Of Flame and Light - Chapter One
Chapter One
You know it’s going to be a bad day
when you wake up in the morning and the first word out of your mouth is “fuck.”
My right arm―or
should I say my new arm generated
after my real one was chewed off by a psycho werewolf (no, this isn’t a joke)
―buzzes me awake. That’s right, buzzes.
I do my best to
hide my limb. Not just because it’s as white as alabaster. Or because of the
fluorescent blue veins that run its length. But because it’s doing things I
can’t control, like, interfering with my magic, glowing like a light saber, and
now, making noise.
I lift my head,
half-asleep, wondering how a wasp nest found its way beneath my pillow, but too
exhausted to run away screaming, yet.
If you were familiar with my life and world, you’d understand pissed off wasps
in my bed wouldn’t be the craziest or scariest thing that’s ever happened to
me.
My eyes narrow at
the quivering pillow as my haze clears. Maybe I’m tired, or maybe it’s because
I’m bitter as all hell, but I can’t help thinking that the arm and the pillow are laughing at me. I
pull my glowing and buzzing arm from beneath the fluffy white pillow and swear.
“Really? Really?” I ask it. “What’s next, singing
and origami?”
Apparently, my
incandescent light saber arm isn’t a fan of sarcasm and proceeds to flicker on
and off like a twisted strobe light. I shake it hard and smack it against the
mattress, for all the good it does. “Knock it off,” I tell it.
It’s not that I
think it listens, or that I manage to control it. There’s simply no controlling
this thing, but somehow the glowing recedes and so does the noise, and my arm
resumes its “normal” death-like tone.
It quiets, no
longer casting light. I should be thankful, right? I should be happy, true?
Oh, I wish.
The color is
startling and contrasts horrifically against my deep olive skin. But its eerie
tone and its unpredictability aren’t the only things that trouble me. There’s
something wrong with this limb. It doesn’t belong on me. And in a way, it
doesn’t belong in this world.
Maybe, like me,
it’s something that wasn’t supposed to be.
I sigh and clutch
it against me. It feels like my old arm, the skin soft and smooth. It moves
like my old arm. I’m not limited with either fine or gross motor skills. But
it’s not . . . human.
When I lost my
real arm, the Squaw Valley Pack Omega, created this new one using ancient
werewolf magic. If I were a were, I
think things would have been fine, peachy-keen, and all that good stuff. But
I’m not a were, or human, or witch,
or vampire, or anything. Not even a little bit.
My sisters and I
may look human, but nothing like us has ever existed on earth. And, because of
it, Earth’s ancient magic seems to really resent helping a weird girl like me.
I used to wield
fire and lightning with ease, and catch glimpses of the future. I used to be a badass.
I’m no longer a badass, and the only things I catch now are odd glances cast my
way.
“Are you the
punishment for my sins?” I ask my arm.
I don’t expect it
to answer, but it does. Sputtering light and buzzing before abruptly ceasing
its response and sinking into the mattress.
To anyone
watching, this whole thing might be funny. To me . . . nothing’s been funny in
a long time.
For a moment, I
simply stare at it. There’s a part of me that wants to cry, wondering what it
will start doing next. But I’ve already cried too long and hard for what it has
cost me.
Or should I say, who it cost me.
I scan the room.
Nothing of Gemini remains. Not his clothes, not our pictures together. I even
deleted and blocked his number. For all my arm disgusts me, I never expected it
to disgust him more. After all, this was the werewolf who claimed me as his
mate. The same male who swore he’d love only me forever.
I suppose forever
only counts so long as I didn’t change, so long as I remained perfect in his
eyes. But I never claimed to be perfect, even if many believed I’d looked the
part.
My arm flickers
and zings, the electrified charge is
strong enough to startle me and slap any remnants of sleep away. Yeah. No way
am I perfect. Not by a long shot, especially with this thing constantly mocking
me and reminding me of everything wrong in my life.
A sharp rap to the
door has me glancing toward my right. “Taran?” my perky sister Shayna calls. “I
heard your alarm clock go off. Want some breakfast?”
I lift the bane of
my existence and sigh. Alarm clock? I suppose that’s one word for it.
“T?” Shayna
presses. “I’m making waffles.”
She semi-sings her
last few words which is a very “Shayna” thing to do.
“I’ll be right
out,” I answer.
“Cool!” she
responds. “I have plenty.”
It’s not that I
want to eat. It’s that I know how worried my sisters are about me. So I sit
with them when I can, and plaster on a smile when I need to, but even that’s
burdensome, which sucks. I don’t want my time with my sisters to be a chore. I
love them. But I’ve learned some things can’t be helped.
My arm fires with
its haunting glow. Case in point.
With a groan, I
slip out of bed, pulling on a fresh pair of panties and a bra before heading to
my bathroom to clean up. After a few swipes of mascara and some lipstick, I
yank on a form-fitting red dress and shove my feet into a pair of platform
pumps, doing my best to strut and not collapse back in bed. Yet even though I’m
almost to the door, there’s one more thing I need. Most women won’t leave their
homes without their cell phones. I can’t leave my room without my elbow-length
gloves. It helps me hide the ugly appendage and the light show that accompanies
it.
But now that my
arm’s buzzing . . .
I pause with my
hand on the doorknob. What am I going to do about this thing?
I take a breath
and wrench open the door, tugging on my gloves as I walk down the hall and into
our large kitchen. Shayna abandons the waffle iron when she sees me and skips
forward, her ponytail bouncing behind her.
She throws her
arms around me like it’s been months, not hours, since she’s seen me. “Hey, T!”
she tells me brightly.
I pat her back,
wishing I could hug her for real. But real hugs lead to my very real tears, and
I can’t keep doing this to my family. “Hey, princess. Wow, everything smells
great.”
It’s the truth,
yet my comment sounds phony and forced, even to me.
Her arms fall away
slowly. Although she keeps her grin, I sense the worry behind it, as well as
her fear. “You look hot,” she tells me, punching my good arm affectionately.
No. I look
acceptable. I used to spend over an hour styling my dark wavy hair and applying
my makeup. Now, I do enough so I don’t resign myself to sweats, watching made
for TV movies, and stuffing my face with potato chips.
“Thanks,” I manage
with yet another forced grin. I make a show of taking in all the breakfast
foods, including the freshly baked muffins. “Yum. Do you need help setting the
table or anything?”
“No. It’s all
good.”
She says nothing
more which is unusual for Shayna. Either she’s waiting for me to speak or she’s
debating what to say. I can’t take another pity party so I lift a pan filled
with eggs and plate stacked with waffles and bring them to the table. “Where’s
your puppy?” I ask. Or in other words, where’s your gigantic scary werewolf husband,
Koda?
“Oh, he already
ate and left. He’s doing more at the Den since Celia’s been needing more ah,
time with Aric.”
Okay, now I really
grin, and so does she. Time with Aric is a mild way to describe what Celia
desires from her husband.
Our youngest
sister Emme walks out of the laundry room blushing, which tells me she’s heard
us discussing Celia. Shayna’s grin quickly turns into a laugh. Emme’s shyness
has that effect on her.
Emme clears her
throat, but not her obvious discomfort. Where Shayna has dark straight hair,
Emme has soft blonde waves and fair skin that reddens the longer we take her
in.
“Emme,” I offer.
“What’s the big deal? So what if Celia’s banging Aric like the lead drummer at
a Fourth of July parade. They’re married. It happens.”
Emme holds up her
hand. “Taran, please let’s keep their private life private.”
I reach for a
glass of freshly squeezed juice. “I would if they weren’t so damn loud. I
swear, I thought the walls were going to come down around midnight when they―”
“Taran . . .” Emme
whimpers, shaking her hands like she can’t stand to hear another word.
Emme’s always been
so sweet and angelic. Me? Not at all. “Hey, do you suppose Celia’s more
flexible now, given how Aric knocked her up? As in ankles behind the head kind
of flexible―”
Emme lifts a
muffin with her force and sends it
soaring. I catch it just before it rams me in the mouth. “Eat,” she insists.
“Just eat.”
In other words,
for once in your life, shut your inappropriate trap.
Shayna takes a
seat beside me, laughing her skinny ass off. Emme sits, too, in time for Celia
to stagger down the back steps.
Good God. Celia’s
long curly hair is tousled from lack of sleep and the insane amount of sex
she’s had. And her eyes are glazed with a hunger that warns me not to get too
close. “Is there bacon? Please tell me there’s bacon,” she growls as if crazed.
Her entire face
beams when Emme levitates a plateful of bacon and lowers it in front of an
empty seat. Like a woman possessed, Celia sits and rams about four pieces in
her mouth at once. The rest of us watch her in stunned silence as she chomps
them down and reaches for another few slices. She freezes when she realizes
we’re all gaping at her. “Sorry. Would you like some?”
Her tigress eyes
replace her human ones, making it clear she’s only trying to be polite. And
that only an idiot would get between her and her breakfast.
“No, nope, uh-uh,”
the three of us answer at once.
This seems to
settle her inner beast enough so Celia’s human eyes once more blink back at us.
I pour her a glass of juice, while Emme and Shayna carefully place plates
stacked with food closer to her reach. What can I say, we don’t want to be
eaten.
“Are you all
right?” Emme asks her quietly.
Celia slows her
frantic munching. “I don’t know,” she admits, her husky voice trickling with
concern. She lifts her T-shirt and shows us her tiny belly. “The baby’s not
growing.”
We’ve noticed
that, too. Her pregnancy had been unexpected, given she was incapable of
bearing children. But within two weeks of finding out she and Aric had
conceived, her baby bump had appeared and was visible through her wedding gown.
That was two
months ago. And now, despite how this baby has been prophesized to rid the
world of evil, we’re all pretty much freaking out that he or she isn’t growing.
“But your body’s
changing,” I insist. I don’t exactly ooze optimism. In fact, I’m a the sky is falling and the earth is
swallowing us whole kind of gal. But Celia doesn’t need to hear what’s
wrong. My girl needs hope and that’s what I give her. I point to her chest. “If
your hooters don’t scream ‘I’m knocked up’, I don’t know what does.”
She glances at her
girls and then back at me, the tension in her shoulders lifting slightly. “They
are a lot bigger,” she agrees quietly. She gathers her thoughts, appearing to
want to say more despite her obvious hesitation. “And my body does feel like
it’s becoming something more. Maybe not outwardly, but I can feel the
difference inside of me.”
“What are you
feeling, Ceel?” Shayna asks. “Is your magic changing?”
Celia nods. “The
magic that helped me get pregnant seems to complement mine. But my hormones are
out of control.” Her cheeks flush and she lowers her voice. “Poor Aric. I can’t
stop having sex with him. It’s like every time I see him, I pounce.”
Aric bounds down
the steps as if called, his eyes glassy from lack of sleep and his five o’clock
shadow now a full-out beard thanks to his preference to satisfy Celia’s needs rather
than shave. His face lights up when he sees Celia, kind of like she did at the
sight of bacon.
“Yeah, poor
bastard,” I mutter.
“Hey, beautiful,”
he says to Celia, bending to kiss her lips.
She smiles against
his mouth. “Hey, wolf,” she answers, stroking his beard lightly.
Emme inches away
when Celia’s stare suggests the need for something more than breakfast. Aric,
being Aric, returns that look with equal force. I start to laugh, not because
of Celia and Aric, but because of Emme’s response. She’s glancing around at the
food like she knows it’s going to end up splattered across Celia’s and Aric’s
soon-to-be naked bodies.
My laugh lodges in
my throat when my right arm jerks as if shocked. Shayna lowers her fork. “You
okay, T?” she asks.
I shove my arm
under the table. “Fine,” I say. I reach for glass of juice with my opposite
hand, trying to stay calm. Celia and Emme didn’t notice my twitch, and I don’t
think Aric did either, but something about me lures his attention away from
Celia.
He cocks his head,
his nose flaring as if his alpha wolf has latched onto something. “Taran,
what’s wrong?” he asks.
Celia’s and Emme’s
attention drifts my way. Shayna rises, fear crinkling her brow.
“I’m tired,” I say
dismissively, feeling my pulse start to race. I push my chair out. “I should
head back to bed. I didn’t sleep much―”
All at once, and
without warning, pain burns its way across my affected limb, curling me forward
in agony. My arm whips out, sending the table and all its contents soaring with
freakish speed. Plates shatter on the floor as the table imbeds, with a loud
bang, into the wall, directly above
where Celia sat seconds before.
I lift my head as
the burn recedes, searching for her, panicked I harmed her. Tears of relief and
residual pain slide down my face when I see Aric lower her to floor and far
away from me. She and our sisters stare back at me stunned. But Aric? Holy
shit, he’s pissed.
“Taran, what are
you doing?” he growls.
I shake my head,
knowing he’s angry I almost hurt Celia. “I’m not doing anything . . .”
The burn returns
and so does its torment. This time, I can’t bite back my screams. I stumble
forward. Aric races to me. I don’t see him. I only feel his body and hear the
crunch of bone when my arm flails and connects with his jaw.
He crashes against
the granite counter with a grunt as my arm jerks wildly and the burn increases
tenfold.
My vision fades in
and out and my body thrashes, the erratic movements of my limb throwing me
against the wall. I collapse, my arm still beating itself against the floor
with enough force to splinter and punch through the wood. I’m not thinking. I
can’t. Everything hurts.
No. Everything burns.
“Cut it off!” I
scream.
Shayna reaches for
a knife, elongating it with her power and manipulating it into a deadly sword.
She lifts the blade above my spastic arm, her expression torn. By now I’m
sobbing, and all but clawing at my face.
“Please,” I beg her. “Cut it off!”
“I can’t,” Shayna
chokes out. “I can’t do this.”
“Pin it,” Celia
yells. “Pin it to the floor!”
With a flick of
her wrists Shayna changes the sword’s position and brings the point down toward
my raging hand. I barely feel the prick before the room erupts in a ghostly
light and Shayna goes flying.
Emme screams as
Shayna collides into the far wall. Aric and Celia are scrambling forward, but
all thoughts are lost in my torture. I’m retching with how hard I’m crying and
from the anguish crawling from my arm and into my chest.
Just as the burn reaches my heart and I begin
to lose consciousness, a pale yellow light surrounds me. Slowly, very slowly,
the heat charring my insides is replaced with a soothing chill I welcome like a
draw of fresh air.
My body shudders
as the coolness spreads like a cascade of water from a gentle spring. My pain
eases and my cries dwindle. It takes a long time for the ache to lessen, and
even longer for my vision to clear. But eventually it does.
Not that I like
what I see.
Blood cakes the
side of Shayna’s face. She winces as the bone along her eye socket pops out and
the cut above her eyebrow knits close. Bile churns my gut. If Koda hadn’t
passed her a portion of his werewolf essence, I would have killed her. There’s
no doubt. based on the amount of blood coating her skin, and what her body had
to do to heal her indented skull.
I cover my mouth.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp.
“It’s okay, T,”
she says, as if I can’t see the pain tightening her small pixie face. “It’s
okay.”
No. Not at all, sweetie.
Aric leans
forward. Being a werewolf and of pure blood, his inner beast had healed him
faster than Shayna. That didn’t mean I hadn’t made rubble out of his jaw or
that I hadn’t hurt him.
Or that I won’t do
it again.
I had no control
over my arm. None. Nor do I believe I have it now.
Aric realizes as
much. I don’t miss how he keeps Celia behind him, appearing to shield her and
their child from whatever I’ll unleash next.
“What happened?”
he asks, his voice riddled with anger, and maybe something more.
“I don’t know,” I
respond, my voice trembling and my body strangely weak. “I felt pain and it-it
went wild.”
“Your arm?” It’s a
question, but he’s not really asking.
I nod as Emme’s healing light recedes and her hands
withdraw from my shoulders. Her face is unusually pale. She swallows hard,
struggling to speak. “It’s her fire,” she says, barely above a whisper. She
looks at Aric. “It’s eating her alive . . .
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