PRAISE FOR E. J. MELLOW
“Lyrical, vibrant, imaginative. E. J. Mellow’s striking, original voice will draw you into a mesmerizing world.”
—Emma Raveling, author of the Ondine Quartet
“E. J. is one of those authors who deserve to be immortal just to continue writing mind-blowing novels for their readers.”
—Book Vogue
“It’s so easy to lose yourself in Mellow’s evocative and engaging prose.”
—Charlie Holmberg, author of The Paper Magician
OTHER TITLES BY E. J. MELLOW
The Mousai Series
Song of the Forever Rains
The Dreamland Series
The Dreamer
The Divide
The Destined
Stand-Alone Novel
The Animal under the Fur
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2021 by E. J. Mellow
All rights reserved.
No part of this book 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 express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542026086
ISBN-10: 1542026083
Cover illustration and design by Micaela Alcaino
For Phoenix,
my fire-born sister,
whose flame dances
to its own rhythm
CONTENTS
Map
She was second. . .
PROLOGUE
A considerable time. . .
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Months later, when. . .
CHAPTER FIFTY
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
She was second born out of fire and rose,
Gifted with beautiful twisting and twirling,
But careful, my darlings, when reaching too closely,
For you’ll be cursed with more than a yearning
If you dance with the daughter of flame
If you dance with the daughter of flame
She may flicker like honey and sunshine,
She may be as light as the day,
But easy, my dearest, for a sharp tip be hiding
in her softly curving sway
If you dance with the daughter of flame
If you dance with the daughter of flame
So look lively, my sweet, my innocent pet,
If you get caught in one of her turns;
Her touch may start soft, start silky, start soothing,
But it will always end in a burn
When you dance with the daughter of flame
When you dance with the daughter of flame
—A verse from Achak’s Mousai song
PROLOGUE
A pirate stood watching a man die.
It was not an unusual occurrence given such a profession as his, yet this time he had nothing to do with the matter.
One might wonder what sort of macabre court invited guests to watch someone be tortured. The answer was quite simple: the Thief Kingdom’s. The crowd surrounding the pirate pushed closer, their ornate disguises poking into his worn leather coat, hungry for a better glimpse of the madness taking place in the center of the room. The smell of overperfumed bodies, sweat, and desperation crept under his mask, invading his nose. And not for the first time this evening, he was reminded of where he stood: in the most ruthless and debasing kingdom in all of Aadilor, whose lenient laws invited large purses and larger fools, trading secrets and heavy coin for nights of folly and sin.
The pirate had attended tonight not only out of curiosity but also for his own ambition. He had fought hard to build a new life after abandoning the old. And while his current existence mirrored little of what he’d left behind, that was rather the point. Now his decisions were entirely his own, no longer weighed down by history or expectations.
At least these were the things he told himself.
While he had not set out to become a pirate, he certainly didn’t see reason in fighting the delinquent those in his past thought him to be.
After all, he had not been born a man to act in half measures.
And so he had commandeered a ship and recruited a crew to serve him. Now this, he thought: an opportunity to be the first pirate captain in the Thief King’s court.
That constant ambitious hunger clawed like a greedy beast in his chest, for he knew he would do everything in his power to secure a seat at court. Even if a small part of him regretted entering the opulent black palace.
His attention slid away from the cloaked and covered figures around him and back to the performance.
The pirate had seen many die, but never in so beautiful a way as this.
In the center of the onyx hall performed three women: singer, dancer, and violinist.
Their liquid-hot song and intoxicating rhythm expanded from them in a rainbow of colors, their threads of power hitting unceasingly against a prisoner chained in the middle, a whipping of notes punishing skin, but instead of screams of pain, the man moaned his pleasure.
Here were goddesses incarnate, brought from the Fade to lure the living to the dead, for their powers spoke of old magic. A time when the gods had not been lost, when Aadilor had been washed in their gifts.
Their costumes were lavish, spools of inky hues, beads braided into silks that dripped into feathers and embroidered lace. Ornate horned masks covered the trio’s identities. And though their performance was not directed at him, the pirate was still washed with a cold dew of desperation, felt the strong pull of their magic.
Gripping.
Teasing.
Tempting.
Devouring.
It was a weaving of powers, meant to bewitch the mind and imprison the body. A spell of madness, it was, and the captive in the center
its puppet.
The prisoner howled in agonizing ecstasy, one hand reaching for the dancer as she skimmed teasingly near. His chains clanked against their restraints, keeping him out of reach, and he flopped to the black marble floor in a fit of anguish, wriggling and clawing at his face. His nails dragged through rivulets of blood dripping from his nose and ears, mixing with the puddle of urine beneath him.
And the pirate watched.
Never had he witnessed such vicious beauty, but he was learning quickly that in this world, the most dazzling things were fatal.
And these three truly sparkled.
Any with the Sight could see their all-consuming power, for only those with magic could detect the magic in others.
If the pirate were to use his gifts, his would shine green.
The executioners swam in an intoxicating mix of colors, ever expanding from the center of the room where they performed.
“The Mousai,” a woman had whispered upon him first entering court.
The King’s deadly muses.
Deadly indeed, thought the pirate.
His skin beaded with sweat behind his silver mask as his mind spun under the consuming melody echoing in the hall. The dancer pulsed her hips to the beat, sending bursts of her fire-tinged magic into the air, a hand clapping awake a dream. His body shivered in longing.
The singer’s voice split into three, four, five—a soaring soprano of golden threads from her lips that followed the violet chords gliding from the violin.
The pirate had never wanted more. But wanted what exactly, he could not say. He only felt need. Desire. Desperation. And beneath it all, hollow sorrow. A painful emptiness, for he could never have what his soul yearned for.
Their power.
Ouuurs, his magic cooed, reaching out. We want them to be ours.
Yield, he commanded silently, tugging back. I am your master, not they.
Tightening his hands into fists, the pirate tried to keep his wits about him. He could hear the moans of the giftless court members beside him, held by chains as if prisoners themselves. He wondered why any normal mortal would have stayed. With blood so easily manipulated, certainly they’d known what would come? But this was the allure of the Thief Kingdom’s court, he supposed. To be close to such power, to experience such deadly euphoria, and live. A tale to boast of later. Listen to what I have been clever enough to survive.
He peered around the crowd, every face disguised, wondering who else were potential court candidates. Which one of them would gain access to the palace, be invited to the most decadent debauchery and all the secrets and connections that came with it? He knew to be asked here of all nights, to witness what was no doubt a mere sliver of the king’s power, was a test. Everything in this world was a test.
He had already lost once.
Now, he would win.
A lick of heat ran down his body, drawing his attention to the dancer as she twisted past, the teasing scent of honeysuckle drifting in her wake.
There was not a sliver of her skin or lock of hair exposed. Her face was hidden behind beadwork and silks, even her legs to her toes covered, but she moved as if nude, as if looking upon her voluptuous curves was a lewd experience. Yet her identity remained utterly obscured.
As did her companions’.
Such care to remain hidden while being seen.
As everyone practices here, thought the pirate. Well, except the prisoner.
His mask had been ripped from him as he was dragged into the center of the room. The final debasement of his sentence. He had cried out then, covering his wrinkled features with his hands, shielding his graying hair from eyes. Even with an impending death sentence, it appeared no one wanted their sins of the Thief Kingdom to follow them, not even to the Fade.
The tempo picked up, the violinist running bow over strings at a dizzying speed. The singer’s voice soared ever higher, shaking the chandeliers as the dancer twisted again and again and again around the prisoner.
Their powers spun, sending gusts of wind through the hall.
Kneeling, the captive threw his head back as he strained against his chains toward the ceiling. Their magic swarmed high. He let out a final scream, a plea to the Mousai, as their spell, laced purple, honey gold, and crimson, pumped into his body, streaming endlessly until, finally, his ragged form swallowed it whole. He glowed like a star as the pop, pop, pop of his bones breaking echoed in the hall.
The light pulsing beneath his skin extinguished at the final snap of his spine.
The prisoner crumbled to the ground.
Lifeless.
His soul sent to the Fade.
A terrifying beat of quiet settled over the hall, an echoing loss of the Mousai’s magic, now gone.
A whimper from one of the giftless.
And then—
The chamber erupted in cheers.
The Mousai bowed with regal grace, as though they hadn’t just melted a man from the inside out. In fact, the pirate sensed the energy in the room holding a tinged afterglow of lust.
Even he found himself panting.
At the realization, his intentions sharpened, the fog muddling his mind lifting.
He was not a man prone to wild proclivities. To have nearly forgotten himself sent a wave of uneasiness through him.
Doors at the far end of the hall swung open, and the crowd surged through them, into the postperformance party. But the pirate remained motionless, his gaze on the forgotten body of the prisoner. He studied features that held hints of highborn society before faceless guards came to carry the corpse away.
It was known that the prisoner had been a court member. His rank, in the end, seemed to have done little to save him. It appeared the Thief King only accepted thieves who stole for him, not from him.
A good thing in the end, for this meant a seat had opened up tonight.
But was this the world the pirate truly wanted to be a part of?
Yes, his magic purred.
Yes, he agreed.
The question was how to acquire the necessary power to move more freely in it.
The pirate roamed between the various masks surrounding him, taking in their painted skin and shrouded fashions. The burden of keeping one’s identity hidden here was a chink in one’s armor. There were many secrets locked tight in this palace, in this kingdom, vices not fit for gentle ears and respectable society. But with secrets came the opportunity for leverage. And leverage was what the pirate was determined to gather, for the path to priceless treasure came in many forms.
A reflection caught his eye, the swaying of the dancer’s hips twinkling her onyx beadwork as she wove through the guests. He took in her ample silhouette, her fiery mist of magic radiating with her movements. Like an approaching snake, a plan began to slide into place.
As if sensing a predator, the dancer turned, horned headdress standing tall in the crowd. And though her features were covered, the pirate knew the moment her eyes met his, for a river of hot current smacked into him.
But then she was moving away, disappearing into the shadowed court.
He started toward her, and as he did, his nerves buzzed in anticipation of what he’d do next.
Yesss, his magic cooed in delight at his daring thoughts, we are not cowards like they.
No, he agreed, we are not.
With a sure hand, the pirate removed his mask.
The warmth of the room hugged his already-warm skin. He took a deep breath in, the scent of freedom running sweetly along his taste buds. Those he passed stared with shocked whispers as they took in his features, the first of their potential kind to reveal themselves.
He dutifully ignored them.
His identity would not be his weakness here. Not like all these others who clung to their disguises and false securities.
Let them know me, he thought.
Let my sins follow.
He had already been called a monster. Why not live up to the name?
After all, monsters were needed to make
heroes.
And Alōs Ezra would become the kind of monster who made heroes of all.
A considerable time later, years, in fact, when wounds are old scars
CHAPTER ONE
When throwing knives across a crowded tavern in the Thief Kingdom, you were one of two things: an excellent marksman with everything to gain, or a poor marksman with nothing to lose.
Whether you were the former or the latter, you were most certainly a fool.
Niya Bassette happened to admire foolishness.
So it was without great surprise that she let loose a blade straight into the throng of unsuspecting patrons at the exact moment her two sisters did. They whizzed, end over end—one a hair’s length from clipping an ear, another sliding between the fingers of a hand in motion, a third nipping off the glowing end of a cigar—all to stick with a wet thwack into an apple a bartender had been eating on the opposite side of the room.
Had been, of course, being the key words, given his meal now found itself pinned to a column beside him.
“My knife struck first!” exclaimed Niya, her heartbeat giving an extra thrilled thump as she twirled to face her two sisters. “Pay up.”
“I fear your eyesight is going, dear,” said Larkyra, adjusting her pearl disguise. “It is my blade that is in the middle.”
“Yes,” agreed Arabessa, “but it’s clearly my dagger which is deepest pierced, which means—”
“Nothing,” finished Niya, a bubbling of annoyance stirring. “Which means absolutely nothing.”
“Given you are now in my debt for two more silver,” said Arabessa, her brass mask shining in the tavern’s torchlight, “I understand your resistance to agree, but—”
“WHO DARES THROW BLADES AT ME?” bellowed the bartender from behind the bar, interrupting what Niya had expected to be a long-winded standoff.
The tavern drowned in a thick silence; every disguised face in the building swiveled toward the commotion.
“Theys did!” a man in a long-nosed mask shrieked from the opposite side of the room, pointing an accusing finger toward Niya and her sisters. “Theys threw thems at me earlier and put a hole right through me’s hat.”
“Better your hat than your head,” grumbled Niya, eyes narrowed at the informing weasel.
The barman slowly turned their way as the crowd parted like a rip in a stocking.
Dance of a Burning Sea Page 1