Fire and Bone

by Rachel A. Marks

  He searches my face. A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth.

  I lean in to him, resting my head on his shoulder, and hope I can hold on to this feeling—of home.

  I stand alone in the shadow of the large stones and watch the representatives of the five Houses walk onto the stage. My heart races as they take their places on the large pentagram painted in the center of the courtyard. Marius of Brighid first, stepping onto the point of fire. Then Gwyn of Lyr, walking forward to stand on water. Beatrix of Arwen next, moving to the point of air. Finbar of Cernunnos, stepping up to earth. And last, Princess Mara, the creature who destroyed my sister and would like to do the same to me, slinks over to her place on the point of spirit, a vision of pale skin, long dark hair, and deadly beauty.

  A few hours ago, a very stiff alfar named Ira, according to the badge on his shirt, explained where I’m supposed to stand and what the order of things will be. For such a huge deal, it seems to be a fairly simple process.

  Faelan stands off to the side, waiting for me to enter the courtyard before he joins me. The moment is supposed to represent my entrance into the world alone, according to Ira.

  The crowd on the other side of the courtyard appears to be large, but it’s difficult to tell from where I’m standing. I know Kieran is out there somewhere. And Aelia, who was very annoyed that the priests chose to use the ancient wardrobe for this ceremony rather than a modern one. She couldn’t help me accessorize because I was only allowed to wear my torque, so she helped me get this toga thing to look a little less awkward by tying it with a golden cord.

  A hum begins in the distance, and five robed druids, male and female, walk forward, holding torches aloft, a wordless song droning from them. They weave through the crowd, their voices rising and falling, sending the eerie vibration through the courtyard. Once they enter the stage, each takes their spot behind a House on the pentagram.

  The envoy to the Cast steps forward onto a raised platform off to the side. He’s clothed in robes similar to the priests’ but his are pure white, unmarked by stitching or design. “We gather to welcome a new spirit to the fold,” he says to the onlookers. “The second Daughter of Fire will raise the level of the House she claims. She will be a gem for the one who holds her.” He turns toward my place in the shadows. “Daughter of Fire, come forward. It is time for your naming.”

  My pulse picks up. My feet are stuck.

  Just one step at a time, Sage.

  I move, my whole body shivering as I walk into the moonlight and enter the courtyard.

  The crowd stirs, and I stand straighter, lifting my chin as I step onto the raised platform beside the envoy.

  “Kneel, fire child,” he says.

  I obey, trying to ready myself for what he’ll say.

  “The Cast that watches over you has chosen a title for their new ward.” He places his palm on my head. A surge of heat washes over me, and my skin shimmers, gold light pulsing up my arms. He continues, “You are to be Princess of Hope and Morning, your life symbolizing rebirth for us all. As fire destroys, it also cleanses and readies the earth for new growth. So it shall be with you.”

  My breath catches at his words as they hit me, soaking in. And the weight in my bones from the last two weeks—the last eighteen years of my life—seems to lift off me.

  “Now you choose, child,” he says. And he holds out his arm, ushering me forward.

  I breathe in and step off the platform, walking toward the circle. Faelan joins me as I approach. But I pause for a moment, coming to the edge of the painted blood circle. I look to Marius, and he bows his head slightly. I give him a small nod in return.

  I think of my choice, how much it will mean to so many. How I don’t want to hurt anyone. I want to do the thing that’ll hold the most value. But as much as I feel like I’m a part of this new world now, the core of who I am is simple: I’m a girl who’s looked her whole life for one thing.

  Just one.

  I reach out for Faelan’s hand, and he offers it easily.

  This. This is what my heart wants more than anything: family and trust. And now that I’ve found it, I’ll protect it. I’ll protect it with my life, my heart, even my soul.

  I give Faelan a small smile and squeeze his hand, wishing I could say out loud what I’m feeling. Then I look across the circle at Princess Mara, and our eyes meet. My smile grows as hers fades.

  Because I see it now. She’s afraid.

  Of me.

  And with sudden understanding, I know how to make her pay.

  I let Faelan’s fingers slip from mine and step into the circle, staring straight at her, feeling Lily surface, my sister’s rage and my rage mingling, sending a sheen of fire across my palms. So much was stolen. So much . . .

  But I can claim it all back, everything—the lost years, the lost blood. I’ll rip it from her bony fingers.

  I watch her unease from across the circle, and my own thirst for justice grows. My need to stop her, to protect what I’ve found here.

  I know what she loves. I know what I can steal. And I know I’m not alone once I begin this.

  So I step toward her, keeping my eyes locked with hers. As loudly as I can, I announce, “I claim Morrígan.” Then I smile and whisper sweetly so that only my new princess can hear: “You hurt my family, bitch. Your crown is about to be mine.”

  EPILOGUE

  KIERAN

  What was she thinking? Fool girl.

  I hurry down the hall toward the library, breaking the lock and opening the door with a wave of my hand when I’m still several yards away. Mara will return any minute with her entourage in tow, feeling vindicated, thinking she’s won. I’ll need to take precautions, begin to change my plans—to what, I have no clue. But I certainly can’t start a war in the House now, not with Sage in the crosshairs.

  I’m going to throttle that bastard Faelan for giving the girl so much bloody free will.

  Once I’m in the library, I shut the door behind me and call out, “She’s gone and done the unthinkable, brother.”

  The raven swoops down from above, landing on the desk lamp. It screeches and pecks in my direction. I know my brother is in there somewhere behind those black eyes. I haven’t managed to find a way to understand him since Mara found him three months ago and held him here, but I’m hoping he’ll finally understand me.

  “I broke the spirit tether,” I say as I move to the stained-glass window, opening it and revealing the night sky. “The counter spell will only last a minute or two, so you need to go. Now. Time’s run out, no more foolishness. Mara will be on a tear.” I’ve tried to get him to fly away several times, but he remains in this room, imprisoned by our sister. I don’t understand it. No matter how many times I’ve found him an escape, he stays.

  A foolish part of me wonders if he’s protecting me from her wrath—if he escapes, she’ll know I’m the one who released him. But the realist in me is fairly sure that my brother is no longer capable of thought like that. After living inside the raven for so long, his thoughts are those of a bird, rarely more complex than the need for a meal or a shiny bauble.

  I’m not sure how Mara discovered him after all of this time—or why she hasn’t destroyed him. I’ve known what happened since the day I found Lily in the glade, surrounded by the pieces of his body. My brother had tucked a note to me in my favorite map, explaining that his raven would house his spirit until he could find another vessel, and Lily would be inside Fionn—though that turned out different than he thought. But I never saw the raven again, until three months ago when Mara brought him to me, triumphant at her discovery. He’s been stuck in those hollow bones and onyx feathers for nearly seven horrible centuries.

  Horrible for me, that is. By putting Mara on the throne, he left me without a protector. While he’s been flying around, living out this twisted fae tale, I’ve been in hell.

  Bran squawks again and hops down onto the desk, pecking at a stack of paper.

  “Please, brother,” I say. “Y
ou need to go. I won’t be able to protect both of you. Lily will be lost if Sage is consumed by our sister. You should at least care about that.” I step closer to the bird, hands turning to fists at my side to keep myself from reaching out and wringing its bloody neck. “Hear me, dammit.”

  Bran pecks at the papers again, even more insistent. And this time I notice a symbol on the top paper in the stack.

  It’s a flame knot in a circle. Burned in. Was that there before?

  The raven pecks again, and I watch, stunned, as a second knot burns in beside the first, the paper sizzling as an unseen brand stamps the symbol for spirit on it.

  The bird created the mark. But it doesn’t make sense.

  “What am I meant to do?” I ask, sensing my brother may be instructing me on how to fight back against Mara. But I’ve been fighting against my sister in secret for all these centuries, and what good has it done? She only gets stronger by the day.

  The raven pecks again below the two circles. And the Gaelic word for vase—or is it jar?—appears.

  No, vessel.

  Realization dawns on me. “You wish for me to find you a vessel?” I’ve looked already, with no success. It would take a very powerful demi to filter my brother’s magic once he begins to allow his power to flow through the blood again. “A new link could fail,” I explain. “I haven’t—”

  My brother tap, tap, taps harder on the paper with his beak. A new word appears, and my chest constricts as it forms in hissing embers.

  Kieran.

  I stare at my name. Then at the bird.

  Cold understanding filters through me then, as I see where this has always been leading. What my brother, the king, must’ve considered long ago.

  Me. My brother wants me as his vessel.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Every story has its own process. And along the road there are countless angels to help a tale find its way. This novel certainly had its fair share of heroes.

  I’m so very grateful to my agent, badass Rena Rossner, who reminded me more times than I could count that I could do this. You’re a fighter and a miracle worker, lady! And I’m beyond thankful to have you walking alongside me on this perilous journey of publishing.

  To the team at Skyscape, who make this publishing thing seem painless and work hard to let it be the great adventure I always dreamed it would be. To Adrienne—I’m so thrilled that you believed in this one, and I’m really hoping it’ll make you proud. To Marianna—you’re a visionary, lady! Thank you so much for bringing clarity to the crazy that I send you.

  A million hugs and boxes of chocolates to my writer friends, Merrie, Becky, Paul, and Mike, for your ready ears and red pens. Panera memories are the best memories. We’ll still be meeting in a booth when we get to Paradise.

  To my weekly savior and plotting guru, Catherine—what, in the name of pants, would this book have been without your amazingly helpful imagination? I don’t even want to know. Thank you for all the emergency chats! And for not laughing hysterically when I told you my silly idea.

  A big venti-sized hug to Angie for all our Starbucks chats and for helping me understand the goddess a little better through your eyes.

  Thank you to the Lit Bitches for your constant encouragement and acceptance. And to all my Codexian pals, I’m so very thankful we’re in the trenches together. You guys inspire me every day. I seriously can’t believe you still let me hang out with your talented selves.

  To the best bestie that ever was or will be, Cayse Day—you’re always willing to listen to my venting and feed me amazing food and fab wine when things look dim, then pour me more wine when they look great. Thank you for letting Dave ignore chores to read my books and give me his awesome feedback!

  To my mom—I’d buy you all of the KitKats on planet Earth and Mars if I could afford it. Thanks for putting up with me and my weird brain—of course, it’s kind of your own fault, so . . .

  To my amazing kiddos—there are no words for how grateful I am to you for all the slack you give me. You deserve a way better and more smarter mommy, but I know you’re okay with this crazy lady who would watch Friends reruns with you into eternity. Anyway, it’s a “moo point”—a cow’s opinion, that is—because you’re stuck with me.

  To my husband, my partner in crime, my lover, and my best friend—you made this nutty dream of mine possible, believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself, and challenging me not to give up when everything seemed hopeless. Even when it meant you had to be annoyed late into the night by the light from my computer screen. The waves in Heaven are gonna be awesome, sweetie, just for you.

  And, as always, I give you the glory, El Elyon, God of gods, and keeper of my heart. I rest beneath your wings . . .

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2014 Rachel A. Marks

  Rachel A. Marks is an award-winning writer, a professional artist, and a cancer survivor. She is the author of the Dark Cycle series, which includes Darkness Brutal, Darkness Fair, and Darkness Savage, and of the novella Winter Rose. Her art can be found on the covers of several New York Times and USA Today bestselling novels. She lives in Southern California with her husband, four kids, three chickens, two precocious pups, and a cat. You can find out more about her weird life on her website at www.RachelAnneMarks.com.