by Casey Hays
Casey Hays
Copyright © 2017 by Casey Hays
Editor: Anna Faulk
Graphic Designer: M.A. Phipps
We Got You Covered
BeSpoke Book Design
Published by Whispering Pages, LLC, an independently owned company.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Firebloods, bk 1 / by Casey Hays
326 p. 22.86 cm
ISBN 978-0-9905698-7-9
1. Paranormal Romance - - Fiction. 2. Urban Fantasy - - Fiction 3. Fantasy - -
I. Hays, Casey, 1972-
PZ7.H3149176 FIR 2017
[FIC]
Books by Casey Hays
The Cadence
A stand-alone YA Contemporary Fantasy
The Arrow's Flight Series
Breeder
The Archer
Master
The Arrow's Flight Novellas
The Scent of Lilac
A Heart of Flesh (forthcoming)
A Tongue of Fire (forthcoming)
A Soul of Stone (forthcoming)
About the Author
Casey Hays lives on the Eastern Plains of New Mexico and has been writing professionally since 2008. She has a deep love for God, music, and a good cup of coffee. Firebloods is her 6th published work and the first in a paranormal romance series. Find out more about Casey at www.whisperingpages.com
For Anna
who makes me better
Prelude
Angelica
When I was a little girl, my dad brought home a doll with the most beautiful angel’s wings. Silver wings lined with gold. He told me that the minute he saw her, he knew his little angel had to have her.
That would be me.
I named her Angelica, and I loved that doll. She was my pride and joy. One, because she was from Dad, but mostly, because she was resilient. I dragged her through the dirt in our backyard all day long and hugged her too tightly each night, but nothing could truly break her.
She fell in the bath once, and I thought I’d drowned her for good. My mom scooped her up and disappeared from the room. By the time I slipped into bed and pulled the covers up to my nose, she was safe in my arms again, fresh and beautiful. A few months later, I loved one of those silvery wings right off her back. Standing in the kitchen, tears welling, I held out my broken offering—again. Like always, Mom came to the rescue. She was very good at that once upon a time.
Back then, my parents were my world. My heroes. My champions. They could do nothing wrong in my mind, and I expected things to always be just as they were. Daddy would bring me surprise gifts for no reason at all; Mom would tuck me in each night with a prayer and a kiss on the tip of my nose. Life was exactly as it should be.
And then…
They found my dad’s body, almost five years ago near the main entrance to Washoe Lake State Park. I was twelve. The park ranger who found him said he was just thrown into a batch of wild cactus like a limp doll, his skin shredded by some animal. A bobcat, maybe? The authorities never could tell us.
Something like that changes a person forever, you know? I mean, how do you make sense of something so senseless? And why my dad?
Mom has never been the same. A huge piece of her left with him that day and never came back.
But let me back up.
My name is Jude Gallagher. I know, I know. It’s a strange name for a girl. There are so many other brilliant choices befitting of my Irish surname. Claire, Brigit, Fiona, heck, even Gerda is better than Jude. These are names I would have chosen for myself if I’d had a say, but Dad would never have settled on something so ordinary. He was too eccentric for ordinary, and from the instant he found out Mom was pregnant, I was Jude.
My entire life we’ve lived in Carson City, Nevada, and up until I was twelve years old, it was a normal life. We barbequed and went to parades and shopped at the local market. My parents came to all my piano recitals and school events and watched proudly as I accepted this or that accolade from my current teacher. I was spoiled just enough to keep me satisfied but not enough to rot me. A happy childhood with a loving, normal family.
When I think of my dad, this is what I miss most of all. Normalcy.
My mom blames herself for my dad’s death. I know this because sometimes she talks in her sleep in perfectly articulate sentences. More than once I’ve had to shake her awake when it’s clear her dreams have turned into nightmares. And I hear what she says. Things like: “He shouldn’t have come back… I should have made him stay away… It’s all my fault… Why did they have to do this to us? I would have made it right. HE would have made it right!”
That is just a mild taste of Mom’s dreams. Over and over, she mumbles, her voice laced with tears wrapped in breath-filled moans as if she's trying to convince herself of the words. Or maybe to convince someone else who’s in the dream with her. I don't know what she means, but her words haunt me. I wake her quickly from those dreams. She scrambles upright, sweaty and twisted in her sheets and looking as miserable as someone who’s just finished a marathon. That’s when I know the dream has chased her through most of her sleeping hours.
“You were dreaming again, Mom,” I’ll say in my most sympathetic tone.
“Was I?” She exhales. “Oh.”
She never elaborates, never tells me what kinds of ghosts stalk her dreams. She simply curls onto her side, closes her eyes, and says nothing more.
I wonder if Dad’s there, roaming aimlessly through the folds of my mother’s mind, intentionally interrupting much-needed sleep.
I miss him… almost as much as she does. I miss sitting with him on the piano bench creating our own duets. I miss how he never seemed to need sheet music after only one run through a song. I miss his beautiful voice ringing through the house as he strummed his guitar. Music… this was my greatest connection to him. Like him, the notes spoke to me, and this made him so happy.
Other things about my dad weren't quite natural, and they intrigued me. He preferred his red meats nearly raw, and he never ate poultry of any kind. In fact, I was fifteen years old before I ever tasted a piece of chicken. I will admit, it’s not my favorite protein. Daddy loved nighttime, too, and rarely slept when the moon was up. Sometimes on the weekends, I stayed up with him. We made popcorn and settled in for a long night of classical movies. Casanova, Dr Zhivago, Gone with the Wind. Donned in my Strawberry Shortcake pajamas, I snuggled up next to his warm side, Angelica safely tucked in the crook of my elbow, and tried my best to stay awake as long as I could. Inevitably, I awoke every morning in my own bed. I cherished those nights, though. Daddy’s skin was abnormally warm—all the time. And he smelled wonderful. But the most significant attributes were his features.
Daddy’s eyes were as blue as sapphires, and his hair was the color of obsidian. He was strong and full of muscles with a broad back and lean waist, and he was perfectly symmetrical. I've always remembered that about him. His entire face, his whole body, was evenly proportioned. I’ve since learned that this isn’t exactly normal, but it made my daddy the most handsome man I'd ever seen. No wonder my mom was enamored from the instant he stepped into the school gym and cut in on her prom date. I’ve heard the story a billion times. He was brilliant and charming and full of confidence that no other boy at Carson City High had ever exhibited, and he swept her off her feet and straight to the chapel. His symmetry was the perfect match for my mother’s flaws, or so she said. Even his thoughts and actions were equally balanced, and he made us feel safe and whole and l
oved.
As for me, I'm not symmetrical. One of my eyes is definitely smaller than the other and not even shaped the same. And if I look at my reflection from one side and then the other, I can see a clear difference. I happen to like my left side better, by the way.
I'm not just rambling here. I say all of this to bring you to a significant point. People tell me I’m the spitting image of my mother with my chocolate waves and dark orbs. I don’t mind it. My mom is a beautiful lady. But despite that, I wish something in me resembled my dad. Even one thing. One tiny thing isn’t too much to ask, is it?
I mentioned it to Mom only once. I was six, and in my innocence, I was really afraid I might hurt her feelings if I told her I wanted to be like Daddy, even a little. We were in the dressing room at Neiman Marcus at the time. Mom, of course, was not hurt. She rubbed a thumb across my back and knelt in front of me.
“You are exactly like your daddy in more ways than you realize,” she said.
“I am? How?”
“Well, you see this spot right here?” She tapped my chest with the point of her finger. I nodded. “That’s where your heart sits. And I can promise you that if we could see it, you would know that it looks just like Daddy’s. Big and kind and brave as an angel’s heart.” She ran a hand through my hair then, smiling with an exuberant shake of her head that made her short, dark curls sway. “That makes you very much like him.”
An angel’s heart? I liked that.
For the longest time after this, I really did believe I was an angel. Obviously, that was far from the truth, not that I don’t believe in angels. I do. In fact, the summer before my senior year, I thought I saw one.
I’m sure that piques your curiosity, doesn’t it?
In that case, I guess I’d better get busy telling you about that summer.
One
The roar of a pick-up truck pulling into my driveway at exactly 6:03 a.m. jolts me awake. Jonas Cameron plants his big frame on my lawn and sends up a whistle that sounds like a bad version of a duck’s mating call. When I lift the window and dip my head out into the early dawn light, I can just make out Devan perched on the hood of his black Toyota Tundra.
“We’ve come to kidnap you for breakfast,” Jonas says in his best stage whisper. “Do you want to climb down the trellis, my lady, or would you prefer to use the stairs?”
He tosses me a grin that completely destroys his attempts at romanticism. This sentiment is also destroyed by the Motley Crue tee-shirt stretched tight against his chest muscles. A black baseball cap sits backwards on his head, tufts of blond curls peeking out.
“Well, since we don’t have a trellis...” I let my voice trail.
He gives me an overdramatic bow. “The stairs it is, then.”
By the time I’ve dressed, left Mom a note, and made my way out, Jonas and Devan are tangled up in each other’s arms, clearly drunk on giddiness from lack of sleep. Their public displays of affection are a common scene and one I have yet to get used to. Two of my best friends, sucking face. On a daily basis. Lovely.
“Keep that up, and I’m going back to bed.” I zip into my jacket and slide my cell phone into my back pocket.
Jonas drags his lips away from Devan and eyes me. “Wrong. You never pass up free food.”
Devan giggles, her face pressed into his chest.
“You’re buying?” I feign shock. “What’s the occasion?”
Jonas grins, turning to lean his back into Devan. She hitches her legs up around his waist.
“One year anniversary,” she answers. “You knew that.”
She wrestles a strand of her blond hair over her shoulder and vaults from the hood, straddling Jonas’s back and planting a kiss just below his hairline. The bill of his backwards-turned cap nudges into her nose, and the cap tips dangerously over his face.
“Right.” I slide a rubber band from my wrist and twist my dark hair into a ponytail. “Must have slipped my mind.”
“Very funny.” Devan pretends to scowl, but her smile stays intact. I’m fairly certain a herd of wild elk stampeding through the neighborhood wouldn’t staunch it.
“Let’s get going.” Jonas drops Devan to her feet and tugs open his door readjusting his cap with his free hand. “Frankie and Kane are holding our table for us.”
“Why?” I tease, working my way around to the passenger door. “Are you anticipating a breakfast rush at six a.m. on a Saturday morning?”
“Hey, it’s summer. You never know who else might have the same idea.”
Devan slides into the middle, and I climb up next to her. She fumbles with the radio. Empty wrappers and soda cans litter the floorboard.
“You’ve been celebrating all night, I see.” I kick at a half empty donut box. The contents slide around inside.
“Maybe,” she smiles.
“How’d you manage that?” I reach for my seatbelt. Devan’s parents have always been a bit on the strict side. She shrugs.
“I told them I was staying with you.”
“Wonderful. So now I’m an accomplice.”
“You’re welcome.” She finds a song she likes and leans back, waving off my comment. “Don’t worry. They trust you. They’ll never check. And by the way, Jonas has to work tonight, but you and me? Club Rockhouse, baby.”
She hooks her seatbelt over her waist. Jonas hops behind the wheel and flings his arm around Devan’s shoulders, and she forgets all about our conversation when his lips find hers. In fact, the two of them pretty much forget I’m here.
“Uh… guys? I thought we were in a hurry.”
Jonas peels himself free. “Patience, Gallagher. We’re celebrating here.”
Devan giggles as Jonas swings out of my circle drive and floors it. I shrink low in my seat with a sigh.
We pass Mr. Tomlinson’s perfectly manicured lawn, guarded by at least thirty strategically placed garden gnomes of all sizes and genders. I catch sight of his latest addition perched on the tree stump near the porch. That’s where he always places the newest one while the previous little guy is bucked out into the yard somewhere. The current gnome of honor appears to be a princess, which elevates the entire show to a whole new level of gnomedom. I had no idea.
Old man Tomlinson bought the house on Foxhill Drive from Rylin McDowell’s parents a few years ago when they moved the family back to Ireland—the same year my dad died, in fact. They say Mr. Tomlinson got the place for a steal because the McDowells were in such a hurry to sell. Rylin was in my grade. I didn’t know him very well, but I have wondered from time to time what he would think of his former home—an audience of gnomes scattered across the lawn where he used to play catch with his baby brother.
Thinking of Rylin makes me feel a little jittery. It’s a long story, but I was kind of glad when his family left.
Jonas hits a bump in the road, pulling me out of my reverie and back into his truck. I toy with the ring on my right middle finger, hooking my thumb over the ruby stone to twist it a full circle. A habit I picked up somewhere along the way. I twist it once more.
“We have three hours before I’m supposed to be home,” Devan announces, and I focus on her words, make them my anchor to the present. The air conditioning vents suddenly blast to life, blowing her hair up all around her. Irritated, she shoves the slats to the right, and a surge of cool air hits me in the face. “I don’t want to be grounded for half the summer again.”
A shiver shakes my bones, but the cool blast works to shove off any last thoughts of Rylin McDowell. Devan cranks up the radio loud enough to drown out further attempts at conversation. We speed through the neighborhood toward Carson Street with Devan singing at the top of her lungs. My legs stick to the leather seat. Jonas leans forward over the steering wheel and catches my eye. His wink gets a smile out of me, and in a matter of seconds, I’m grounded again—right here in the present where crazy, wonderful friends kidnap me first thing in the morning for breakfast.
My phone buzzes, and I dig it out of my pocket and check the screen. I
signal Devan to turn down the radio and press the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Kane.”
“Where are you guys? The pancakes are getting cold.”
“Please tell me you didn’t order for all of us already, dope.”
He laughs. “Just get here, would ya? Frankie’s hungry.”
“Liar.” Frankie’s voice echoes in the background. “Kane just doesn’t appreciate my company.”
“Well, there’s that,” Kane chirps.
I laugh.
“We’re on our way,” I promise. I hit the end button.
Our favorite hangout is a locally-owned, old-style diner on East William called The Nest. Complete with a jukebox and a counter long enough to seat ten customers on its red plastic-covered stools, there’s nothing else quite like it in Carson City. The food is decent enough to coax us into spending a better part of our time here… studying, eating breakfast after an all-nighter dance-off at Club Rockhouse, talking over a cup of coffee. We’ve been known to linger until closing time on more than one occasion.
This morning, the diner is surprisingly busy. I spot Kane and Frankie in the window booth the minute Jonas whips into the only empty parking space left and cuts the engine. The sudden absence of blaring music leaves a wall of deafening silence in the cool morning air.
“What did I tell you?” Jonas shoves open his door and gestures toward the other vehicles. “Summer brings people out.”
“Or it could just be the ‘all you can eat’ pancakes,” Devan counters, pointing at the three-foot-tall banner tacked to the outside brick wall. She bounces once on the balls of her feet as she exits the truck.
We trudge past the window, and Kane presses his face up to the glass pane. His breath causes a sheen of fog to form, and I run my hand across his flattened nose.
“That’s a good look for you,” I mouth. “You should keep it.” He draws back with a smile and takes a swig of orange juice.