The Tynder Crown Chronicles, Season One: Episode One: The Tynder Crown Chronicles (The Tynder Crown Chronicles, A Novella Series Book 1)

by Wendy Owens

  I must have fallen asleep. Yes, that has to be it. I fell asleep in the bathtub, and I must have kicked out the drain stop. I groan as I shift my body against the hard surface. At least my hangover’s gone. I place my hands on the edge of the tub and carefully push myself to a standing position.

  The security buzzer to the apartment entrance sounds from the other room. I step out and run into the main area. I’m not expecting anyone. I’m never expecting anyone. I fall to my bare knees and peek under my bed. Reaching out, I grab hold of my favorite leather leggings.

  Frantically, I rush over to a laundry basket in the corner and slip on a pair of red satin panties. Even though I’m never expecting company, it doesn’t mean I don’t like to be prepared in case I ever get a visitor from someone who is tall, dark, and handsome.

  The pants resist my efforts at pulling them up against my sticky flesh. Rushing over to the side table, I pull out a drawer and grab a fresh black tank top and stretch it over my head, sliding and securing it over my ample curves. I’m about to respond to the door buzzer when I hear my phone ringing.

  I leap up and make my way over to the kitchen counter, scooping the device up into my hands. Lifting it, I peer down at the number. It’s once again my grandfather. An uneasy feeling settles over me. This is more than Joe’s persistence. Something must be wrong.

  I slide my finger across the face of the phone, clear my throat, and answer, “Joe? Is everything all right?”

  The other end is silent at first. There is a slight hitch in someone’s breath, and then a voice that is not my grandfather’s answers me. “Tynder, it’s Desmond. Are you at home?”

  Desmond has been Joe’s personal assistant for as long as I can remember. He used to entertain me as a child with simple magic tricks. It’s rare to see Joe without Desmond close behind. I used to think perhaps they were a couple, but after walking in on Joe and a lady friend, I learned my assumptions about them were incorrect. Nonetheless, Desmond is my grandfather’s right-hand man, and the closest thing he has to a real friend.

  “Yeah, I’m home, what’s up?” I ask, sensing the hesitation in his voice.

  “I need you to come to Joe’s office,” he instructs me.

  “What? Why?” I huff, annoyed Joe is now having Desmond do his dirty work when it comes to our relationship.

  “Please, just do as I ask.” His voice is shaky. “And Tynder, don’t speak to anyone. Come straight here.”

  I’m about to ask why when I hear the phone click. I’m alone in this conversation now. I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever has Desmond acting this way can’t be good. I stumble forward and grab my favorite pair of black, knee-high boots and shove my feet into them, one after the other. Grabbing my jacket, I slip my arms in and then shove my phone into my pocket. A quick cab ride and I’ll have this sorted out. As soon as I can find my keys.

  The door buzzer sounds again. Oh hell! I totally forgot someone was at the door. The damn intercom has been broken since the second day I moved into the apartment, and the good-for-nothing landlord has never bothered to fix it. I rush over to the box near the front door and press the button to allow the mystery guest entry into the building. I know this is something Joe would hate. After all, he would point out I could be letting a killer into my building. I’m pretty confident, though, I can take care of myself. I’ve tossed more than a few drunks into the street at my job.

  I impatiently wait for the visitor to reach my apartment door. The bathroom! I suddenly remember where my keys should be. Last night, when I stumbled into my apartment, drunk as hell, I had to pee like my life depended on it. I’d bounded to the toilet, and I remember hearing the keys fall from my pocket as I had torn my pants down.

  Rushing into the tiny room, a glimmer of something shiny near the wall catches my eye. Bingo! Lunging forward, I scoop up my keys and shove them in my other pocket. It’s time to meet my mystery guest and then go talk to Joe. Standing upright, I turn toward the main room, when all of the sudden panic overcomes me, and I freeze.

  From the corner of my eye, I see something in the mirror that absolutely terrifies me. At first I’m too scared to look. I think there must be someone else in the apartment, someone behind me. I look toward my bed—there is nobody there—then cautiously back at the mirror. I stumble forward, and am forced to steady myself on the cluttered sink. A hairbrush falls to the floor.

  I can’t turn my head away … it’s absolutely impossible. How can I possibly look away from the reflection of myself? A reflection that is showing me a total stranger. My face is me, there is no mistaking that, but my once-dark hair has transformed to snow-white. I grab a fistful and tug at the strands, telling myself perhaps someone is playing a joke on me. Maybe they put a wig on me while I was asleep in the bath, though I know I was alone. My head jerks with pull. It’s my hair! There is no mistaking it’s attached.

  I lean in, inspecting the roots, there is no trace of any color whatsoever. What’s happening to me? Am I dying? Am I infected with something? What in the hell is wrong with me?

  I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself when I reopen them I will realize I’ve imagined everything. I hear a knock on my apartment door; my visitor has found me. Startled, I open my eyes again. My hair is still white, my hands are tingling, my heart is racing, and I’m unsure what to do.

  THERE HAS TO BE AN explanation, I tell myself. Your hair doesn’t just turn white. Maybe it’s a symptom. What in the hell could it be a symptom of? Some freak occurrence of rapid aging? I lean in, pulling at the flesh on my face as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. There are no signs of wrinkles or any other mark of spontaneous fleeting years.

  The mystery guest at my door bangs firmly, seemingly growing impatient.

  “Be right there!” I yell, rushing to the only closet in the entire studio apartment to pull out an oversized beanie cap. Twisting my hair, I slip the mess of frosty locks inside the cap and secure it on my head. For just a moment I pause, compose myself, and make a weak attempt to slow my racing heart. Then I walk over to the door and grip the knob.

  “Who is it?” I ask, a question I could have asked earlier if the damn buzzer wasn’t broken.

  There’s some grumbling on the other side of the door, but I can’t make it out. Based on the low, raspy tone, though, I think I know who it is. Mr. Wyatt is a neighbor in the building to the left of mine. He has made it his full-time job to annoy the hell out of me since I moved in. My refrigerator doesn’t keep more than five items cool at a time, so I keep beverage bottles on the fire escape. He informed me last week this was incredibly rude as it made the building look dumpy. I explained it was the fact that we were in the ghetto that made the building look dumpy. He didn’t seem to appreciate my reply.

  I suddenly remember the Chinese food that was stinking up my apartment yesterday. I had placed it on the fire escape and before leaving for work I noticed some birds had found their way into the container. It was quite a mess, and I had every intention of cleaning it up but ... no I didn’t. Jesus, the last thing I need right now is a lecture from my crazy ass—

  The door opens, and my breath catches in my throat. It’s not Mr. Wyatt. You should be screaming now. Why in the hell aren’t you screaming?

  “About time,” the small creature snarls, pushing past me and into my apartment. I’m speechless as I turn, my eyes not shifting away from the thing. Its height is not more than that of a small child, but the thing’s girth is substantial in size. With arms hanging at the creature’s sides, its fingertips reach its knees, and I gawk as the being practically waddles past me. As I stand there, watching the thing shift around my apartment, sniffing empty food containers before tossing them aside, and at last hopping onto my bed, I am convinced something is wrong with me. A head injury … that must be it. White hair, and now I’m seeing creepy little beings; I must have hit my head in the tub. Somehow I’m relieved by this realization.

  Accepting that I’m injured doesn’t make the creature disappear, though.
He’s watching me now, just as intensely as I’m watching him. Thin, red lines surround his oversized onyx pupils. There are no whites, but instead the edges around the iris are a grimy yellow. His broad nose sits squarely on a flat face, a grotesque and wide under bite revealing fang-like teeth that are an even deeper shade of yellow than the creature’s eyes. His skin is a burnt orange color, and I can’t help but stare at the way it seems to shimmer, as if wet.

  “Well?” the beast grunts in my direction.

  I shake my head and wonder if I should rush out the door in the direction of the nearest ER.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me something to eat or drink?” he presses.

  “Excuse me?” I gasp at last. Jesus, now I’m talking to a figment of my imagination.

  “It’s usually customary for a Magistrate to do so when a fellow Fae comes to file a complaint.” He peers back at me as if I should understand what he’s saying.

  I manage to take a couple steps forward, leaving the door open in case my imagination somehow manages to try and harm me. “Magistrate? Fae?” I repeat, not shielding my confusion.

  He tosses his hands up in the air, then leans back onto my bed, making himself comfortable, pulling on the cuff of his white, silk shirt, and straightening out the crease in his brown slacks. I’ll admit, he is a well-dressed imaginary creature. “How long have you been a Royal Magistrate?”

  “I … My—” I struggle with my words, my voice cracking slightly. “What’s a Royal Magistrate?”

  “Are you serious?” he snarls. “Of course, leave it to me to find fresh blood.”

  “I’m sorry, what are you?” Yup, the time has come for you to get your ass to the nearest psych ward. You just asked an imaginary creature what he is.

  “Oh, come on! This is such bull!” Clearly I’ve agitated him. “Where in the hell is your Mage?”

  I tighten my lips and again shake my head, indicating I still have no clue what he’s saying.

  “You haven’t even been assigned one yet? Wow, I do have some bad luck.”

  “I think you may have me mistaken for someone else,” I suggest, swallowing hard.

  “Look…” He shifts, standing up on my bed so our eyes meet. “I don’t have time to answer a bunch of questions for some green newbie Magistrate. You need to figure your crap out on your own time. My treasure was stolen, and I expect you to get it back.”

  “Treasure?” I laugh, the word sounds absurd as it leaves my lips.

  “It’s nothing to scoff at! It’s taken me my entire life to amass that worth.”

  I’m not laughing now; the little devil’s eyes are wide, and he’s hovering on the edge of my mattress, as though he might leap in my direction at any moment.

  “I’m so s-sorry,” I stutter, wishing I hadn’t made fun of him.

  He wrings his hands together, his long and slender tongue wetting his thin lips. “And I know exactly who took it,” he announces.

  Are you actually doing this? Are you having a conversation with this thing you know isn’t really here. You need to get to Joe’s. He’ll know exactly what to do.

  I turn toward the door and rush into the hall without another word. As I pull it closed behind me, I hear the short creature call after me, “Where are you going?”

  I decide to ignore the voice. He’s not real, after all. Why should I answer someone who isn’t really there? I race down the stairs, out the front door, and immediately my hand goes up to flag down a cab. My grandfather will fix everything. That’s what Joe does: he fixes stuff. Joe! Suddenly the call with Desmond floods back into my thoughts. “Don’t speak to anyone. Come straight here.” In all the hallucinations, I’d forgotten about the call. Soon, everything will get a lot clearer; at least, I hope it will.

  THE YELLOW CAB PULLS UP and stops abruptly in front of me. It typically takes me a solid ten minutes to hail a cab. I wonder if perhaps my luck is changing. I pull open the door, slide in, mindlessly relay the address of my grandfather’s place, all while freeing a lock of hair from under my cap. Yup, still white.

  I think about the morning and everything that has happened. There has to be some sort of explanation for all the things I’ve been seeing. I recount the moments: I woke up with a hangover, and, well, that’s nothing out of the ordinary. Joe was calling incessantly; again, when I’ve upset him, which I somehow always manage to do, his calling is not out of the ordinary.

  My bath … when I got in, I am quite certain my reflection showed me for the brunette I am. I had to have fallen, to have blacked out ... Something. That can be the only explanation. Maybe I’m actually still dreaming. Quickly, I pinch myself, then wince. No, I’m definitely awake.

  I close my eyes and do my best to steady my breathing. You have to calm down. Joe will help fix whatever is wrong with you. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.

  With my eyes still closed, I jump when a vision pops into the darkness. No longer can I calm myself; my heart is racing, and I’m breathing heavily. It’s the bird … he’s back. I’d forgotten about it. In the darkness, while I was in the bath, the fiery creature had wrapped its wings around me, swallowing me into its inferno. In an instant, the bird moves from the distance to standing directly in front of me, staring at me with those glowing eyes. It doesn’t reach out, though; it simply watches me. Then the words fully form in my head, as if it’s communicating telepathically, Beware of Boru’s circle.

  “You usually don’t see your type out and about without your companion,” the voice of the cab driver interrupts my vision, and I quickly open my eyes, my hand tightly gripping the door.

  What the hell was that about? I wonder.

  “Is this official business or something?” the cabbie asks, and it finally registers that he’s talking to me.

  He peers into the rearview mirror, and I freeze, my mouth hanging open. Staring back at me are eyes that are not human. They appear to be slits, like those you would see on a reptile. While the man looks as though he has mostly human features, his nose is made up of only two diagonal slits, and his skin is covered in green scales.

  Quickly I find my voice and yell, “Stop the car!”

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, looking around the street as if trying and figure out what might be upsetting me.

  “Let me out!” I scream.

  I don’t hesitate when the cab brakes. I toss a ten-dollar bill behind me onto the seat and take off out the door. There is no way I’m getting near that thing. I’m getting worse. I need to get to Joe’s and fast. I stare at the sidewalk as I pass through the crowds of people on the street. I wonder if they can tell something is wrong with me. Do they look at me and see a woman who is coming unraveled?

  Glancing up to see how far I am from the cross street, I stop. I can’t move. I can only watch as dozens of people pass on either side of me. Mixed in with regular people are unimaginable creatures. Some are spectacularly beautiful with glistening skin that shimmers in the sunlight, or have delicate fairy-like wings perched on their backs. Others look more like something you would imagine a demon to look, with massive horns emerging from their head.

  They see me, they notice me in the crowd, and each nod their head, then keep walking, many talking to regular people. The humans the beings are speaking with do not seem alarmed. In fact, they don’t appear to think anything is out of the ordinary at all.

  I’m imagining everything. I continue to tell myself this over and over again as I race toward Joe’s office. Taking off into a fast walk, I am determined to get there as soon as possible. An attractive man with deep blue eyes catches my attention as I pass him. Instinctively, my eyes follow him as I turn my head to watch his Adonis-like body walk away from me. My breath catches in my throat when I see a long blue tail emerging from his backside.

  Focus on the sidewalk. Turning back around, I walk even quicker. When I reach Joe’s office, I’m practically running.

  Thrusting open the door, I burst inside, slamming it closed behind
me. I slip the deadbolt into place, and then fall to the floor, panting heavily, trying to catch my breath. “Joe!” I manage to yell at last.

  The door that leads to the living quarters at the back of Joe’s office opens and then immediately closes. Sweat is running off my face and pooling on the ground around me. At last I manage to catch my breath. “Joe!” I shout again.

  “He’s not going to answer you,” I hear Desmond say, as he emerges from around one of the dusty, old bookcases. Growing up, I used to love looking through Joe’s old books. Most of them are leather-bound and look as though they come from another time, a world completely separate from our own. Joe has always been a big fantasy buff, reading books on all kinds of mythological creatures. I have trouble believing we’re related sometimes. While he loves studying life, I’m determined to live it.

  “Oh Jesus, Des, am I glad to see you,” I say, sitting upright. “You will not believe the day I’m having.”

  Desmond crosses the room and reaches out a hand to help me up. When I rise, I can see his eyes are red, and there is pain in them like I’ve never witnessed before. His first words finally register with me. He’s not going to answer you.

  “Des, where’s Joe?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, Tynder. I never should have left him alone … I know better. Damn it! How could I have been so foolish?”

  “Where’s my grandfather?” I demand, panic flooding over me. None of the visions I’ve been having seem to matter anymore. Nothing matters except seeing Joe.

  “He was acting weird. I should have known something was up. He gave me this long shopping list. I told him it could wait until we could go together, but he insisted. And when I came back … oh God…” Desmond trails off.