Kings of the Fire Box Set

by Lily Cahill

  “What was the pixie dust cut with?” Her voice sounded so even, so controlled, that it scared her a little. “I need to know.”

  “It was the same product I always get, from the same supplier. It wasn’t cut with anything. Seriously, she must have OD’d.”

  Tania nodded feebly. “You have to believe us, Lis.”

  “You don’t get to call me that.”

  “Okay,” Tania answered, shrinking in on herself. “But—Felicity, come on. Joy is my friend. You know I would never hurt her.”

  Anger made the magic inside of Felicity crackle like fire. “You have been hurting her.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Zeke and I—we like a good time, all right, but we’re not stupid enough to go after Joy Valdez, okay?”

  Felicity looked at Tania sharply, ignoring any sympathy the girl’s watery, cat-eyed gaze stirred within her. That was right. In the voicemail, she’d said Felicity’s name—her real name. “When did you figure out who we are?”

  “Months ago, and I doubt I’m the only one. There was an old tabloid at the hair salon, and I saw her picture, and just—like, it’s not like your family lacks for enemies, okay? So don’t go accusing Joy’s friends of things.”

  Zeke nodded, but he swallowed nervously, not nearly as brave.

  “Where’s the rest of your … product?” Felicity pronounced the word like it was distasteful.

  “Um,” Zeke said, dropping his head and scratching at his neck. “After the hospital, I freaked, and I—dumped it. I got rid of all of it.” He dared to meet Felicity’s gaze for half a second and flinched away from the fury there. “I know it was stupid, and that that looks bad. I know. But I freaked, okay? I wasn’t thinking. I don’t want to go to jail.”

  Despite everything, Zeke really did seem sincere. He wasn’t a criminal mastermind—he was a low-level drug dealer in a small town in Pennsylvania who lived with his parents, and Tania wasn’t much better. They didn’t have the brains to pull off something truly terrible. Which meant that they hadn’t tainted the drug.

  “I’m going to want the name of your supplier,” Felicity said. Zeke started to shake his head, and she ignored him, continuing on. “This isn’t optional. I’ll be back for it, once she’s okay. We’re going to need to figure out what happened.”

  “Okay,” Tania said, cutting in before Zeke could deny her again. “Okay, that’s fine. Just—don’t tell our parents, okay?”

  Under normal circumstances, Felicity might have felt bad for these two, but at the moment, the only thing she could feel was her anger, her fear.

  “Don’t mention what’s happened to my sister. Go to a tabloid or talk to a blog, and I will end you. I swear, I will.”

  With that, Felicity shut her eyes. She could see the hospital in her mind, could picture the front doors and the wide, sterile hallways. A moment later, she was there again, stumbling through the front doors and to Joy’s room, where her sister was still sleeping.

  Her phone went off again and again. Felicity put it on silent and curled up in the chair next to Joy’s bed. She was asleep in moments.

  Sunlight woke her the next morning, streaming in brightly through the window. Joy was so still and silent, the only way Felicity knew she was alive was from the steady beep beep beep of the monitors hooked up to Joy’s body.

  Groggily, she reached for her phone. Thirty-seven voicemails. Nearly two hundred text messages.

  She shut off her cell without bothering to check any of them. The battery was nearly dead, anyway.

  Someone cleared their throat. When Felicity looked over, she saw Dr. Chen, holding a chart. There was a worried pucker between the doctor’s eyebrows that made Felicity’s stomach feel like it was dropping out of the sky.

  “Miss Morningstar,” Dr. Chen began. Her voice was deliberately quiet, soothing—which, of course, had the opposite effect on Felicity. Her nerves turned electric and she stood quickly.

  “You know something,” she guessed, her voice sounding strangely far away in her own ears.

  Dr. Chen frowned. “Maybe you’d be better off sitting down ….”

  “Tell me.”

  “The pixie dust that your sister took appears to have been laced with a very rare poison,” Dr. Chen said gently. “Vivium mortem, to be precise. I’ve never seen anyone affected in real life before—in fact, I can’t find a reported case of vivium mortem poisoning in nearly half a century.”

  The words tickled something in the back of Felicity’s mind, but she shook them away. “I don’t care what it is, Dr. Chen. I only care how it’s cured. Do I need to sign off on anything? Is the treatment dangerous?”

  That pucker was still there, between Dr. Chen’s eyebrows.

  “I’m afraid that it’s not so simple. Vivium mortem is no ordinary poison—it can only be created by a magic user. The effects depend on the strength of the person who conjured it. It causes swelling of the brain, internal bleeding, all while keeping the body perfectly preserved until ….”

  “I’m a witch,” Felicity cut in. She couldn’t bear to hear another word. “If it’s a spell you need, I am sure that I can—”

  “We have plenty of medically trained witches on staff, I assure you.” Dr. Chen sighed and reached out to touch Felicity’s arm. “Unfortunately, there is no medical or magical cure available. Bezoars do nothing, charms and curses do nothing, antibiotics do nothing, nor does anything more severe—radiation, for example. The only thing we can do is keep her comfortable.”

  Keep her comfortable. The words rang sharply in Felicity’s head. Keep her comfortable. That meant—that meant that Joy would feel no pain before—before—

  She felt bile climb up her throat. “No.”

  “Miss Morningstar, please—”

  “You’re telling me there’s nothing we can do for this? Nothing at all?” It was impossible. Joy was—Joy was reckless and immature, but she was still young. She’d grow out of it. She had to have time to grow out of it, and become the woman that Felicity knew she could be.

  “The only reported cure was recorded over a hundred years ago. It lists a potion that uses dragon’s blood,” Dr. Chen said, “and there have been no dragons for more than twenty years. Plus, I don’t know if we can even trust such a record—the way medicine was practiced back then was more of a guessing game than a science. That patient was more than likely misdiagnosed, and—”

  “Dragon’s blood?” Felicity formed the words with her numb lips. “Are you certain?”

  “Not at all. Like I said—”

  “I need to go.”

  Felicity stumbled past Dr. Chen and out of the room, into the antiseptic-looking hallway. Everything was so starkly white that it hurt her eyes, and she shut them, allowing herself a moment of panic. The dragons were extinct—or, so she’d thought, until the night before. Her family had run the Dragomirs out of power decades ago, and then they’d killed the entire line to assure their ascendancy.

  But at least one had lived, and last night, she’d thought she was in love with him.

  It felt like ages had passed since she’d put on a slinky dress in hopes of catching Damien’s eye. He had shown her the kind of pleasure she’d never thought was possible, and they had connected—truly connected—as she had never connected with another person.

  Her heart ached to think of him, but she couldn’t dwell on that now. Focusing on her lost chance at love and happiness wouldn’t save her sister.

  Maybe, just maybe—Damien would.

  But in exchange for what? What could she possibly offer him that would convince him to come forward? There was no way he’d be able to stay anonymous. No amount of non-disclosure agreements would keep that big of a secret. To save her sister would be to expose himself to the world.

  It felt pointless. He would never do that, especially if he thought that she had seduced him on purpose. The truth—that they had just found each other—sounded implausible, even to her own ears. Felicity took a deep breath.

  What other choi
ce did she have? If Damien didn’t help, her sister would die, and Felicity was not going to let Joy die. She just wasn’t going to.

  She needed a plan. She needed to go home, put up a sign on The Witch’s Brew, and hole herself up with a map so she could try a locator spell. Once she had a lock on him, she would find a way to him—not teleportation, she needed to have an idea of what her destination looked like, in order to get there safely. Broom, maybe. Plane if it was too far to reach him.

  Felicity would convince him of the truth, and he would save Joy. And maybe, just maybe, he would forgive her, and they could—

  But that wasn’t what was important.

  Too tired to teleport, Felicity stumbled out of the bright white corridor. Nurses gave her strange looks as she passed, but she ignored them. She stepped through a pair of swinging double doors and back into a lobby. Nervous looking people in chairs looked up as she entered, and more than one pair of eyes went wide—great, she’d been recognized. That was the downside to using her last name to get what she wanted. No doubt one of the nurses last night had overheard her.

  She would just have to ignore it.

  Felicity straightened up, lifting her chin and stalking past everyone’s eyes. She could be the bigger person. She walked through the lobby and past the tinted glass doors into the bright sunshine. She squinted as the light blinded her.

  Suddenly, there were voices all around her.

  “Felicity!” someone called out. “Felicity, is it true that Joy is dead?”

  “Is Joy going to recover?”

  “Did she have another car crash?”

  As the world came back into focus, Felicity saw that she was surrounded on all sides by men holding cameras. They moved in close, getting picture after picture of her surprised face.

  Paparazzi.

  A camera clicked to her right. “Felicity, did Joy overdose?”

  Bile rose up Felicity’s throat. She hadn’t been stalked by the paparazzi in nearly a year, and now they had found her again. Joy had always been their target, more than her—the world couldn’t get enough of the pretty Valdez heiress, whether she was dressed up and smiling for a charity event, or stumbling home without her shoes at three in the morning. They’d never paid as much attention to Felicity—until now, of course.

  “Felicity Valdez!” a paparazzo yelled in her face.

  Anger swirled inside of her and Felicity held up her hand, using an unspoken spell to summon the man’s camera. It landed in her open palm, and she glared as she murmured, “Ignis.”

  She dropped it on the ground just before it burst into flames.

  Felicity stalked away, the sound of snapping cameras on her back. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way—stalking Damien into submission wasn’t any way to get him to trust her. And while regaining his trust wasn’t as important as saving Joy’s life, it was still important—very important. He knew how much she cared for her sister, had seen the two of them interact. Anyone who wasn’t heartless would help, no matter what.

  Subterfuge was a last resort. She ignored the shouts of the paparazzi as her mind buzzed with a new plan and resolve formed in her chest.

  Chapter Eight

  Damien

  SMOKE WAS THICK IN THE air, choking Damien’s human lungs. He tried once more to shift, willing his body to bend and reform as a dragon. In his second form, he’d have no problem breathing; dragons dealt in smoke often enough. No matter how hard he willed the change, he remained human. The smoke was clogging his lungs, his brain. He couldn’t breathe.

  Why couldn’t he shift? Was it a spell? But who had enough power for that? The Dragomir Palace was enormous—casting over the whole of it was no small feat.

  Damien struggled against the locked door of his bedroom. It only locked from the inside, so how was it he couldn’t get it open? He growled, but the sound came out unfortunately human.

  He was dying.

  A mighty blow hit against the wooden door, causing it to rattle. Damien took a step back instinctually. His mind felt fuzzy, and his limbs were slow to obey. This was more than smoke, this dizzy, sluggish feeling. It had to be a spell, it had to be ….

  His door rattled again under the force of another hit. The iron hinges jarred uncertainly and then gave away. The door fell onto the stone floor with a loud thump. Damien covered his hands with his ears. He should escape, should move, but it was so difficult, and he was so tired ….

  “Damien!”

  His mother’s voice sounded muffled. She grabbed his hands and pulled them away from his ears, her human face a mask of terror in front of his own. He blinked at her, eyelids heavy. Breathing was hard, and all he wanted to do was sleep. How had she opened the door? She wasn’t in her dragon form. Shifters were strong, but the door was solid and the hinges cast iron.

  He’d think about it more after a quick nap.

  There was a sharp sting on his face, the sound of his mother’s hand on his cheek loud in the air. Damien recoiled, rubbing at the skin. It felt warm beneath his touch.

  “What …?” he asked. The burst of pain had woken up him for a second, but already he could feel the tired ache of sleep creeping back into his bones.

  “Listen to me,” his mother said, her voice low and urgent. She shook him slightly, the movements staccato and frightened. “Are you listening?”

  “I am.” He hoped he sounded more alert than he felt.

  “Damien, my beautiful boy. I’ve found your brothers. They are next door. I am going to get all of you out of here. Once you’re outside the palace walls, I need you and Blayze and Vincent to shift. You’ll have to carry Arryn.”

  It was so much to do, to remember. Damien’s attention began to wander, his mind drifting further away. All he wanted was some sleep—was that so much to ask?

  His mother shook him again. “You need to resist the spell, Damien! You’ll be fine once you’re outside, and once you get there, you and your brothers are going to fly away, and you’re not to come back here. Do you understand?”

  “No,” Damien replied. He didn’t understand. His mother’s hands were tight on his shoulders, and he shifted uncomfortably beneath her frantic gaze. This was too much responsibility—he was sixteen and so tired.

  “Damien.” His mother grasped his chin and made him meet her gaze. “Remember that the prophecy is true. Once you’ve escaped, you must hide your identities. Never trust anyone, mortal or Other. The Valdez family can be anywhere. You must protect your brothers. You will be the last of the dragons, the last of our kind.”

  The desperation in her tone made it easier to stay awake. “I don’t understand.”

  “Promise me that you will keep your brothers safe, now and forever.”

  A weight landed squarely on his shoulders. Damien swallowed. “I promise.”

  His mother smiled, a small, shaky, false thing. She cupped his cheek, her hand warm and soft, before her face hardened. She stood and grabbed Damien’s hand, dragging him out of his own bedroom and down the hall.

  Everything seemed to move at double time—his brother Arryn’s room, door broken as his own had been. His brothers sleeping, so still that they barely seemed alive. His mother summoning all her strength to fight the spell over all of them, to break open a window and tear away part of the wall. She used her last reserves to save them, collapsing against the wall as they went out.

  Damien paused at her side, tugged at her arm. “Mom,” he said. “Come on. Get up.”

  Her voice was faint as she shook her head. “Go. Go on.”

  “But—”

  “Go!”

  Her eyes closed. Damien went.

  The world changed outside the palace walls. There was a sudden clarity and rush of adrenaline as the spell lifted. The lungful of clean air Damien took was the most beautiful thing he could remember. He’d shifted—still a bit new, a bit painful—and carried Arryn as the boy cried, lifting him up into the night, Blayze and Vincent behind them, leaving behind their parents, their lives, everything t
hey had ever known—

  Damien woke, gasping for breath.

  He hadn’t dreamed of that awful night in years, not since the last time they’d had to move. His parents’ deaths had been horrifying—the fire that had spread quickly throughout the palace, the spell cast over the entire structure that kept anyone from using their magic. As dragons, fire was nothing to worry about. Human flesh, however, was a bit more delicate. The Dragomir’s closest magical advisor, Jorge Valdez, had known just how to seize power.

  Everyone inside the palace that night had died, from the monarchs to the lowliest servant. Or so the world thought. They didn’t know that the Dragomir queen had used the last remaining bits of her strength and adrenaline to free her sons. They were assumed to have perished, along with everyone else.

  And until Damien had slept with Felicity Valdez—the heiress to the helm of the magical world, the woman who would inherit the legacy of murder from those before her, those who had killed the Dragomirs—no one had had any reason to think anything else.

  From his place on the floor, Damien stared at the ceiling and sighed. There were burner phones and passports hidden under the floorboards, new identities to assume. They had not escaped the Valdez family for twenty years only to fall to them now. But they’d have to be extra careful. It was only a matter of time before Felicity went to the papers, the press, the internet, and told his biggest secret.

  He thought of her beautiful face, mouth wide and panting with ecstasy as he pinned her to the wall, thrusting into her again and again. The memory made his cock stir between his legs, but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge it.

  He’d been sixteen years old when he’d sworn to his mother that he would protect what remained of his family. The early years had been full of vagrancy and derelict living conditions, of near-starvation and the constant terror that someone would recognize them, put the pieces together. They’d been diligent, changing their names, always moving, hunting for their own food, living in the woods more often than not. It had been tough, and there had been many times when Damien had been sure he would fail, but he and his brothers had persevered. There were advantages to being part dragon—they weren’t exactly immortal, but they were definitely difficult to kill.