Inassea Chronicles: The Blighted Flame

by P. A. Peña

  Inassea Chronicles

  The Blighted Flame

  P. A. Peña

  Copyright © 2021 by P. A. Peña All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are entirely fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblances to people, living or dead, businesses, establishments, events, or locales are purely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  It could be anywhere. Concealed within a painting. Hidden behind the face of a statue. Under their very feet. Each step Virgil took was slow. Methodical. He kept his shoulders squared and his back straight. His hands were at the ready in anticipation of the slightest bit of provocation.

  It was dark save for the glimmers of moonlight fighting their way through fog laced windows, and a wisp of fire hovering in the air. The thick must of centuries of history flooded Virgil’s nostrils. The nightly halls were a stark contrast to their daytime counterpart. Just hours prior the museum bustled with attendees. Now it lay barren, its only occupants the curator, the hunter, and his prey.

  “Are you sure the fire is absolutely necessary?” Mr. Bicksby stammered as he followed behind Virgil.

  “I am,” Virgil replied, keeping his eyes forward. His tone was low, just barely above a whisper. “And please refrain from speaking unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “R-right.”

  Virgil glanced back over his shoulder and lowered his brow. Mr. Bicksby swallowed the lump in his throat and covered his mouth.

  The two men stood in sharp contrast to one another. Mr. Bicksby was short at five foot five, and wore a gray tailored suit complete with a tie and cufflinks to match. Virgil, on the other hand, stood at six foot three. He was dressed casually in a black trench coat, white t-shirt, black jeans and buckled boots.

  Mr. Bicksby looked around, analyzing each exhibit to ensure it was still pristine. “I hate to be a bother,” he whispered, his hand curled around his lips. “But the fire—"

  “Is both necessary and under control,” Virgil interrupted with a bite in his tone.

  “I’m sure it is. It’s just if visibility is an issue, we have plenty of lights.”

  Virgil waved his hand. “Like I said before, I need this fire to detect the phantom, and if we turn on too many lights it might not appear at all.”

  “Right,” Mr. Bicksby said placing a hand on Virgil’s shoulder, “but you see—”

  Virgil’s eye twitched as he stopped and turned around. “We’ve already been over this, Mr. Bicksby.”

  Sweat was beginning to form around the curator’s forehead, and his hands were unsteady. “Forgive me. It’s just we’ve been lucky enough to keep business going even with the phantom problem, but if anything were to happen to the exhibits—”

  “I already know. That’s why I’m taking extra care while working this job. Speaking of which, if you insist on tagging along, I really need you to—”

  “I’m sure you will be careful, but accidents happen and given your profession we’re honestly a little cautious.”

  Virgil took a deep breath, forcing his words down his throat. His patience waned thin, along with the urge to conceal that fact.

  “I-I mean there’s nothing wrong with being a hunter,” Mr. Bicksby blurted out, his face reddening. “It’s just, we were really hoping to hire a Crusader for this job.”

  “Let me guess.” Virgil rolled his eyes. “The Alliance didn’t have time to spare for something so insignificant.”

  The curator cleared his throat. “Well, they didn’t exactly put it like that.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they made it sound really nice.”

  “R-right,” Mr. Bicksby said with a shake of his head. “Are you absolutely positive you can handle this job? You know. Without damaging anything.”

  Virgil looked Mr. Bicksby in the eye, placing his hand on the curator’s shoulder. “Look.” He flashed a smile. “I may not be an ‘esteemed Crusader,’ but I am a professional 4-Star hunter. I swear to you no harm will befall the museum under my watch. However, and I’m trying to say this as delicately as possible, perhaps you’d be more comfortable waiting in the security room. When I finish the job, I’ll—”

  “Oh no.” Mr. Bicksby puffed out his chest as he removed Virgil’s hand from his shoulder. “What kind of curator would I be if I let a pyromancer roam around my museum alone?”

  A frown crept onto Virgil’s face as he covered his eyes with his palm. Why do I do this to myself? he thought. “Okay. What’s it going to take for you to let me do my job in peace?”

  A gust of wind barreled down the hall, sailing past the two men. The sparkling wisp of fire fluttered Virgil’s coat and dragon tooth necklace.

  “W-what was that?” Mr. Bicksby stuttered. A slight chill overtook the hallway.

  Virgil smirked as he turned around. “That’s what you hired me to kill.” He firmed his jaw with determination, and he became weightless as his body surged with energy. He hovered off the floor and directed harsh instructions to Mr. Bicksby. “Go to the security room. I’ll come for you after I’ve slain the phantom.”

  “Wait!” Mr. Bicksby cried, reaching out for Virgil. “I’m coming with you.”

  It was too late. Virgil sped down the hallway in pursuit. Weaving through the air, he followed the foul trail of aura left behind by the phantom. It was fast and its movements erratic, but Virgil kept up the chase. In no time, he found himself within striking distance.

  Virgil’s temperature rose as he gathered his mana into his hands. Flames erupted around them like roaring campfires. He waved his hand, and a wall of fire appeared in front of the phantom. Cornered, the creature turned to face Virgil. Although its tattered cloak concealed its form, bits of flesh shown through the many rips in the fabric. Its brownish-green skin appeared to be dry and cracked.

  “I’ve got you now!”

  “What are you doing?” Mr. Bicksby shouted between tired breaths as he approached.

  Vi
rgil spun around. “I told you to stay out of this.”

  The phantom entered a stone sculpture of a man dressed in long flowing robes. It began to glow, and with a cackle, it brandished its fists.

  Virgil groaned as he held out his hand towards the sculpture. “This is getting dangerously close to not being worth it.”

  “Stand down,” Mr. Bicksby demanded. “It’s taken our prized masterpiece hostage!”

  Virgil didn’t respond. Instead, he closed his fist, and the statue burst into flame. Mr. Bicksby gasped and put his hand over his mouth. “What have you done?”

  The sculpture began writhing, and its wail echoed throughout the hallway. Slowly, it returned to its original form. The phantom burst out of the statue and thrashed around in the air, but no matter how hard it shook, the creature couldn’t quell the fire consuming it. Before long, there was nothing left but a pile of ash on the floor and the pungent smell of burnt flesh in the air. Virgil released his fist, and the flames disappeared. His temperature returned to normal, and his mana stabilized.

  “You must be out of your goddamn mind!” Mr. Bicksby shouted as he marched in front of Virgil. His face was livid, red with rage.

  “Mr. Bicksby,” Virgil said as calmly as he could.

  “I knew it was a mistake to keep you on this job. I just knew you’d be nothing but trouble. It’s a miracle you didn’t burn the entire museum down!” The curator’s finger furiously waved just inches from Virgil’s face. “I hope you don’t expect to get paid for this. After I’m through with you, you’ll be lucky to ever find work in this city again!”

  Virgil groaned as he pointed towards the sculpture. “You might want to inspect things before you blacklist me. I’m sure you’ll find everything is in order.”

  Mr. Bicksby pursed his lips as he turned around. His eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open. “I-I don’t understand,” he stuttered in disbelief. He walked over and circled the sculpture, only to round it again. “There were flames everywhere, but there isn’t so much as a scratch on it.”

  “I told you I would be extra careful. A good pyromancer can burn an entire forest to the ground, but a great one will burn just a single tree.”

  “R-right. I do recall you, uh, mentioning something like that.” Mr. Bicksby cleared his throat once more as he adjusted his tie. “It appears I’ve underestimated you. Please accept my sincerest apologies.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Virgil replied as he tucked his hands into his coat pockets. “I’m just glad I could help.”

  After receiving his compensation, Virgil left the museum for the city night. Liron wasn’t the largest city in the Diamond Nation, but it was sprawling nonetheless. Limestone buildings were spread across the valleys and cliffs, and a series of anti-gravitational platforms made traversing the city easier for those not gifted with flight. The streets were desolate; however, the void was something Virgil had grown accustomed to. A stiff breeze tousled the ebony waves flowing through his hair, and a layer of goosebumps coated his bronze skin. He pulled out his silver pocket watch. Midnight was fast approaching, putting a stir in his step.

  It didn’t take long for Virgil to arrive at his destination. Petra’s Joint was far from ragged, but no one who lived a conventional life would ever rest there. The lot was fairly small, consisting of about fifty rental units, a shack of an office, and the motel bar. Despite the lack of paint, cars lined the parking lot in somewhat decent rows, and a flickering sign illuminated the area in bursts.

  Virgil entered the office. It was nearly desolate, the only things filling the space being a desk, a computer, and a clock. Virgil approached the elderly woman sitting at the computer. A seemingly infinite number of wrinkles creased her face. “Truesdale,” she said, not bothering to turn her head from the computer screen. “Glad to see you made it back in one piece. I was worried those books would bore you to death.”

  Virgil chuckled. “It was a museum, Petra. Not a library.”

  Petra scoffed, still clicking away at her keyboard. “Does it really matter? They’re both boring as all hell, and can’t pay worth a dime.”

  “Maybe, but somebody has to help them. Right?”

  “Whatever you say, kid.” Petra finally took her eyes off her screen. “As long as you have my money, I don’t care how you waste your time.”

  Virgil shook his head as he reached into his coat pocket. “I suppose that was my cue, huh.”

  Petra grinned as she took Virgil’s payment. “If you’re looking for subtlety, go try one of them stuffy ass hotels.” She thumbed through each bill before placing them in her desk. “Is there something else I can help you with?”

  “There is. Do you happen to have any new leads?”

  “Sure do.” Petra returned her gaze to her computer screen. “There’s a farm offering top dollar to be rid of their demon problem.”

  Virgil shrugged. “Do you have anything involving witches?”

  “If I did, I would have told you. You know witches are an elusive breed.”

  “Yeah,” Virgil groaned. “I know. If you do hear anything—”

  “You’ll be the first to know. Assuming you have the cash, of course. I am running a business here.”

  Virgil left the office and made his way over to the bar, currently uproarious with a myriad of individuals swapping stories over bottles of booze. There were two floors in the building. However, the second floor was a mezzanine, allowing patrons on the top floor to see those on the bottom. The ground floor housed tables, while the top was reserved for things such as dart boards, pool tables, and arcade cabinets. The bartender’s station was at the back wall of the first floor. There was a mass of shelves, each filled with bottles of liquor.

  The collection of spirits was impressive, but the real draw of the bar was the massive board that hung on the wall above it, nearly six feet tall and twenty feet long. It was entirely digital, with the screens sectioned off in squares. Each held either text, images, or a combination of both. Finally, there was a line of text at the very top of the screen. It was the only text to ever stay constant on the board and consisted of a single word repeated over and over again: Bounties!

  Virgil walked through the bar. A number of the patrons stared at him. Some addressed him, while others simply nodded. Virgil smiled and continued walking. He was careful not to linger for too long. Doing so invited conversations he was never willing to have.

  “Ah, Virgil,” the barkeep said as he approached. “Welcome back.”

  “Thanks, Phil.” Virgil claimed a spot along the counter’s edge.

  Phil’s wrinkled cheeks carried a sort of puffiness that made his demeanor seem jolly. Despite his age, his snowy white hair grew in abundance—so much so, he needed to tie it down with a series of rubber bands. “So,” he began as he prepped a glass for Virgil, “how was the hunt?”

  Virgil shrugged. “It was all right. Could have dealt without the chaperone.” Phil laid the glass in front of Virgil. He then reached for a bottle of tequila from the top shelf. “Actually,” Virgil interrupted. “Could you pour me a glass of scotch tonight?”

  “Of course. If you don’t mind me asking, why the change?”

  “I’m celebrating.”

  Phil grabbed a bottle of scotch. “It went that well,” he said as he filled the glass.

  “It’s my brother’s birthday.” Virgil answered. His tone was somber, and his words nearly choked him. “He would have been twenty-eight today.”

  The barkeep frowned. “Would have been, huh. So that means he’s no longer with us.”

  Virgil nodded as he brought his drink to his lips. “I imagine so. It’s been ten years since he left home.”

  “Really.” Phil raised a brow. “If that’s the case, isn’t it possible your brother’s still alive? I mean, you don’t know for sure, right?”

  In one gulp, Virgil swallowed his drink, not so much as wincing as the bitter brown nectar nipped at his throat. He took in a deep breath, and frowned. “No,” he said, his tone defin
itive. “He’s been gone far too long. When you’re a hunter, silence always means death.” He set down the empty glass and pushed it away. “How much do I owe you?” Phil slid the glass back over and began to pour another round. “I-I’m sorry,” Virgil stuttered. “I only wanted one.”

  Phil gestured Virgil to take a seat. “These are on the house.”

  As Virgil sat down, Phil grabbed another glass, filling it just as he had the first. “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Danny,” Virgil answered.

  “Listen up everyone,” Phil called out. The bar fell silent, until the only sound was the light flickering from the parking lot. “Tonight,” Phil continued as he raised his glass, “we drink to Danny Truesdale. Whether he be on the road, or in the heavens, this one goes out to him.”

  Virgil couldn’t help but smile as he raised his glass. He brought the liquor to his lips once more. Again, he swallowed it whole, but somehow it tasted better this time around.

  The bar resumed its joyful chatter and Virgil set his glass down on the counter. “Thank you,” he said. “That really meant a lot to me.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Phil said with a smile and wink.

  “Please forgive me,” Virgil heard from behind him as a hand came to rest upon his shoulder, “but I couldn’t help but overhear you before. You’re a hunter. Yes?”

  Virgil turned around to find a nymph standing behind him. He was male, as evidenced by the fin upon his head, and was nearly six feet tall. His skin was scaly and as white as chalk, which only accentuated his ocean blue eyes. He wore a black suit tailored to a T, not a single thread out of place.