by Gina Shafer
Copyright © 2016 Gina Shafer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-9981834-1-5
ISBN13: 978-0-9981834-1-1
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written consent of the author except where permitted by law.
The characters and events depicted in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Gina Shafer
Editing by Holly M. Kothe and Murphy Rae with Indie Solutions, www.murphyrae.net
Cover Design by Murphy Rae, www.murphyrae.net
Formatting by Elaine York/Allusion Graphics, LLC/ Publishing & Book Formatting
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
About the Author
Other Books by Gina Shafer
In Smoke and Ruins Preview
There are so many people that I want to thank for helping me breathe life into this novel and I have no where to begin. I guess I will just start with the obvious, my wonderful husband Eric: thank you for allowing me to go a little bit crazy and picking up the slack for all the times I was too busy writing. I love you.
To my parents, I couldn’t have written this book without you. When raising me, you always fed my imagination and made sure that I knew without a doubt that my mind was the most important part of me. Thank you.
Melodie, thank you. Thank you for encouraging me, being excited for me, supporting me, and laughing with me. Thank you for your suggestions and your time. I love you more than any other sister I have, and I’m not just saying that because you’re the only one.
To my tiny little ones: one day you’ll be old enough to read this book and I only hope that you’ll understand that these words in my head were unlocked because of how much I love you.
Murphy, Thank you for making this novel as beautiful as it is. The cover is amazing, the editing was amazing, you are amazing, and I am ever grateful.
Holly, I’m not sure if I can ever explain the feeling of sending out a manuscript for the first time, letting someone read it, and then receiving feedback that they actually enjoyed it. I wanted to give up so many times, but you validated me and I’m not sure you even knew it. Thank you.
To my family and friends, each and every one of you… Thank you. You’ll never understand how much your positive vibes helped me finish this book.
For anyone that helped me make this book what it is, I hope you’re as proud as I am.
To the readers: you are last on this list but certainly the very first in my heart. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this story. I wrote it for you and I hope you love it as much as I do.
The nightmares are back. This time I woke Soren with my screaming. He cried for at least an hour while Vara rocked him back to sleep, singing and humming soft words the entire time. All the while, I sat in the hallway at the front of his door with my guilt cementing me to the floor. After Soren was back in bed, Vara came to me and asked me to write my feelings down on paper—to purge my issues in the hopes that it would keep the nightmares at bay. She thinks that, somehow, putting my memories in ink will act as some kind of catharsis and my head will emerge from the notepad healed and ready to move forward with my life. It’s a good idea, in theory, but I’m not sure if this particular approach is meant for someone who’s seen what I’ve seen. Still, I’m taking her advice. God knows I would do anything for that woman, my beautiful wife. She worries that my emotions will soon boil over, seeping into our lives from all corners and staining the edges. I can’t say that she’s wrong, and I certainly don’t blame her, but I’ve never been good at sharing my feelings. I like to keep them inside, wrapped tight and tucked neatly away where they’re safe from hurting the ones I love. So, I guess she has a point. If putting pen to paper will help my family… well, here goes…
Demons—the reason for all my nightmares. I can see them clear as day whenever I close my eyes. They’re always in my head, looming over me, keeping me on edge. They were once human, though you’d never know when you see them. They’re dark—black even—their skin peeling back with the texture of burnt paper. Sometimes you can even see wisps of embers floating toward the sky, their skin flaking as they move. Their eyes shine like steel, inhuman and malevolent with no pupils. Though they’re strong, really strong, they have a weakness. The one thing that they lust for the most is also the thing they kill for.
Fire.
My stomach turns every time I mentally replay the shrill noise that comes from their already burned bodies as I set them aflame. I’m not sure why I do replay it so often, but the sound sometimes seems as though it’s caught in a continuous loop, stuck on a turntable. It’s odd, really. Gaining so much pleasure from such a disgusting noise. But it’s that very same sound that ensures our safety. So, it doesn’t really matter what noise they make when they catch fire; it only matters how many more I will burn.
Fire is the only thing we’ve found that keeps them dead. Fire is our crutch—the one thing we need and the only piece of our lives we wish never existed. Fire holds all the blame for everything that has happened. Our lust for it, our inability to control it, the destruction that comes from it… all of it is the reason I am perpetually unable to sleep without my gnarled and sickening dreams waking me.
Lately, my nightmares have always been the same. It begins with a building burning a few yards in front of me, a distant memory distorted by my twisted imagination. The flames are so close that I can feel the heat radiate around my body. Sweat begins to bead on my forehead, and I get a strange hot and cold sensation like I’ve suddenly come down with a high fever. Without warning, my arms become itchy and I want to tear the flesh from my body to free myself from the discomfort. I look down and see the skin on my forearms burning and peeling back, exposing the muscles, sinews, and bones in my arms. The pain is excruciating and it hits me all at once. It’s so powerful that I become numb and unable to move as I succumb to the agony. The utter horror of burning alive is ingrained in my brain more than my own name. Right before I wake, I see the demons that set me on fire, and hear their disembodied laughter in the darkness that overtakes me.
How’s that for a nightmare?
They’re sometimes peculiar though, my dreams. For instance, sometimes I watch myself burn from a different perspective. Standing on the outside of my body, peering at a man who crumples in torture and misery, knowing precisely how it feels to burn alive. Seeing my own face melt into the gravel like candle wax. I can’t get the visions to leave my thoughts. At times I feel like it’s been engraved into the backs of my eyelids, so that whenever I close m
y eyes, my burning body floods my mind.
In all this time, I’ve never actually told Vara about my dreams. And I won’t pretend like guilt doesn’t eat away at me for that. She tries to hide the disappointment on her face whenever I avoid answering her questions about them. The truth is, I should tell her. I almost wish she would find this journal so that I don’t have to. Describing them, using my voice to bring life to the images that dominate my sleep, it’s become impossible to me. Maybe Vara was right in suggesting that I write them down. It was easier writing the words than it ever has been saying them.
Maybe I can overcome this. Maybe the demons won’t win this one.
Maybe…
The war with the demons has been raging as far back as I can remember. I’m not even sure how many of us have been lost in the fight. It’s become more of a way of life now; we live constantly afraid of the darkness in the world and terrified of the light inside of ourselves. You see, there used to be magic. I can still feel it sometimes, lingering like an old friend. There was magic everywhere, and its flame burned bright inside everyone. We are born from it, made of it, of light and fire.
Our magic has always been harnessed from one single bright burning flame; we draw power from the heat source fixed inside of us. Every person in the world practiced with his or her magical flame. Mothers would teach their daughters to restrain the inferno; fathers would train their sons to control the blaze. Schools were brimming with spells, and our daily lessons were the rules of the craft. But, somewhere along the way, things changed. People became greedy, and our magic morphed into something I never could have expected. Humans wanted more, as I found they always do. They wanted it all, and in turn, many people died.
No one liked to speak about it much, when things began to change. My grandmother used to tell me it was rude to stare at the “burned ones,” or so she called them. The ones so twisted and turned by magic that their skin oozed the fire within. The transformation was slow, the burned ones driven mad with their incessant need for more magic, more power.
When I was a little boy, the burned ones haunted my dreams for a completely different reason. I wasn’t afraid of them because of how they looked, I was afraid of what they could do, and afraid of what could happen to me. When a person practices magic, their flame goes from a trickle to a roar, a simple match light to a blazing bonfire inside of them. Using too much all at once… well, it’s easy to become engulfed in the flames. I became fearful of my own magic… we all did. The burned ones were soon sanctioned outside of town, losing their minds to the hunger for the flame. They would track down anyone who used magic, sensing a person’s bright burning flame like it was a beacon calling to them. From there it only got worse.
Seemingly overnight, innocent people began losing their lives. In order to steal an unburnt’s flame, a dissection had to occur. The burned ones would have to dig deep inside the body of their victim, searching for the tiny ball of white hot light, and swallow it down, all while its heat left a burning trail down their bodies. I’d never seen a person survive getting their fire stolen. After the burned ones learned they could steal an unburnt’s flame from within, they would harvest any fire from any person who crossed their paths, and it would keep them alive in a constant state of hunger for more flame and power.
The burned ones’ affliction grew on a global scale. Suddenly, our magic wasn’t safe anymore. Our world changed, and we needed to find a new way to live, a way to become safe again. That’s when my grandfather created the Sicarri—volunteers who learned the skill of fighting and slaying the burned ones—an army of sorts. They kept innocent people safe, relayed valuable information about magic, and became almost like the new military of the world. From there, our forces grew. We created healers—the ones who work in medicine and deal with injuries, and intel for research and information. People who used to teach magic now taught how to resist the temptation of the flame. After a while, we only drew power from our magic when absolutely necessary, and only in small increments. We started referring to the burned ones as demons, since that’s what they became. Soulless, power-hungry, and driven mad.
What else would you call pure evil?
Since then, demons have always been slightly stronger, faster, and just a touch more powerful than regular people. Why wouldn’t they be? They’ve learned to live off of the very thing that consumed them in the first place, soul fire. We never learned what the catalyst was for all of this, why our magic suddenly became dangerous. Instead, we focus on the things we do know—how to keep everyone safe.
Since the demons were sanctioned in small places outside of most towns, people could live more freely and less afraid, able to walk outside of their front doors without getting their flames stolen. Now, there isn’t another person more capable of fighting the demons than me. I was raised to do this, to fight against the evil in the world, and to teach others to fight as well. And I’ve been doing my job damn well since I was fifteen and my father allowed me to join him for my first real fight against the demons. That was the first time I saw the truth of what our magic could do. After a while, it became easier to suppress the flame, and though I could never extinguish it, it grew small enough not to tempt me as often as it used to.
Things have died down in the past twenty years, maybe because the Sicarri learned how to fight back or maybe because the demons are gearing up for something big. I can’t really tell you the reason for the quietness lately. I can’t explain the unease I feel in the very cells of my being. I don’t know what will happen next. All I know is that no matter what changes, it always gets the worst at night.
“Elijah, it’s Cormac.” Gravelly cough. “Remember that time in New Orleans when I got you out of that bind you were in? I’m going to need you to help me out of this one. I messed up. I found something, but not before they got to me. Come find me, alone. There’s no telling who to trust now.”
Click. Rewind. Repeat.
I’ve listened to this message too many times to count. He sounds awful. Like he’s been up for days on end. I imagine his small body cowering in a corner, the yellow of his hair dull in darkness that surrounds him. He was always the one to get the Sicarri out of a situation that had gone to shit. I hang my head between my knees and settle my chin within my hands as I stare at the unyielding hardwood floor beneath my bare feet. I run my eyes over the grains in the wood, noticing the flecks of dark and light in the old oak. I remember the aches in my fingers and knees when I fit each plank of wood into its slot. I wiggle my tired toes against the firm surface; they are sore from a day of training yesterday. I stroke my fingers over my cheeks and feel the stubble beginning to grow there. I make a mental note to shave soon. I know Vara doesn’t like it if my stubble scratches her when we kiss.
I remember the incident in New Orleans like it was yesterday. If I close my eyes, I can see it. I inhale and still feel the burn of smoke filling its way through my lungs. I was enclosed by demons, almost suffocated through the fog, and I could smell death in the air. I was defeated, until I wasn’t. Cormac arrived just in time, storming the old building that was soon to become my permanent grave. He brought every member of the Sicarri that he could find and charged in, decimating demon bodies until there was nothing left but smoke and flame. I remember the feelings of shock and awe when I locked eyes with Cormac.
I avoid most of the memories I have of the battles I’ve fought in fear of triggering my nightmares, but no matter what I do, I can never forget the day Cormac saved my life. If I had known then that this memory would star as my nightly horror show, I would have probably done things a little differently.
I’m dragged from my thoughts when I sense my wife, Vara, at the doorframe. I look up and her face floods my vision. Damn, she looks beautiful. I swear, I fall in love with her all over again at this time of day, when the sunlight just begins to stream in the windows and hits the deep crimson waves of her flowing hair. I stare at her upturned nose and the golden freckles dotting her cheeks. The deep emerald in her
sharp green eyes consumes me and I sit, wishing they would sweep me away. In the middle of all this death and destruction, my wife is the angel who comes to me when I need her most. I don’t imagine I would be here if she hadn’t been there to help pull me through the muck that has surrounded me most of my life.
“How many more times are you going to listen to that?” She must have heard Cormac’s message from the hall. I can’t help but smile inwardly at her attempt to lighten the mood. If she heard everything, she already knows how worried I am. There is no hiding from Vara. She has an almost supernatural sense of awareness of others’ feelings, and forever uses her gift at the appropriate times.
My hands move from my face and I sit up straighter, attempting to crack a smile through the stiff muscles surrounding my lips. If I could, I would hide the depth of fear I feel for Cormac, but Vara can see through any wall I try to build. If they got to him, the demons could potentially get to us, to our family. And in no way would that be even remotely acceptable. I have to do everything I can to stop that from happening.
“You’re leaving.” She says it as more of a statement than a question. Vara knows that I’ll always do whatever it takes to keep our family safe. After my grandfather created the Sicarri, he made sure that I understood what being a member of the Sicarri meant, having a family… sisters and brothers who stood with me. Even though I was an only child, I never knew anything that meant more than family. My father grew up in this life, my mother died when I was very young. This is all I know.
Vara works hard to hide the discomfort that I know is lingering beneath her surface, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against the doorframe.
“It’s Cormac, Vara. I have to go. The Sicarri could be in trouble.” I speak for the first time, leaning back farther into the leather chair cradling me.
“Think about what you’re leaving me here with, Elijah. Any minute now, the tables could turn, and we won’t be safe without you.” Her voice breaks with the last word, and for a fleeting moment I see the mask slip from her face. She is obviously disappointed that I’m leaving.