Crowned by Fire

by Nenia Campbell

  The ache in her body swelled, and seemed to center abruptly somewhere deep in her chest, squeezing her heart. If Catherine had possessed knees capable of feeling, she would have sunken to them in her throes of agony. But she was no longer in the seer's living room. Catherine was somewhere else entirely, and it didn't look like earth.

  Not like any earth that she had ever seen.

  She was standing in a ring of flames as the ground around her crumbled away into unseen water. She could hear the splashes the chunks of granite made, loud, like a tidal roar. Or maybe that was the screaming she heard. Hundreds of voices, perhaps thousands, shrilling their collective agony as the city was razed around them.

  Dead, barren, swathed in darkness. Only the glow of the fires provided any light. And then, even that was extinguished as a heavy rain began to fall.

  Someone was holding on to her as the ground split away. Tightly, as though afraid to let go. Or just afraid. She could hear another chorus now, just below the screams. A high, keening that reminded her of recordings of whales she'd once heard.

  But no whale on earth had ever managed to sound so sinister, so inherently evil.

  The sound frightened her, and sent all the animals inside her, predator and prey alike, clamoring for safety. Because whatever creature it was that was making those sounds, it was insanely powerful, and it was hungry, and it was hunting—hunting her.

  Thunder filled her ears, and she thought it was the storm rolling in until she felt the tremor beneath her feet, the splitting crack, and then the ground was yanked out from beneath her feet, and she and her unseen companion were falling into a black abyss.

  Splash.

  The water ripped her protector away. He—it was a he, now, she realized—cried out only once before the water silenced him. She dove, as graceful as a dolphin in the black water, searching desperately, blindly, beneath the surface.

  Where had he gone? It had been seconds—ten at most. There was no way he could have sunk so far, so fast. But he had vanished without a trace, leaving her alone.

  Not quite alone.

  (If one fails, then so shall all—

  Bring death to those of Evenfall.)

  She heard a laugh. There, in the darkness, someone was declaiming.

  A wave crashed over her head, plunging her beneath the violent waves. It was dark, so dark she couldn't see her nose in front of her face, and cold. So, so cold. All the heat was leaving her body, and she could no longer fully breathe. She thought she might be dying.

  “Beast of shadows, touched with sight.” It was the voice from before, louder now, and all the more menacing because of it. “Come to me.”

  The water wrapped around her limbs. It was a water spell, she realized, similar to the one Karen had used on her what seemed like a century ago. She jerked violently, and sucked in a frightened breath as something brushed against her throat, halfway between a caress and a threat. “No,” she said weakly, shivering. “No.”

  “Blood will flow like wine.”

  She thought it could not possibly get any darker than this.

  She was wrong.

  “The Shadow Thane will lord over all.”

  The last thing she saw was the sky.

  “And the world shall be slave to his dragons.”

  There were no stars.

  Fleeting pain, a quiet snap. Her throat had been pierced, her spine broken. And as her eyes began to fill with the milky glaze of death, the darkness began to flake and crumble, swallowed up by a golden light as the heavens crashed to earth.

  And then, she saw nothing more.

  Finn had been watching the shifter closely, curious how she would react to the reading. He had reluctantly permitted Cassandra to read him only once, and it had been a mistake he would never repeat. Seeing it again, as a casual observer, would allow him a different sort of insight into the process.

  As much as he resented sharing half his blood with a human, even he had to admit that Cassandra had her uses. She would never betray him, however much she might want to in her heart of hearts, because doing so would put her and her family at risk. Perhaps that had been his mother's intention, staking out an insurance policy in the human world. She had been a heartless negotiator.

  Just like Father.

  His lips twisted. That had been part of the problem. They had been too much alike, and the marriage had turned into a series of perpetually escalating power games, culminating in his mother's dramatic death. She'd always had to have the last word. There was nothing more final than that.

  At first the shifter struggled, whimpering as though in pain. She could not pull away. Nobody could, once they entered into a reading with Cassandra. Not until it was finished. Suddenly, the shifter stiffened, and her body went slack. He didn't stop to consider that something might be wrong until she started screaming.

  “No!” Her voice was raw agony. “Not him! Not him!”

  Not who, he wondered grimly. The shifter boy? He pushed off from the wall. She was still thinking about him? Even now? “That's enough,” he said sharply.

  And then, as if he had broken some kind of spell, Cassandra blinked. As the shadows left her eyes, she released her grip on the shifter, who fell limply to the floor.

  “What did you do?” Finn demanded, crossing the room in four long strides.

  Cassandra looked slightly dazed. “N-nothing. I swear, I did nothing.”

  “What do you mean? Of course you did. That has never happened before—”

  Finn paused. Her chest was motionless, and her lips had a faint but unmistakable bluish tinge that caused his eyes to widen in alarm. “She's not breathing.”

  “I'll call an ambulance.”

  “No.” If she did that, she'd reveal them all.

  “Phineas!”

  “Shut up, human.”

  He dropped to his knees without thinking, and covered her mouth with his own. He breathed new air into her lungs, with the magic of a revitalizing spell woven into the particles, and pushed down roughly on her chest.

  She would not die. He would not permit her to die. She. Was. His.

  Her body twitched, bucking beneath his. For a moment, her skin had been cold, as cold as a witch's, but now the heat was seeping back in, and the gray tinge of death had left her face. Finn pulled back, giving her room as she wheezed and coughed up a stream of black water that disappeared the moment it came into contact with the air.

  “Holy shit,” Cassandra said, under her breath, staring at the spot. She'd seen it, too, then. He hadn't imagined it, although he rather wished he had.

  Because—Finn felt the earth tremble beneath him as the significance of what he'd seen reached him—he had seen that black substance before, in his dreams. It was the calling card of the Shadow Thane. But then, if it was here, now, what did that mean? That none of it had been a dream? That it was all… real?

  Keeping his voice steady, he said, “What did you see in that vision?”

  “I can't tell you.” She didn't look very sorry. Her face was pale, her eyes defiant.

  “Make an exception.” He glanced at the shifter. “For her case.” He'd heard the two of them chatting like old friends. She seemed to have a soft spot for the mongrel.

  Her eyes went to the shifter. For a moment, he thought he'd gained her compliance but she shook her head resolutely. “I think that would be a bad idea.”

  Finn took her pulse with two fingers. It was slow, but strong. Her skin was feverish. “Why?”

  “She saw,” Cassandra murmured. “She saw the reading. I could see it.”

  He looked up quickly. “What are you talking about?”

  “She's touched with Sight,” Cassandra said. “She was reading me as I read her. That's not supposed to happen. I'm not supposed to share the future, or bad things happen.”

  He gestured at the shape-shifter. “Things like this?”

  Slowly, Cassandra shook her head. “No. Worse.”

  Catherine's head was pulsating, as if it were a separ
ate living creature. As the room flickered into focus, she realized it—whatever it had been—was over.

  She was in the seer's living room, lying on the floor. Her breaths were coming in shallow pants. The throbbing was her heartbeat, loud and heavy in her aching head. She was suddenly, acutely aware of the witch's eyes on her.

  He was kneeling on the floor beside her, his face nearly level with hers. His hand was in the process of pulling back, as if he'd been taking her pulse. She hoped that was what he was doing. The witch had made a habit of touching her as if he thought he owned her.

  Cassandra's worried face was peering at her over the witch's shoulder. Her eyes were green again, though dulled.

  “Thank gods.” Her face screwed up as if she were about to cry. “Thank gods. When you dropped on the carpet like that, I thought I'd killed you. I'm so sorry. That never happens, I swear—”

  “Screaming?” Catherine realized she was trembling all over.

  “You kept saying, 'Not him! Not him!'” said the witch coolly.

  “I…did?” There was a dangerous light in his eyes that made her frenzied heart beat that much faster. Her eyes gained focus, fixing on Cassandra. “You said it didn't hurt.”

  “It isn't supposed to.” She was studying Catherine as if she was a science project that had yielded unexpected results. “Was there pain?”

  “Yes.” It was almost a snarl. Predator's displeasure seeped through. Catherine did not appreciate being made to feel vulnerable in a room full of potential enemies. It was a striking loss of face. Especially with the witch looking at her like that.

  Why was he looking at her like that?

  Cassandra frowned. “What else? Do you remember anything?”

  “It was…it was horrible.” Catherine squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think. “It was completely dark. The world was dead. Something horrible happened.” She paused. The memories were flooding back, and they were just as unpleasant the second time around. “I think I may have been the last one alive. There was someone—a man—trying to protect me. To keep what had happened to everyone else from happening to me. But then we both fell into the black water—and the dragons came.”

  “Black water?” said the witch. He was still sitting far too close to her. “Dragons?”

  Catherine sat up a little, putting distance between them. “You don't have to like it.”

  Cassandra's tawny eyebrows knit themselves together as she watched them. A new thought was blossoming on her face, like a flower opening up to the sun. Catherine wondered what it could possibly be; the seer was almost as skilled at hiding her emotions as her half-brother. Even though she had been oozing fear earlier, the space around her body was now quietly empty.

  Her eyes went from her to the witch, and back again. “What did the man look like?”

  “Um—tall. Black hair. Dark, almost black eyes,” Catherine lied, describing David.

  The seer looked at her for a very long time. “Are you sure?”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Catherine retorted.

  The witch scoffed, as though he held her mendacity to be a gospel truth unworthy of deliberation. “What do your scriptures say about readings like this?”

  “Like I said, I'm not permitted to reveal that information. You know that.”

  The witch's lips formed a thin, hard line. But he didn't argue, for once.

  Catherine did. “You can't tell me what it means?” she said incredulously. “Why?”

  Cassandra dusted off her sweats. “As I said before, there are constraints. One of them is that I'm not allowed to influence the future.”

  Catherine thought that was a pretty shitty arrangement. What was the point? “It expressly says that somewhere?”

  “No. But bad things happen when I do. So I don't. Not anymore.” She paused. “I'm sure you're exhausted from driving all night. You're welcome to stay in the guestrooms upstairs. We usually have dinner around six. I'll call Dad and let him know you're here.”

  This last bit was aimed at the witch, who looked at her with a frown.

  “He'll need time to get used to the idea,” Cassandra told him tightly.

  “Your lifespans aren't even close to long enough for that to happen.”

  “Yeah, well, some advanced notice still might have helped,” Cassandra snapped. Then she caught herself. “Finn will show you your room,” she said to Catherine, in a civil tone. “Excuse me.” And with that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into one of the many rooms without saying goodbye. Probably to call her father, as she'd said.

  “This place…is huge,” Catherine murmured.

  “Maybe to you,” said the witch.

  Catherine turned. “Really,” she said, allowing her skepticism to shape the word.

  “Don't you know who I am?”

  “I know what you are,” she said. “That's enough. Trust me.”

  But then she remembered her mother stiffly bowing to the witch in her kitchen and wondered. But it was too late. The witch was ascending the staircase two at a time, forcing her to run like a little dog to keep up. By the time she got to the top she was annoyed—until she looked up, and then her breath caught.

  A large crystal chandelier hung in front of the glass window. On the other side of the glass the sun was setting in the sky and the rosy light of the sun shone through the prisms, creating shimmering patterns that looked like the aurora borealis.

  Light from the chandelier dappled her skin. When she held out her wrists to examine them, they were speckled like a leopard's. She looked out the window, high enough that she could only see the treetops from the front yard, and felt a fleeting sense of joy.

  “Your room is on the right,” the witch said, breaking into her thoughts. Reluctantly, she tore her eyes away from the light display and followed his finger.

  “Thanks,” Catherine said flatly.

  “Mine is on the left,” he continued. “We share the bathroom. I suggest opening the windows. The second floor isn't used much.”

  He went into his own room then, giving her a chance to explore. The guest room was small, cramped, and musty, like it hadn't been used for a while. She could detect very faint traces of perfume—something strong and powdery, like something an older woman would wear. Every available surface was dripping with dust-covered lace. A desk pushed against the far wall housed an impressive collection of snow globes.

  Catherine turned her attention to the other two doors in the room. One led out to a small enclosed balcony, where a cactus sat, looking dejected and lonely in a cobwebbed corner. The other was a closet, mostly empty. There were a few old dresses inside that bore the same lingering odor of perfume as her room. Hadn't Cassandra mentioned a grandmother? This must have been her bedroom.

  Catherine dumped the sack with the Grimmoire and her clothes on the bed, expelling the breath she'd been holding in. then she coughed. Well. However awkward this was, it was better than sleeping in the street—or in the car.

  In the next room, Catherine heard the water run. The witch was taking a shower. She was in sore need of one herself. After last night, she imagined that she probably smelled like a crime scene. She hoped there would still be hot water left when he was done.

  With a sigh, she yanked open the drapes. A mistake. Clouds of dust wafted into the air. She coughed, waving the clouds away from her face. The sun had fallen lower on the horizon, a deep ruby that stained her hands the color of blood.

  The water stopped. In the next room, a door slammed.

  Finally.

  Catherine took her own shower, no longer able to stand the stench of dried blood or the sensation of greasy hair clinging to her neck and scalp. She pulled on jeans and a camisole, with a long-sleeved shirt worn unbuttoned over it. As she tied her hair back into a loose bun, she thought about her parents.

  What were they doing right now? Were they on the run, too? Would she ever find out? Not knowing was starting to seem a lot more painful than knowing. She needed closure.

  A kno
ck sounded at her door, and she saw her eyes widen in the mirror. She walked to the door and opened it, surprised to see Cassandra standing there. “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to let you know that dinner will be ready soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome.” Cassandra looked a little wan. Was that because of the reading? Or had her father belittled her for the witch's presence? The seer's green eyes flicked towards the bathroom and she bit her lip. “Is he in?” she asked quietly.

  He can't hear you, Catherine wanted to say. His ears were no more refined than any mere human's; there was no need to tiptoe around him with such caution. Anyway, he didn't deserve it. “He should be,” she said neutrally. “I heard him get out of the shower.”

  Used up all the hot water, too. The bastard.

  Cassandra closed her eyes. For a moment, she looked very tired and impossibly old. Catherine had a vision of what she would look like fifty years from now; it wasn't pleasant. “He locked me out and isn't answering the door.”

  The thought of being locked out of her own home by an interloper filled Catherine with fury on the other girl's behalf. She glanced at his door without enthusiasm. “Let me guess. You want me to get him for you?”

  Cassandra's expression brightened so much that Catherine almost felt guilty. “Would you?”

  Fuck. “Yeah, all right. Fine.” She closed the door and leaned back against it, pinching the bridge of her nose. He's just a witch. Like any other.

  Not quite like any other. He was a good deal more powerful than most witches. She had watched him turn silver into liquid, nightmares into reality.

  Now she was annoyed at herself for showing fear. She stormed up to the bathroom, rolling up her sleeves. “Witch!” She pounded on his door. “Open up the—”

  It swung open the moment her fist made contact with the paneled wood.

  “Door,” she said weakly, taking a slight step back.

  The witch was standing in the doorway, with his usual expression of scorn. He was toweling off his still-damp hair. He was wearing jeans, the chatelaine of potions lashed through the loops and—she swallowed—no shirt.