Fire's Daughter_A Reverse Harem Urban Fantasy

by India Arden

  It beat hiding under a bridge. And electricity was ample.

  “Okay,” Sterling said. “We’re getting Aurora back. Period. So how do we do that?”

  Rain was the only one calm enough to answer him. “We Bond.”

  The solution was obvious. And yet…entirely out of our grasp.

  Just like we had back at the warehouse, we formed a circle, centered ourselves, called upon the Arcane aspects, and did our best to connect. Just like we had back at the warehouse, we failed. And just like he had the last time we tried to Bond, Zephyr was turning himself inside out trying to figure out what we were doing wrong. “We were more of a line than a circle,” he said. “Ember, you were here, and Rain over there. I was between you, and….” He trailed off and went silent. We all looked at each other, and Sterling said, “And Aurora was there.”

  None of us spoke for a long moment, then Zephyr said, “And she was there with those other assholes when they Bonded, too.”

  Sterling’s brow furrowed. “How did that old writing go? Harmoniously dispositioned to Essentia Feminam.”

  I said, “So we need a woman to bond?”

  “Not just any woman,” Sterling said. “We need Aurora.”

  If that was the case, then no wonder the reigning Masters wanted her back. They’d probably do anything to stop her from leaving.

  And that only intensified my worry.

  Sterling cuffed me in the shoulder. “Hey. Cliché as it may sound, where there’s a will, there’s a way. Especially if the Arcana is involved.”

  How I wished that were true. “The heating ducts are sealed. The sewers are contaminated. Short of parachuting in, how do you propose we reach her?

  Sterling spread his hands. “You named every element but one.” He went down on one knee and placed a single finger to the concrete floor. When he focused his attention, it wasn’t with violent force, but with calm precision. And with the gentleness of a sand castle sliding out of shape, the bonds broke, and the ground gave way beneath the slab. It sifted downward in a tiny funnel, and when the motion stopped, it left a hole behind big enough to thrust an arm through.

  Sterling looked up at me through his fading eyeliner, and said, “Who needs to take an existing route when we can just as easily make our own?”

  33

  AURORA

  The last time I approached the courtyard, the security shadowing me had done so at a polite distance, standing by to ensure that none of the unfamiliar guests who were there for Flood’s Transfiguration were saboteurs who meant me harm. Now though, they walked right beside me, one on either side. Close enough to subdue me, if necessary.

  How quickly things change.

  As we crossed the colonnade, someone strode out to intercept me—the Masters’ publicist, Trish Noble, as purposeful as ever in her high heels and loathing.

  “I half expected you to insist on wearing yoga pants to the ceremony,” she said. “It’s about time you’ve come to your senses and decided to play along. Though what you could possibly hope to accomplish by running off with those filthy men is beyond me.”

  So, the kidnapping story really was a fabrication and not anything the Masters actually believed. Hardly a surprise—but I was too discouraged to gloat. “Trish, if my father listens to anyone, it’s you. Make him see. There’s something wrong with Blaze—really wrong—and there always has been. But now that he’s Transfigured, he’s seriously dangerous. You need to tell my dad—”

  “What I need to do is make sure things go off without a hitch so the new Masters don’t have any reason to be upset. It’s a dangerous game you’re playing—and, frankly, I fail to see the point, when there’s no possible way you can win.”

  Without another word, she veered off, and went clacking down the hall in her ridiculous pumps. Had I actually expected her to help? I didn’t even know anymore.

  With no reaction whatsoever to the conversation, the guards walked me the final stretch to the courtyard. It looked nothing like it had at Flood’s Transfiguration. Most of the seating had been removed, all but two chairs, and the grass regrown to cover the wear and tear the original ceremony must have wrought. It was so thick and vibrant it looked artificial. The old Earth Master’s work…or Stone’s?

  The hyper-green grass wasn’t the only thing that was new. On the ceremonial platform in the center of the dais, in the place where the Arcanum Vessel traditionally rested, was an insulated stainless steel bottle. It was huge. And if it was even half-full, there would be enough Arcanum to Transfigure dozens of Aspirants.

  The balcony where the reigning families usually sat was deserted. I was led instead to a pair of chairs, set front and center before the dais, one of which were already occupied by Strike’s wife, Gloria. At nearly twice my age, she wore a demure knee-length dress that was more suited to a political rally than a party: structured and fitted, accessorized with matching gloves and a tiny hat, all in the House of Air’s distinctive bluish pewter. I tried to catch her eye as I sat. She continued to gaze fixedly ahead as if I didn’t even exist.

  Maybe this was her tacit agreement to everything the Masters were doing. Or maybe she’d shut down when she saw there was only one other chair waiting to be filled. Maybe I couldn’t blame her—the lack of chairs filled me with despair. Where was the Earth Master’s wife?

  Where was Dorothea?

  The courtyard felt empty…not spacious, not peaceful…but eerie. And the whole setup was an obscene parody of the real Transfiguration ritual.

  “Did you do anything to try and stop what’s going on?” I whispered. “Anything at all?”

  I didn’t actually expect Gloria to answer. But without looking at me—staring resolutely ahead—she murmured, “And how would I stop them? Other than the Masters and the Aspirants who truly believe they stand a chance to Transfigure, do you think anyone actually wants to be here?”

  I was chagrined to realized that, at times, I had. When I tended The Great Machine, I felt important. Even powerful.

  Now, it was clear, that’s just what my family wanted me to think.

  The door from the Arcane chambers opened, and one by one, the reigning Masters stepped out. Strike led the way, which was jarring. Up until Flood Transfigured, he’d had the least seniority and been the last in line. Now, he was the senior statesmen. My brother came next, his bearing so cocky and self-satisfied I seethed with the urge to slap the smugness off his face. Flood, Chasm and Gust followed, and the five of them took the traditional places occupied by the reigning Masters. Since there were only four sets of Arcane regalia, Chasm and Gust had divvied them up, one wearing the absurd collar, the other in the ridiculous cuffs. What had Gust meant when he bragged about Bonding without the regalia? I couldn’t say for sure—as far as I’d ever known, the items were purely ceremonial.

  Blaze signaled, and a trainee in Aspirant’s linens filed out the door. Then another, then another…then another. Six in all, boys I knew, at least in passing, from our studies. A few around my age. Most of them younger, much younger—mere teenagers who should have been worrying about prom dates and SAT scores. Not Aspirants, but trainees. And if they’d received any additional Arcane tutelage over the past few days, it couldn’t have amounted to more than a hasty crash-course. They crowded in front of the platform in a space normally occupied by a solitary Aspirant, and they knelt.

  The dais had never been so crowded, and the security guards who normally kept an eye on the crowd were now watching the Aspirants, instead. I was wondering where my father would stand to recite the ritual words when Blaze stepped forward and approached the Arcanum…and I realized that the only part of my father involved in the ceremony was now inside an insulated metal container.

  I shouldn’t feel sorry for him—I’d warned him repeatedly, and he hadn’t been willing to listen. And now look where it got him. Maybe he deserved it. But that didn’t mitigate the sharp, terrible pang of sadness and loss.

  In a calm, clear voice, my brother said, “The debate over which
Aspirant is ready to receive the Arcanum typically begins just as soon as the last Master has Transfigured and can span more than a decade. There are many trainees, and even fewer Aspirants. And in the past, only one could receive the Arcanum. But now, I have unlocked the secret of the Arcanum…and all that has changed.” His gaze swung through the line of trainees. “There’s room at the table now for everyone.”

  With a flourish, he produced the original Vessel. Three drams. No more. Beside it, the insulated metal flask looked impossibly huge. Blaze unscrewed the top, placed the two containers mouth to mouth, and tilted the Vessel slightly up to fill it.

  When the Arcanum flowed into it, he raised the single dose and gazed upon it in grim satisfaction. I saw my father in him. Mostly in the satisfied quirk of his mouth, and the cruel intensity of his eyes. He turned to the first new Aspirant, an awkward man in his late thirties named Dave who, with all the younger trainees ranking up before him, had undoubtedly expected to live out the rest of his life in service to the Arcana as a librarian.

  “David,” Blaze intoned, “From this day forward, you will shed your former identity and be reborn as the Elemental Master chosen for you by the Arcana. Do you renounce the name of your birth?”

  Historically, every Aspirant who’d ever been asked those words had proudly answered, I do. But Dave was so terrified, he could only stammer out some unintelligible gibberish. It didn’t sound like a yes. One of the other new Aspirants started to cry—one of the adults.

  My brother’s expression shifted, and annoyance replaced his pride. He motioned to security, and said, “Hold his mouth open.”

  The huge men snapped into action, four in all, converging on the stage in a few broad steps. The other new Aspirants, all bookish guys, cringed away from Dave, scrambling to keep from getting flattened. The guards piled on Dave and pinned him to the ground, one straddling him, another holding his head, and two more forcing open his jaw while he shrieked like a wounded animal. As my brother approached, Arcanum in hand, Strike’s wife watched the melee with morbid fascination. In fact, everyone was looking at Dave.

  No one was paying any attention to the remaining doses of Arcanum. And as the new Aspirants scrabbled to get away, they left the perfect opening between them and the guards.

  My brother shouldered in the mob of muscle holding Dave to the dais. “Take up the Arcanum,” he bellowed. “Consume it. And let your past be—”

  Before I could second-guess myself, I’d kicked off my wretched heels and was up and out of my seat, vaulting onto the low dais. I’d never seen it up close. The floor was all grooves and ridges—to capture the Arcanum, I realized, should it ever spill. It didn’t matter. I had no intention of dumping it out. My father’s essence had yielded so much Arcanum, even if some was lost to the earth, several doses would remain—doses that should never have existed to begin with. It was my fault it did. I’d supplied the parts for the horrid extractor. So, it was fitting that I’d be the one to put it right.

  As I dove for the insulated decanter, calm and determined in the knowledge that my sacrifice would save so many men—and hopefully be a major step in restoring the proper balance of the Arcana—I pictured my mother standing atop the clocktower and gazing off into the distance.

  Was this how she’d felt?

  It wasn’t a bad way to wrap up one’s life.

  As if in slow motion, the reigning Masters turned. Flood’s pale eyes were dead, as if he hadn’t expected to succeed—or as if any outcome, success or disaster, all carried the same emotional resonance. Gust was startled enough for both of them, eyes wide, hands reaching toward me as if he could grasp me from the other end of the dais. Chasm looked impressed. He always presumed I was as useless as everyone thought—more so because he weighted everything by its value. But it was my brother who truly grasped the significance of what I was about to do. His auburn eyes went pale, and fire sparked within them. He moved to raise a hand to stop me with his fire, but it was too late. The Arcana was not only in my hand, but halfway to my lips. Even if he blasted me where I stood, by the time the fire reached me, the Arcana would be consumed.

  And so would I.

  Maybe he would have fireballed me anyway—if only as punishment for upstaging his grisly ceremony—if not for the center of the courtyard erupting in an explosion of stone and soil and bright green turf.

  The ground buckled, sod bursting outward, leaving a gaping hole in its wake.

  Ember leapt from that hole, with Sterling close behind, the two of them as dashing and intense as any action hero in jeans and leather jackets. Well, Sterling actually looked more like an arch-villain, but I knew better than anyone that sometimes heroes wear black. After them, Zephyr scrambled out—too adorable in his goofy fedora to ever be mistaken for a badass. And finally, Rain, tall and gorgeous, with his flowing hair and bedroom eyes.

  There they were. Too late? Or too early? Because there was no stopping what I was about to do, and it was a shame they had to see it.

  If I’d had faith that the Rebels could figure out any way to reach me, any way at all, then maybe I wouldn’t have made the fateful decision to take my father’s Arcanum out of play in the only way possible. Maybe, if there hadn’t been so much momentum behind the movement, I could have taken it back—spat out the Arcanum and let it bead up in the labyrinth of ridges on the dais floor. Let my Rebels pit their talents against the five reigning Masters. Entertain the notion, even for a moment, that the five of us were getting out of there alive.

  I may have grown idealistic in my time with the Rebels. But I was still pragmatic at heart.

  And if I did hesitate, just for the fraction of a heartbeat, the moment the Arcanum brushed against my mouth, perhaps my lower lip, perhaps the edge of my teeth, it rushed toward me as if it had a life of its own. Had it been water, I might have felt like I was drowning. But it wasn’t water. It was pure potential. It was the catalyst with the power to flow energy. It was all of magic.

  It must have been heady, staring down from the top of the clocktower. But no way had my mother experienced anything like this. In fact, since this many doses of Arcanum had never existed in one place, no one had.

  Except maybe Grace Thompson. In that fateful moment all those decades ago, when her body lit, as if from within, and her Transfigured brothers gazed upon her in wonder…in that single, shining moment before the Arcanum forced apart her component atoms, and her physical form was no more.

  Maybe she’d felt it.

  The last thing I saw, before the Arcanum’s intensity washed away everything else, was Ember. His face was pale, his hair in the sunlight a rich, deep rosewood, his expression stunned and pleading. He was already reaching toward me with his Arcane fire aspect, not to harm, but to beseech. And as my field of vision went white and reality melted away, with me having done all I could to set things right, my single regret was that he and I had never had the chance to explore the promise of our single kiss.

  My perception of the courtyard shifted. Color drained from the sky and the murals, and from the overly vivid grass last of all. Figures went translucent, ghostly, and everything took on a clear, glassine shine. My sense of touch evaporated next, as the sun on my skin and the breeze ruffling my hair gave way to a throbbing pulse of pressure that beat in time with my fading heart. But strangest of all was the sound. I perceived it only distantly, like a train was passing by somewhere far off, just close enough for the sound of its whistle to carry.

  When the whistle stopped, I presumed I would be dead. But instead, I was still on the dais, the grooved floor pressing into my knees. When I tried to draw breath, I realized my lungs were already full…from the howling inhalation of the Arcane energy rushing in. I let out a breath and saw that I was glowing. All over, but particularly from the deep vee of the gown’s plunging neckline. I placed a hand over the glow, and although I couldn’t see the whole sigil…I felt it. I knew it. It was one I’d never seen before, but I was as familiar with it as I was with the sound of my own voice,
the feel of my own breath.

  It was a circle with four curving prongs connecting it to the diamond it resided within.

  The Arcane sigil of Spirit.

  I wasn’t dead. In fact, I was the opposite of dead. I was Transfigured.

  I rose to my feet, hands spread wide, abuzz with the wonder and delight of not only finding myself alive, but reveling in the discovery of an arcane power I hadn’t even known existed. It was as if a veil had been whisked away, not only from my eyes, but all my senses, and the world was brimming with energies that were there all along, though no one had eyes to see them. No one but me.

  My fellow Masters glowed brightest to my newly awakened senses—and as much as I might have hoped my dear Arcane Rebels were more powerful due to the purity of their intent, the Arcanum was merely a catalyst. It wasn’t attuned to human morality, but strength. Rain and Zephyr, Sterling and Ember, all of them were equally matched to their counterparts.

  But although the reigning Arcane Masters had not only five members, but the power of the extractor behind them, my new adopted family had a bigger advantage: they had me.

  As the crowd around me shifted and began to make sense of what they’d just seen, I drew a deep breath, refilling my lungs now emptied of Arcane energy, centered myself, and in a loud, clear voice declared, “I…am Aura.”

  Author's Note

  I hope you enjoyed Fire’s Daughter—it was an absolute joy for me to write. Five books are planned for the Arcane Rebels series, and book 2, Sea and Sky, is coming soon.

  Want more Rebel action? Sign up for my newsletter to check out an exclusive Arcane Rebels deleted scene, with more lovin’ between Aurora and Rain. Joining my list is also a great way to find out ASAP when the next book hits the shelves. Sign Up at https://www.subscribepage.com/l1a4h4