by Scott Eder
Open. Effective. Mysterious. The central pyre and large torches placed atop columns set around the perimeter walls and throughout the open spaces provided the only light. Shadows danced at the edges of the flickering firelight and distorted the patron’s faces, adding to the atmosphere of anonymity.
Nice. Dev recognized the lure of a place like this for those in the public eye. It’s the perfect escape.
He shielded a yawn.
While loud and driving, the music didn’t come off as strident or painful. He expected to have a splitting headache within the first two minutes, but found himself tapping his foot and nodding to the beat.
With a half embarrassed grin, Wren excused herself, dancing her way through the throng in the direction of the ladies’ room.
Dev heard the footsteps behind him and turned as the waiter delivered their drinks. Closing his eyes, he swirled the glass and savored the unique scent of fine scotch. It jumped up and tickled the hair in his nose.
“A votre santé!” He inclined his head to the server and sipped. The first taste of the amber liquid burned, but tasted so good. He took another swallow to chase the napalm trail down his throat.
“Another, sir?”
“Hit me.”
The bartender produced the bottle from under the table and poured a double. Dev nodded and started in.
He felt warm. No, hot. He felt hot, delightfully so, and fuzzy. Yeah, hot and fuzzy. The liquid heat seeped into his bones. Hey, where’s, um, where’s…Wren? Yeah, Wren.
The second glass went down quicker than the first. Within seconds he found it full again, but a single gulp solved that problem.
I feel good.
He hadn’t had more than one drink in years and knew he should stop, but by some strange alcoholic magic, his octagonal glass never emptied.
A sign. He sucked back another. People and objects around him fuzzed into blobs of muted, swirling color. The music distorted, attacked his equilibrium until the room spun, and he grabbed hold of the bar to keep from falling over.
Where is that girl?
He was alone, as usual. Has to be that way. She’s not safe with me. No one is. Had he known the price of becoming an elemental warrior, he might have chosen differently. Perhaps death would have been better than living through the centuries without….
He took another drink, but the miracle glass had run dry. Rage erupted. At the empty glass, at the bartender, at the club, at the world.
That’s when the flame called to him.
He heard a pop followed by a long drawn out hiss. He jerked his head up, away from his baleful stare at the offending glass, to the central fire. It crackled and whispered in his ears, singing its siren song to his troubled spirit.
Yes, my old friend, I hear you.
Fire. To combat the memories and the infernal beast deep inside him, he needed warmth. He called to the flames. They flickered in response, leaned toward him. Nothing else existed for Dev, only he and the element that was as much a part of him as his own flesh.
He drew it into him, pulled a trickle from the inferno and absorbed it into his chest.
More.
The trickle grew to a steady flow.
More.
The heat intensified and roiled inside him. He had gone too long without the intimate kiss of the flame and he yearned for more. There was no pain, never any pain within his element, only…completion, fulfillment, but he still wanted more.
With a simple act of will, he opened himself fully to the conflagration. An invisible torrent of molten fire bored into him, melded his spirit with the pure essence of the flame and ignited his blood. It raged and screamed through his system.
I AM FIRE.
Dev held something in his hand. The glass. Oh, yes, the empty glass. He dipped his head, lips parted in a grimace. He channeled the heat and energy into his hands, to his fingertips. At first, the hard surface maintained its shape, but soon wavered under the blistering onslaught. The double-thick walls folded in on themselves in a smoking heap.
“You’re going to pay for that.” An icy voice blew apart his fiery solitude.
Chapter 3
RUSH HOUR ENDED HOURS AGO, BUT the traffic on I-275 crawled. Cassidy Sinclair drove home on autopilot while her brain rehashed the last few wasted hours of her life. After a big yawn, she blew an errant strand of auburn hair out of her face and noticed a new billboard on the side of the road that announced the grand opening of the Daegon Gray wing at St. Matthew’s hospital. The date posted on the sign fell exactly one week from today.
Are you kidding me?
Four hours. She’d stood for four hours on a marble tile floor in three inch heels with those damn pointy toes. And for what? To hear the President of Daegon Gray announce the opening of the new hospital wing.
I could have saved my poor feet and read the sign. She scrunched her toes against the floor mat and winced as they cracked and throbbed.
Four hours of listening to a lobby full of overpaid, surgically enhanced, bimbette news anchors cluck about Alexander Gray. Oh, he was so dreamy. Oh, he was so rich. Oh, he was so…give me a break.
The worst part about the evening was that the press conference never happened. Every thirty minutes that blond chippy from the Mayor’s office popped her head out of Gray’s butt long enough to announce that the meeting would start in a few minutes. Then, at around nine o’clock, she came out to say that Mr. Gray received an urgent call and had to leave.
Asshole.
Cassidy took a deep breath. And then another. Ran slender fingers through shoulder-length hair. A nice long soak in the pool, that’s what she needed. That, and a glass of red wine.
Yeah. And my imaginary pool boy Carlos, with the washboard abs, wide shoulders and magical hands, will start at my feet and rub his way to the top.
She rolled her head. Tight muscles stretched, joints popped.
St. Matthew’s. She’d blocked that place out of her mind, but this assignment dragged it back. An older hospital, it prided itself on the care of its patients. The doctors rallied around the belief that they didn’t treat patients, they treated people. During her previous life as an EMT, Cassidy saw many of the St. Matthew’s doctors and nurses go far beyond what the insurance companies would approve of in order to treat a person. They didn’t have the latest technology or whiz-bang medical gadgets, but they had years of experience and a truck load of compassion.
If it were up to her, she would have traded that compassion for an up-to-date burn unit.
Don’t go there.
She laid on the horn. “Come on, move it.”
Let it go.
Now an entry-level reporter for a local rag, she wrote fluff pieces for minimum wage. The money wasn’t important. Her parents had left her a few million and a nice house on Anna Maria Island that backed up to Tampa Bay. While being a reporter had never been part of her life’s plan, it got her out of bed in the morning and forced her to mingle with the living again.
Cassidy slammed on the brakes and missed the car in front of her by inches. A long line of brake lights snaked out ahead of her.
Really? Tonight this happens to me? She wanted to cry. God, I just want to get home.
She smacked the steering wheel. Tears built up behind the dam of her closed eyelids.
NO.
Cassidy jumped as the first notes of ACDC’s Hells Bells burst from her cell and scared away the traitorous leakage.
Saved by the bells.
The adrenaline surge sent her arm scrabbling for the phone hiding near her bag and briefcase on the passenger seat. By the second bong she flipped the top and snapped at the caller.
“Yeah, yeah. Hello?”
“Sinclair.” Eric Rancor, Cassidy’s editor, had a high-pitched, edgy voice that colored every conversation with a sense of impending doom. “I heard about the press conference; or, should I say, lack thereof.”
Great. “And?”
“We’ve got nothing to run and I need a Daegon Gray story. Cl
ub Mastodon is on your way home.”
“Yeah, but I’m not feeling very we—”
“Good. Head on over and see what’s doin’.” Eric paused, probably trying to figure out how to grease her up. “I need your take on the club atmosphere.”
“They won’t let me in. You know, no press.”
“Talk to some of the people outside. See what they have to say. Maybe we’ll get lucky. You got this.” Click.
When Eric was done, he was done. No, “Goodbye.” No, “See you later.” He was all click-you-very-much, now do what I told you to do.
I just want to go home.
Like a good reporter, she sucked it up and checked the exits to see how far she was from the club.
Chapter 4
WREN LEANED HER FISTS ON THE sink and stared at her reflection in a restroom mirror shaped like a banana leaf. The owners had carried the primordial motif into the bathroom with bamboo stalls, large ferns and more flickering torches.
Coming here was a mistake. I’m supposed to keep him out of trouble, not drag him into it.
“Great,” she said to herself, “Now I have another incident to report. That makes like, what, a hundred in as many days. Stillman must be getting tired of hearing about Dev’s extracurricular activities.”
Wren thought it weird that, when it came to official Knights Elementalis concerns, her brain referred to him as Stillman, Precept of the Knights Elementalis. For the personal stuff, though, or when they were alone, he went by the more exalted title of Father.
She frowned at her reflection.
Ugh. I never could get this make-up thing right.
She snatched a linen towel from the stack on the counter and dabbed at her blotchy mascara. The little black blobs smeared into dark smudges under her eyes. It made her look tired and old.
Oh, what was I thinking? She wet the towel and scrubbed her eyes. That he’s finally going to notice me because I get all dolled up for one night? Silly, girl.
Fresh and clean, Wren tossed the towel in the bin and paused for one last inspection.
“Much better.”
A big man slammed into the restroom door, knocking it off its hinges. He caromed off the wall-mounted vending machine and crashed into the open stall.
Wren crouched and reached for the knife she kept strapped to her hip, but came up empty. She’d left it back in the condo. Duh.
Her heart thumped, shaking her ribcage. It filled the silence left by the missing beat of the music that had died at some point in the past few minutes. Grunts, groans and curses sounded outside the bathroom door.
What in the world?
“Hey, man…,” she looked into the stall, “You okay?”
Eyes wild, skin pale, he pulled himself up and rushed out the door without a word.
When the screams started, Wren bolted from the restroom and dove into a stampede of terrified revelers surging toward the main doors.
Can’t leave that man alone for five minutes. The human tide swept her away from Dev until she ducked low and found a seam. Fighting against the press, she rolled off chests, bounced off hips, and shoved her way through. The pungent air, a fruity perfume mixed with sweat and desperation, made it hard to breathe.
Above the immediate roar, she heard Dev’s bellow, urging everyone out.
She spun around a mountain of a man wearing a wrestler’s luchador mask. Hey, that was El Jefe. I saw him on TV las—. A random punch to the gut set her back and she lost precious ground. Stupid, girl. Focus.
With a final twist and heave, she broke through into the clear and got her first glimpse of the situation. Dev pushed the last of the crowd toward the exit and faced off against an older woman in tight white leather. Curls of fluffy white smoke drifted up from his clothing.
This is so not good.
Four bodies littered the ground, limbs sprawled, skin gray as ash. The woman held a beautiful young starlet in a slinky black dress by the back of her neck. The girl flailed her arms and kicked wildly, but couldn’t break free.
“Let her go!” Dev charged, but didn’t get five feet before he bounced off a wall of shadow that sprang up from the pools of darkness at his feet.
Stunned, Wren watched Dev juke and shift in his attempt to get around the wall, but nothing worked. Shadow blocked his every move.
Wren dove through the opening in the bar to her right and crawled around to a spot about five feet from Dev. She had never seen anything stop him before. Once he charged, he won. Period. Although, she’d never seen him in an actual fight before, only sparring matches against the other Knights.
From the nearby bar prep station, Wren grabbed two small paring knives. Not much of an arsenal, but it would have to do. What she wouldn’t give for her throwing knives.
With her back against the outer curve of black marble, she peeked over the rim.
The woman sneered at Dev over the starlet’s shoulder as the girl’s movements became sluggish and stopped. The color bled from her skin like the unfortunates already on the floor. With a nonchalant flick of her wrist, the woman dropped the body and stepped over the ungainly heap to face Dev.
With the girl’s death, he prowled behind the wall like a caged tiger. Wren saw the signs of his mounting rage—tight jaw, hard eyes, hands alternately clenching and unclenching.
He’s losing it. With a glance toward the front door, she verified that the last of the guests had made it out. Good. No audience.
“How does it feel, Knight of Flame, to know you let these people die?” The woman spoke, her voice a sultry purr.
He would never just let people die.
Dev responded with a murderous stare. He tested the shadow wall with a punch, found it strong, unyielding. Smoke billowed out of his suit jacket.
This close, the woman seemed much younger than Wren originally thought. Long white hair framed beautiful, pale features. The skimpy white leather skirt and vest accentuated her glamorous curves. She could be a porcelain goddess of lust, until you found her jet black eyes.
Wren shivered at the hate that emanated from those twin onyx orbs.
“You are mine, Fire Knight.” The woman raised her hands, palms out, fingers up. Hundreds of misty, translucent forms slithered from the shadows all around. Within their first seconds of quasi-life, they solidified into long, gray snakes.
Wren clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle her scream, grateful for the two feet of rock bar separating her from the summoned serpents. Deep-rooted fear froze her limbs.
Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes?
A multitude of forked tongues flicked in an out, searching for the scent of their prey. They converged on Dev. He continued pacing as the reptile army drew near, paying them no notice, eyes riveted to the woman.
Within striking distance, the first of the attackers reared back—mouths open, dark fangs bared.
Wren couldn’t turn away. She wanted to scream at Dev, urge him to do something, but the words locked in her throat.
Dev frowned and stopped pacing. A wave of orange flame rolled out from his feet and over the snakes. They writhed in the conflagration, flipping and coiling back on themselves until the fire burned them down to crisp black husks.
The flames didn’t reach her, but the scorching temperature of Dev’s pest control washed over Wren, melting her fear and freeing her to move.
The woman in white pulled more darkness from the shadows, gathering it into her hands.
Dev ripped off his smoking jacket and tossed it to the side. His eyes remained glued to the figure before him. Wisps of smoke rose from his shoulders. Most of his shirt had burned away and a dagger hilt, angled down, stuck out of the worn chain harness strapped to his back. His pants smoldered. Patches of Armani wool burst into flame. Charred ends of fabric disintegrated, opening a window to the pink skin underneath.
The heat he gave off was oppressive. Between the bonfire behind her and Dev in front of her, Wren felt like a rotisserie chicken. Sweat rolled down her arms and between her breasts.
Despite the swelter, she inched closer, and looked for an opening.
Knees bent, weight on the balls of his feet, Dev twisted his right arm behind his back and grasped the hilt of Cinder, his elemental dagger. As his fingers closed around the ancient weapon, the amber crystal at the base of the blade sparked to life.
The woman unleashed a smile—frigid and fierce. The shadow wall dropped.
Dev ripped Cinder from its sheath and leaped forward, halving the distance in a blur.
The roiling shadow in her hands surged forward, knocked Dev back, and wrapped his arms and legs in murky restraints.
“Dev.” Wren blurted, concern overriding her caution, then ducked back behind the bar.
“Ah, there you are little one.” The statuesque woman spoke, voice calm, untroubled. “I was wondering when you’d come out to play.”
“Run, Wren.” Dev whispered. He strained against the bands that circled his arms and legs. “Get the car. Pick me up out front.”
“But I can help you.”
“By all means, Develor Quinteele, let her stay.” The woman gazed at Wren. “I don’t know your name, child.”
“Never mind her. Just go.” Dev urged. “I’ll handle this.”
All that was left of his pants were a few fast-burning threads that clung to the curve of his butt. Wren couldn’t help but stare at the ripple and play of taut muscles that strained against his constraints. Then she imagined the view from the evil albino witch’s perspective.
That bitch.
Even though Dev was wrapped in shadowy ropes of energy that, for all she knew, would squeeze him into sushi, all she could think about was how that nasty slut had a prime view of her Knight in all his glory.
Wren growled and pinched the tip of the paring knife in her right hand. If I distract her, Dev can get free. Heart thumping, she exploded up, over the edge of the bar. Line of vision clear, she sighted on her target, aimed and threw. Despite the improvised weapon’s awkward balance, the blade speared the corpse-like flesh of the woman’s forehead.