Imdalind Ruby Collection One
Kiss of Fire | Eyes of Ember | Scorched Treachery
Rebecca Ethington
Text Copyright ©2012, ©2013, ©2021 by Rebecca Ethington
The Imdalind Series, characters, names, and related indicia are trademarks and © of Rebecca Ethington.
The Imdalind Series Publishing rights © Rebecca Ethington
All Rights Reserved.
Published by Imdalind Press
No Part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For Information regarding permission, write to:
Rebecca Ethington – permissions@ Rebecca Ethington.com
Copyediting by, Another View Editing; C&D Editing
Production Management by Imdalind Press
Cover Art by MiBL Designs
ISBN (print) 978-1-949725-55-1
ISBN (e-book) 978-1-949725-45-2
Printed in USA
This Edition, May 2021
KISS OF FIRE, 2012
ISBN (print): 978-1-949725-00-1
ISBN (e-book): 978-0-9884837-1-2
EYES OF EMBER, 2013
ISBN (print) 978-1-949725-01-8
ISBN (e-book) 978-0-9884837-2-9
SCORCHED TREACHERY, 2013
ISBN (print) 978-1-949725-02-5
ISBN (ebook) 978-0-9884837-5-0
Created with Vellum
Contents
Prologue
1. Joclyn
2. Joclyn
3. Joclyn
4. Ryland
5. Ryland
6. Joclyn
7. Joclyn
8. Joclyn
9. Wyn
10. Wyn
11. Joclyn
12. Joclyn
13. Joclyn
14. Joclyn
15. Ryland
16. Ryland
17. Joclyn
18. Joclyn
19. Joclyn
20. Joclyn
21. Wyn
22. Joclyn
23. Joclyn
24. Joclyn
25. Joclyn
26. Joclyn
27. Ryland
28. Ryland
29. Joclyn
30. Joclyn
31. Joclyn
32. Joclyn
33. Ryland
34. Ryland
35. Joclyn
36. Joclyn
37. Joclyn
38. Wyn
39. Wyn
40. Joclyn
41. Joclyn
42. Joclyn
43. Joclyn
44. Ryland
45. Ryland
46. Joclyn
47. Joclyn
48. Joclyn
49. Joclyn
50. Wyn
51. Joclyn
52. Joclyn
53. Joclyn
54. Ryland
55. Joclyn
56. Joclyn
57. Joclyn
58. Ryland
59. Ryland
60. Joclyn
61. Joclyn
62. Wyn
63. Wyn
64. Joclyn
65. Joclyn
66. Ilyan
67. Joclyn
68. Joclyn
69. Wyn
70. Wyn
71. Ryland
72. Ryland
73. Joclyn
74. Joclyn
75. Joclyn
76. Ilyan
77. Joclyn
78. Joclyn
79. Wyn
80. Ryland
81. Joclyn
82. Joclyn
83. Joclyn
84. Wyn
85. Wyn
86. Joclyn
87. Joclyn
88. Joclyn
89. Wyn
90. Wyn
91. Joclyn
92. Joclyn
93. Ryland
94. Joclyn
95. Joclyn
96. Wyn
97. Joclyn
98. Joclyn
99. Joclyn
100. Ryland
101. Joclyn
102. Joclyn
103. Joclyn
104. Joclyn
105. Wyn
106. Wyn
107. Joclyn
108. Wyn
109. Ryland
110. Joclyn
111. Ilyan
112. Joclyn
113. Ilyan
114. Wyn
115. Joclyn
116. Ilyan
117. Ilyan
118. Wyn
119. Wyn
120. Ilyan
121. Ilyan
122. Ryland
123. Ilyan
124. Joclyn
125. Wyn
126. Wyn
127. Wyn
128. Ilyan
129. Joclyn
130. Ilyan
131. Joclyn
132. Ilyan
133. Ryland
134. Ilyan
135. Joclyn
136. Wyn
137. Ilyan
138. Joclyn
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Prologue
The heavy boom of the knock on the door pulled the female out of sleep with a jerk. She sat upright, heart pumping, flesh heating, as she looked to the door, and the incessant knocking that hadn’t woken her husband up.
The large man didn’t even stir.
Frustrating, considering the knock was clearly meant for him.
Only one person would knock so loud, so late into the night.
“Get up, you big lug,” she hissed, pushing her husband's shoulder.
No response.
Just more knocking.
Looked like there was only one option.
Sliding out from the warm covers, she raced to the door, opening it wide just as the man on the other side of the door was about to knock again.
The King of Imdalind.
Even if he didn’t look like it, not right then anyway.
A King didn’t usually wear jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt. A fire wielder didn’t usually wear a flowery nightgown either; yet here they were.
“My Lord.” She knocked her head and curtseyed. “I’ll go wake, Ta—”
She didn’t get to finish before the King’s wide hand wrapped around her forearm, holding her in place.
“No. It’s you I need.” His voice was deep with that powerful rumble that made him more of a King than his genes ever would.
“Me? Why do you want me?” The shock jolted the last of the sleep out of her system.
“Someone has come to us with news. We found her.”
“You found her?” All of the heat in the girl’s veins turned to ice. They had found The Chosen. No wonder he was so excited. “But we have been looking… she has been missing for centuries.”
“Yes,” he breathed out airily. “I need you to help me get her out.”
“Me? Why?” She took a step closer, shutting the door behind them a bit. “Just go take her. Get rid of her parents and bring her back home. You’ve done it before.”
“It’s not that simple. She is not an infant. She has seen almost seventeen years.”
“Seventeen?” How could that be? They were not the only ones looking for her. How had she survived so long?
“Yes.
We don’t have much time. He might already be there.”
“No.” The girl knew what that meant and it brought the heat right back.
“I expect you to be on your best behavior; and kill whoever I say.” The King's voice was level, his manic excitement leaving as the regal air returned.
The girl nodded in understanding; she knew there was no fighting him. The King returned the gesture before turning and striding down the hall.
“We leave at dawn.” His voice echoed around the stone hallway, then back to her, as the darkness of night swallowed him up.
The girl stood in the door frame, biting her lip.
They had found the girl they had been looking for. The girl that could end everything. Now if only they could be fast enough to save her.
If only they could be the ones to get there first.
One
Joclyn
My longboard clicked rhythmically down the sidewalk as I moved. The warm wind of early summer tugged against my dark hoodie, pulling at the long strands of black hair that had fallen out of my hood. I didn't like traveling in front of the houses in this part of the neighborhood. I normally took the back alley, but today, some road crews were working on potholes and I had to make my trip in front of the giant mansions that littered the hills of the east side of the city.
The rich ladies, with their upturned noses, liked to look out their windows at me as if I were somehow infecting their perfect little world with a contagious disease. They looked at me like I was poor—which I was—a menace—which I wasn’t—and like there was something wrong with me—which I wasn’t even sure of. Normally, I would laugh at their response to me, but I didn't like them taking so much notice. Chances were, they would complain to my mother's boss and she would get in trouble, again. It wasn't my fault the road crews decided to work on the alley, but it's not like “His Grace” would care.
My mother had worked as Edmund LaRue’s cook for almost ten years now, having taken the job after my father took off when I was five. Mr. LaRue—or King Edmund as I called him—was an arrogant, greedy, self-righteous man who ruled over everyone like a medieval lord. He probably had more secrets than rooms in his house, if that were even possible. However, as much as I despised him, he paid my mother well, so I didn’t complain.
I jumped off my longboard as I reached his house. If King Edmund heard the clicking of it against the sidewalk, he might throw another fit; that is, of course, if Mrs. Nose-Against-The-Window hadn’t already put in a call. I looked up the long driveway as I stepped in front of the gate. Only the gray Rolls-Royce lay parked against the side of the house, causing my heart to fall—no bright yellow Lotus. Ryland wasn’t home yet.
I hopped back on my longboard to roll down the side of the house; my somewhat good mood dashed by the absence of my best friend. Who cared if King Edmund got mad at me for making a racket?
I crashed into the kitchen, the slam of the door disrupting the 70s music that my mother and Mette, the LaRue’s baker, were listening to. Plopping myself onto one of the many bar stools surrounding the long work surfaces, I placed my head on my arms and covered my face as much as I could with my hood.
“Happy Birthday, Joclyn!” My mom was beaming. I only grunted as I attempted to burrow into my hoodie more. “How was school?”
“Fine,” I answered into the countertop.
“Fancy that,” Mette said in her rich, Irish accent. “She can disappear into that table. Must be a trick learned when one turns seventeen.”
I grumbled nonsense at them again and covered my head with my arms, trying to ignore the laughter of the two women.
“Not funny,” I growled.
“Hello, in there! Joclyn, can you hear me?” My mother lifted the side of my hood as she called into it, and I tried not to smile. “Well, I think she’s done it! She has melded into the sweatshirt and become one with it.”
“That will make it easier to wash her, that will.”
“Not funny.” I tried not to sound amused, but I don’t think it worked. My mother snorted so loudly it reverberated off the pristine marble countertops.
“I’ll just throw her in the washing machine, then a little bleach, lots of detergent, and the skateboard can go in the dumpster.”
“Hey! It’s a longboard, and it’s the only way I get around! Unless you bought me a car. Did you buy me a car?” I shot up like a light, my face breaking out into an eager grin.
“There she is,” Mom laughed, throwing a present at me. “Happy Birthday, honey! Sorry, no car this year.”
“She lives. She lives. Praise the Lord! I thought for a second we would have to call a priest to exorcise her from the sweater,” Mette laughed, her red bun bobbing on top of her large, round head. “Happy Birthday, dearie.”
My mom nudged the present at me again, prompting me to open it. Her eyes were sparkling with that eager anticipation she always got about gift giving. The package was a good size, but lumpy and squishy. Clothes. Clothing had been an issue with my mother and me since that darned mark showed up behind my ear and chased my dad away.
Even twelve years later I could still recall the pain from that moment. A shimmer of blue glitter, intense pain, and then I had been in a coma for five months. No one knew what had happened. I was fine, except that my eyes had changed from green to a colorless silver, and a small mark had appeared behind my right ear. It was the size of a penny, the skin vivid red and raised like a brand with a small indistinguishable figure standing out in vivid black.
My dad was convinced it meant something more, and left because of it. Yet another reason I preferred to hide the mark, and myself.
She thought I should show the world how beautiful I was. I guess she might be right; I could be seen as the epitome of the fair-skinned, dark-haired ethereal beauty. My mom fawned over my bone structure and perfectly formed eyebrows that just grew that way. But, when I looked in the mirror, I only saw a skinny girl with stringy hair and dark circled eyes. ‘Not quite good enough’. My mom obviously saw something different. She liked to give me blue shirts to highlight my black hair, or green belts to set off the silver of my eyes, or so she said. All I saw were vivid colors or an obvious lack of fabric that would make me stand out.
For years my mom kept trying to convince herself that my choice of baggy, dark colored clothes was a stage that I would outgrow. I always found a way to hide myself; I kept my black hair long and falling in a sheet around my face, my clothes always dark and at least a size too big. It was all done as a way to help me blend in so people wouldn’t notice me. I felt comfortable inside my safety shield, hoping that no one could see me or figure out what was wrong with me. When the Goth kids showed up at school, it worked to my advantage. My mom, for once, thought I was trying to be cool, but I wasn’t overly emotional like they appeared to be. I just wanted to disappear.
“Go on,” Mom prodded. “Open it.”
I sighed before ripping off the paper. It was a deep red shirt, embroidered with some beads and fabric flowers. There was no denying it was pretty. It even looked like one of the things I wished I could wear, if only I felt comfortable doing so.
“Just try it on, Joclyn.” My mom danced around in her white kitchen shoes, smiling big enough I could see her teeth. How in the world could I say no to that?
I dragged my feet all the way to the bathroom, the red shirt sticking out of the arm of the hoodie my hands were hiding in. I put on the shirt, cursing the fact that my mother could tell what size I was even through my purposely too big clothes. It was snug, but not too tight.
I stared at myself in the mirror for a second, looking through the tunnel of dark hair. I looked so different in the shirt, almost pretty. Without thinking, I pulled my hair up into a pony tail, just to see what it would look like, but the mark stood out so vividly; its ugly shape stuck out right behind and below my right ear. I pulled my hair around the side of my neck. The low twist covered it easily, but I still didn’t trust it. Part of me wished I could dress like this, but I
could never tell my mother that.
Imdalind Ruby Collection One: Kiss of Fire | Eyes of Ember | Scorched Treachery Page 1