Imdalind Ruby Collection One: Kiss of Fire | Eyes of Ember | Scorched Treachery

by Ethington, Rebecca

  Ilyan smiled as he poured me a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice from a jug. Ilyan never ate anything processed, which meant I never ate anything processed, which meant pulp-free orange juice and fruit loops were a casualty of my predicament. I sighed at the memory.

  It only got worse when Ilyan set three bowls on the table, each filled with honey covered strawberries, boiled greens, and berries wrapped in dandelion leaves. When I grabbed a blackberry and began to untangle it from the leaf it had been wrapped in, Ilyan looked at me as though I had brought Fruit Loops into the house. I ignored him. I could eat the leaf separately, however with the berry it made my stomach spin.

  “You’re never going to gain enough strength to defeat Edmund if you don’t eat the food I give you.”

  “You sound like my mother.” I said without thinking. My heart thumped uncontrollably when a flash of her crumpled body on the kitchen floor raced to the forefront of my memory. Ilyan didn’t seem to notice the pain in my face, which was probably for the better.

  “Well someone has to look out for your well-being.” He was dead serious and pushed the sickly looking bowl of boiled greens in my direction. I always steered clear of his boiled greens. They looked like cat vomit.

  “Might as well be ‘My Protector’ then,” I said a bit acidly, sliding the bowl back to him.

  Ilyan froze and leaned over the table toward me. I didn’t raise my head to acknowledge him. I just shrunk into my oversized hoodie.

  “Don’t,” I said, “I’m sorry I said anything.” I didn’t like the feeling his stare was giving me. I looked up, unsurprised to see his gaze still boring into me.

  He paused, contemplating what to say while his penetrating stare froze me in place. His eyes never left mine as he grabbed the bowl of strawberries and placed it in front of me. Ilyan reached for my hands and wrapped them around the cold bowl. I could feel the warmth of his magic pulsing and flowing under his skin.

  “I will always protect you, Joclyn.” My breath caught and I pulled my hands away from his, the bowl dragging along the table with them. Ilyan only smiled.

  “Go get ready, Silnỳ. There are clothes for you in the bathroom. I want to leave in about an hour, so we can get some sight-seeing in before dinner.”

  “Leave?” I was confused. He couldn’t possibly mean we were still going to go out. Especially with some super spy giving away information about us to who knows who in some bunker in Prague. It sounded like the plot to a B-grade movie. “We aren’t still going into town. You can’t be serious?”

  “You marked me. A bit dishonestly, but you marked me,” he said with a smile. “A deal is a deal.”

  “But what if they find us?” I could hear the panic in my own voice; obviously I was more freaked out about this than I had been admitting to myself.

  “Then they find us, Silnỳ. It has always been a risk.”

  “But...” Ilyan stood up so fast my words fell from my mind in shock. In one swift movement he had come around the counter and was kneeling down before me, his hands wrapped around mine, his skin warm.

  “Vždycky budu tě chránit, drahá moje.” I froze at the words, my heart thumping uncontrollably.

  “Protect.” I said softly, repeating the only word I recognized.

  “Yes, protect.” He smiled brightly and pulled me to standing. “Now, go get ready, please.”

  Without another word, Ilyan placed the bowl of strawberries in my hands and shooed me off to the bathroom.

  I shut the door behind me, my stomach swimming with eager anticipation. One hour. In one hour I would be escorted from my prison and into the world outside. Even though I was nervous about leaving given the current state of things, my excitement was stronger. I grinned at myself in the mirror and plopped a strawberry into my mouth, my face twisting a bit at the raw honey flavor.

  I wrapped my hair up in a high bun on top of my head and jumped in the shower. My mind buzzed in expectation of getting out of the apartment, and I spent the majority of the time dreaming of what I would see and how I would recreate the city for Ryland. His little heart had seemed so broken by what had happened before that I needed to do something to help him cheer him up. He needed to know how much I cared for him. If I had learned one thing, it was to never bring up who he used to be.

  What if he never remembered? What if I was doomed to visit the Tȍuha every day for the rest of my life? Or worse yet, what if the possessed form of Ryland died, taking my Ryland and the Tȍuha with him. If that happened, I knew I would die, too. Maybe then Ilyan could save me with whatever mystery procedure he had planned to try before.

  I shook the thought from my head and stepped out of the shower, thinking again of magical cities and already planning games we could play in a newly built realm within the Tȍuha.

  I had dressed without thinking and now that I was looking at myself in the mirror, I wanted to scream. What had Ilyan been thinking? Tight, bright turquoise jeans, and a bright multicolored t-shirt? I gaped at myself in the mirror, horrified. Colors? Tight fitting clothes? I wanted to throw up. I grabbed for the hoodie, desperate for something to cover up with. It was bright red, to match my shoes I guessed, and fit as tight as everything else while the fabric was so thin it was almost non-existent. I yelled out in a panic, and stormed from the bathroom, determined to make Ilyan go out and purchase something more reasonable.

  I had made it a few steps out of the bathroom when I froze. Ilyan was leaning against the kitchen counter speaking in Czech, his focus on the phone he had pressed against his ear. My jaw dropped; he looked so different. I had never seen his hair braided before. The long, blonde strands were perfectly woven together in a golden weave that trailed down the back of his head to fall halfway down his back. The absence of sheets of hair framing his face defined his facial features. He looked more distinct, stronger somehow, and his light hair contrasted starkly with his tight black polo shirt. For the first time he wasn’t wearing torn jeans, either, instead he had opted for dark-washed skinny jeans. I cursed his style sense. He looked good.

  Ilyan looked up at my entrance, and his line of sight trailed to the precarious bun on top of my head before he laughed. I pulled the hair tie out, having forgotten the silly thing was still up there. When he clicked his phone shut and moved toward me, I finally closed my mouth after realizing it was still hanging open.

  “What?” he asked, his accent rolling around the word.

  “You look...” I paused, unsure of what to say or even how to phrase it. The only word that came to mind was sexy, and saying that aloud to Ilyan was wrong on every level.

  “Did I do it wrong?” Ilyan asked, alarmed. He jumped away from me and ran to the nightstand where a magazine was folded. He unrolled it and flipped through it looking for a specific page. Having found what he was looking for, he rushed back over, shoving a picture right under my nose.

  The magazine picture was a Louis Vuitton ad featuring a man dressed in exactly what Ilyan was wearing. I looked from the ad to Ilyan a few times in shock before I began to laugh. So much for style sense, Ilyan had just been copying ads he had found in fashion magazines. My laugh continued to grow as I snatched the magazine from him, flipping the pages until I found a similar ad, this time with a girl wearing what Ilyan had provided for me.

  “Vut?” Ilyan asked, his agitation accentuating his accent. He shifted his shirt, obviously worried he had done something wrong.

  “Nothing,” I managed through my laughter. “It’s nothing, I thought...”

  “What?” Ilyan asked again, his face screwed up in alarmed confusion. I dampened my laughter and placed my hand on his arm.

  “Have you really been taking style hints from magazines all this time?” Okay it was more than hints, it was downright plagiarism, but I wasn’t going to call it that.

  “Yes! How else do you expect me to fit in? Your clothing styles make no sense to me.” He shook his head and walked away from me, ignoring my returning laughter.

  “Well, I am going to need ne
w clothes; I can’t go outside in this.”

  “Why not?” Ilyan rushed back to look at the magazine, obviously not understanding.

  “Well they are tight, and have colors, and... and...” Ilyan hiked an eyebrow at me like I was crazy. “This hoodie has no fabric what-so-ever.”

  I threw both the magazine and the offending hoodie at him. He caught the sweater and the magazine floated before him for a minute before settling itself on the counter. His face broke into a wide smile, happy his clothes weren’t really the issue.

  “Pants I will replace, I have purchased you another hoodie for later. One, I think you will find more appealing. But this one,” he handed it back to me, “this one you are going to want to keep.”

  “I can’t wear this out, Ilyan. There isn’t anything to it.”

  “It’s one hundred and ten degrees out there today, Silnỳ. If you wear any other hoodie, you will pass out from heat stroke.”

  “One hundred and ten degrees?” It never got that hot back home, ever. I would be surprised if it had even gotten to ninety in the summer. I cringed. That extra twenty degrees sounded miserable. I couldn’t go out without a hoodie, I couldn’t. I grumbled and grabbed the hoodie back from him, trying to ignore the way his face lit up as well as the joy behind his eyes.

  “Fine, you win.”

  He just smiled more.

  Sixty-Nine

  Wyn

  I loved Prague right before sunset, when the golden rays of twilight streamed through the high spires and glass windows of ancient architecture. It was its own kind of magic with the sun dancing through history like it was.

  I breathed in the air, and quick stepped toward the market. My magic was stretched from covering the marks on my face and arm, but I could still hear every sound and a dozen different languages all at once.

  “Let’s visit the bridge next.” In Dutch.

  “I really need to get you new shoes.” In Czech.

  “What do you mean you didn’t make a reservation?” In French.

  “The train leaves in an hour, I’ll be home soon.” In Spanish.

  “This city is magic!” That one was in English, and I turned, already smiling. The bottle blonde woman was grinning up to where the sun had caught the high spire of the Cathedral and was sending rays through a partially clouded sky.

  If she thought that was magic then she would be slapped silly by what this city was really hiding.

  “What’ll it be today, miss?” I turned at the gruff voice of the vegetable seller, his rainbow trays of every vegetable that could be grown in the region spread out between us.

  I began pointing out things, placing an order I didn’t really need. While I loved to be in the city, this trip to the market was out of work, not necessity.

  Truth was, I was trying to get information.

  It had been weeks of phantom crying appearing and then vanishing all over Imdalind and no one had found anything. No one had fessed up to what was becoming the most horrific prank of all time.

  Then last week, on a routine scout, one of the Skȓíteks had sworn they had seen a Trpaslík in the city. She had said they had felt their cold magic from a mile away.

  So, here I was, in the city. Buying vegetables for the third day in a row. Watching. Waiting.

  “Děkuji,” I said to the seller, exchanging money for my now filled bag and turned, my eyes still darting everywhere.

  Silently, I slid into one of the many tight alleys that peppered this part of Prague and let my magic flare, a shield sliding over me and erasing me from view. One glance behind me to make sure no one saw and I took off into the air, loose trash and bins rattling from the force of the wind that propelled me up to the roof.

  This building was one of the tallest in old town, and while I couldn’t see every person milling about from up here, I could sure feel them. It was the magic I was looking for, after all, not some update of when someone was going to be catching a train home after visiting their mistress for a week.

  Or, at least, that’s what I would assume that was with the way that woman was clinging and kissing on him.

  I released my magic from the marks on my skin and sat under my shield, legs swinging off the side of the building, eating a tomato. Listening.

  To nothing.

  No magic. No secret spies.

  I was seconds away from falling asleep when the phone in my pocket sprang to life. I half expected it to be Joclyn. She had caused a bit of drama with that phone call. Hell, half the reason I was out here was to be as far away from Ovailia screaming into the phone at Ilyan as I could. My magic had been a bit weird since the incident with the fire spear, and as much as I wanted to spar Ovailia, now was not the time.

  It wasn’t Joclyn, however, Talon’s goofy face was looking up at me from the screen.

  “Hey, hot stuff,” I answered with a mouth full of tomato, phone against my ear. “Tell me something sexy.”

  “The screaming woman was in the lower hall, just now. It sounds like she is being tortured, someone is trying to get information from them.”

  I nearly choked on the tomato, what was left in my hand falling the sixty or so feet to the ground. I didn’t care. I didn’t even laugh when someone screamed from having been hit in the head by a half-eaten tomato.

  “That’s not sexy, Talon.”

  “I know. I need you to come back. I’ve told Ilyan, and he wants us to do a full search again. Someone is in Imdalind, and we need to find them.”

  “But we’ve done that before—” I was standing, looking toward the entrance to the caves of Imdalind when I felt it. Ice cold magic just like my own, rushing right toward me.

  “Wynny?” Talon’s voice shook, I hadn’t even realized that I had stopped talking.

  “I feel them. The Trpaslík. I’ve got to go.”

  I snapped the phone shut and threw it in my pocket before I took off, shield still firm around me as I soared through the air right to where I could have sworn I felt the magic. It was zigzagging, not through the air like I had expected. But through the streets.

  I landed in the closest alley I could find, the narrow streets leading to the cathedral as packed as they always were at this time of night. Letting the shield drop from me, I darted through the crowd, looking for the source of the magic. Trpaslíks were always shorter than Skȓíteks, but Skȓíteks were taller than humans, which meant that this person was blending in perfectly.

  It didn’t matter.

  I found him anyway.

  I would find him anywhere.

  Timothy.

  My father was darting through the crowds, racing away from Imdalind. He didn’t even turn. I wasn’t even sure he knew I was there.

  My magic flared angrily. I had only faced Timothy a handful of times since he had tried to kill me. And every time he had been behind an army. But this time he was alone.

  I could take him. I could make him pay.

  If only I could get him away from all of these people. Committing murder, especially magical murder, in front of a gaggle of humans would not end well.

  I grabbed a stone from a flower pot as I darted through a clump of backpackers, my magic still flooding my senses. It wouldn’t take much to just send this rock into the back of his neck. Finish him and no one would know who or what.

  I could finish this.

  My magic screamed inside of me in that same way it had the last few days, all hot and angry and I jumped. The strength of it made me feel like I was going to explode or catch fire.

  “What the hell?” I mumbled to myself, clenching my fists together in an effort to control the heat of my magic. I meant to grip the stone, but the stone was gone.

  I froze in place, opening my hand in confusion. The stone was still there, but it just wasn’t a stone anymore. A pool of liquid rock sat in my palm; the heat nearly identical to my skin.

  “What the hell?” I nearly shrieked that time, dropping the puddle of rock to the ground as it started to burn me. It had turned into a slither of
stone by the time it hit the ground.

  Tourists turned at my shout, and I looked up, expecting Timothy to be charging my way.

  There was nothing but hundreds of heads, eager happy people that streamed through the streets, parting around me as I stood.

  Staring at my hand.

  Seventy

  Wyn

  “It was Timothy.” I slammed my hands on the surface of her stupid desk. Ovailia didn’t even jump, she just crossed her legs on top of her desk, red heels clicking together. Knowing her, it was some kind of show of seniority. I was just happy in my chucks and band shirts thank you very much.

  Not like now was the time for either of that.

  “I saw Timothy in Prague.” I was leaning over the desk now, she just smiled.

  “How do you know you saw Timothy in Prague? Could it have just been some other fat man in a suit?”

  “He’s my father.” It was getting harder and harder to control that boiling rage. “I know it was him. I know what he looks like.”

  “Yes, so you’ve said. But how do you know? I mean, it’s not like you have very many memories of him…”

  I would have launched myself across the table at her if Talon hadn’t chosen that moment to come in.

  “Sorry it took me a few minutes to get away I was…” Any excuse he had been about to give faded to nothing as he came up beside us. Neither of us turned, we were both too busy staring daggers at each other. “What is going on?”

  “Wynifred here claims that she saw her dear old daddy in Prague.” Could she sound more like a raging hornet’s nest?

  “Not claims. I did.”

  “So why is he not here with us now?” She stood, waving her hand over her room like a game show host. She looked the part with her hair and frilly shirt. “I know you are powerful enough to take him down on your own.”

  “He’s… I mean…” I looked at my hand, well aware that Ovailia was smiling victoriously. “I lost him in the crowd. It’s tourist season, Ovailia. You don’t expect me to magic my way over to him and blow up half a block just to kill him.”