves. “Can you at least—”

  “All will be explained when the time is right. That time is not at present.” She shifts her attention back to her paper, giving the pages a shake.

  As much as I want to push, the memory of Korsakov and his butchered men still fresh in my mind stays my tongue. I huddle deeper into my wool blanket and watch the world below slip into complete darkness, wondering how long I’ll have to bide my time before I can dodge these lunatics.

  Somehow, I manage to drift off.

  “You live here?”

  “Oui.”

  “But it’s, like, a real castle.” Built on top of a hill that overlooks a charming old town, with a stone wall and iron gate to protect it, cobblestones beneath my shoes, and towers scaled with leafless vines and capped with spires soaring high above us.

  “Oui. My chateau. Mine and Elijah’s.”

  I know I should be sizing up escape routes, and yet I’m enthralled as I turn slowly, absorbing the vast medieval courtyard, empty of everything but the sleek black car we arrived in and a lone tabby cat that sits on a stair wall, lapping at its paw. The two assassin-guards have disappeared into a separate, smaller building with their duffel bags of deadly weapons.

  I note the small door next to the gate that appears to be a walk-through exit to the town. For a place this size, there must be more. I don’t see surveillance cameras, but that doesn’t mean they’re not around.

  Beyond the gate, the town bustles with midday activity, but within these walls, it’s silent, save for a few withered leaves scuttling across the stone on a breeze. “How old is this place?”

  “The original building is from the fifteenth century.”

  My jaw drops as I quickly do the math. That’s over six hundred years of history. And what does a place like this cost? I assumed Sofie and her husband were rich and powerful—the private plane and assassin bodyguards more than hinted at that—but to own a castle …

  Sofie’s musical laughter carries in the eerie quiet. The simple act softens her features, making her appear less intimidating. “It is refreshing to see your reaction. Mine was much the same when Elijah first brought me to Montegarde and told me this would be our home. We had left Paris rather abruptly and—” She cuts herself off, her smile turning sorrowful. “Well, that was long ago. Hopefully, he will still appreciate its beauty when he finally sees it again.”

  “How long has he been gone?” I’ve gathered almost no information since meeting her last night, but she did say she met her husband when she was twenty-one, and she can’t be more than thirty.

  “Far too long.”

  Another vague answer that offers me not even a single piece to add to the puzzle that is Sofie.

  She squints upward, as if searching for something in the cloudless blue sky. It’s early afternoon and colder here than it was when we left New York, the wind carrying a blustering chill that makes me thankful for the sweater and jeans I found folded on the seat next to me when I woke.

  “Follow me.” She strolls toward a heavy wooden door, her heels skillfully handling the uneven cobblestone.

  “So, when are we breaking him out of this sort-of prison?”

  Sofie has given me no more hints about what saving her husband means. I can only assume it’s not as straightforward as lifting a diamond necklace off a woman’s neck.

  “Soon. Come, I must prepare you.”

  “Oui,” I mimic under my breath, thankful for these slip-on boots as I chase behind her.

  Chapter Four

  “How can you see?” I steady myself with a hand against the stone wall as I trail Sofie down a steep, winding stairwell. The steps are precariously uneven, and the glow from the lantern I carry offers little illumination.

  “I’ve descended these so many times, I could do so blindfolded.”

  Walking into Sofie’s castle felt like traveling back in time, to an era of candlelight and ball gowns, sweeping staircases and elaborate moldings, soaring ceilings and grand r
eception rooms—all things I’ve only ever seen dramatized in TV and film and read about in stories, and nothing I imagined anyone living today.

  The air was cold and stale as she led me farther in, and our footfalls echoed eerily. My senses were on overload as I absorbed every detail—somber faces painted in oil in gilded frames, suits of armor standing sentry, antique vases on pedestals that looked both ancient and valuable.

  I was only treated to a brief glimpse of the vast collection of rooms before Sofie beckoned me to follow her. My disappointment in not getting a guided tour swelled.

  Now, the farther we descend, the more apparent it is that we’re entering a darker, primeval part of Sofie’s grand home where the air smells of damp earth and age. It reminds me that this is not a vacation, and I am here for a specific purpose—one I do not yet understand but should be wary of.

  “What’s down here?”

  “We are going below the main castle where the storerooms and vault are located.”

  “And the dungeons?” Is she leading me to my waiting cell like a dog following a pork chop?

  Her laugh echoes. “If I wished to confine you in such a manner, you would be on your way to the north tower. That is where captives were often imprisoned.”

  “Sounds hospitable.” I’ve noticed that Sofie has an uncanny ability of answering my unspoken thoughts.

  “Better than the gallows or the pyre.” I hear the smile in her voice. “Though, important captives were often afforded free rein within the castle walls, and the accommodations were quite hospitable. Still, they were held for years, unable to leave unless the lord allowed it.”

  I’m relieved when my boots touch the floor.

  “This is the undercroft.” One after another, torches ignite in a burst of flame to illuminate a corridor that extends as far as my eyes can see. Massive pillars stand like a line of soldiers on either side to support the great weight of the castle. High above us, the stone ceiling joins in sweeping arches that draw my enthralled gaze.