Fire and Bone (Otherborn #1)
Rachel A. Marks
BEFORE
The flames came without warning at her touch.
She could do nothing. Only watch the fire consume him as her soul splintered.
His long black hair took wing with the blaze, twisting and melting into nothing as his screams filled the forest where they stood. The same forest where she’d kissed his human lips, reveling in his scent. Where she’d let him love her, their secret safe in the arms of the emerald trees. Now all was orange and golden light, eating him away.
She tried to quench the flames with her shawl, her hands, but still his perfect skin blistered and cracked, peeling off in flakes to float away with the sparks above her head. It happened so quickly. The face she’d kissed so many times disappeared in the dancing glow, unveiling a grinning skull.
Her cries of anguish echoed around her as his choked off, his charred body crashing to the ground.
Sweet mother Brighid, no! What had she done?
Silver smoke rose in pluming clouds, stinging her eyes, her nostrils, as the burns on her hands healed.
He was hers. Hers. How could the goddess take him?
Her love. Her shadow. But now . . .
Bones in the fire.
Her chest heaved with the weight of it, and she fell to her knees in agony.
No, it wasn’t the goddess who’d done this.
She’d done it. She’d killed him.
She’d lost control of the flame.
ONE
SAGE
I have this thing for fire. It terrifies me. Because when I feel the warmth on my skin, or watch the dancing flames, it’s as if the pulsing glow is speaking to me. It’s only a small whisper, but it’s crystal clear in my mind. A voice that merges with the rhythm of the flickering tongues of light: Touch. Feed. Control. I’m sure something is very wrong with me, but my crazy isn’t my biggest problem right now. It’s my lack of a place to crash for the night.
I flick my lighter on and pretend I don’t hear the whispers as I hold the flame up to the end of Ziggy’s cigarette.
She pulls in a drag and then coughs. She’s totally asthmatic, but for some reason she won’t quit. “I hope they have some of those blueberry scones left over,” she says, leaning on the wall beside the back door of the coffee shop. She twists one of her short dreadlocks around her finger. “They make me feel fancy. And I need to feel fancy on Halloween, like I’m in disguise.”
The alley is lit by the small yellow lamp above the door. It casts an odd glow over our surroundings, making the shadows look deep and dangerous. There’s even a raven cawing above us, perched on a buzzing power line, rounding off the All Hallows’ feel of the night and masking the sporadic rustle of rats behind the dumpster several feet away. This is our routine every other night now, dinner courtesy of Granada Grounds. Apparently, there’s some lame law that they have to throw the leftover “spoiled” food away. No donating it to the homeless, just the roaches and rats. But the owner’s daughter, Star, made a deal with us that on the nights she’s closing she’ll put edible leftovers in a sealed container before tossing them out. She usually puts something extra in there, like granola bars or bottles of sparkling water. I guess Ziggy and I are now her charity cases.
Whatever, I’m too hungry to care.
“You need meat, Sage,” Ziggy says, looking me up and down. “You’re totally bony, girl. Those tits are about to evaporate.” She shakes her head in disapproval, takes another drag, and coughs.
I look down at my chest and shrug. I’ve never been vain. Which is good, because at this point I haven’t showered in a week and I had to give myself a haircut with some guy’s pocketknife when I got goop in my hair that I couldn’t wash out. Ziggy actually cried. My “amazingly bamtastic fiery locks,” as she calls them, were ruined.
I’m so over it.
“I thought you liked skinny girls,” I say.
“Sorry to break it to you, but you’ve never been my type, white girl.” She winks at me.
I kick a rock her way with my boot. “Heartbreaker.”
“Look who’s talkin’.” She shakes her head. “You’ve been leavin’ puddles of drooling boys behind you for the three months I’ve known you. When was the last time you let one get up in that?” She motions to my body with her cigarette.
Try never. I don’t know why, but the idea of letting a guy get close terrifies me. I haven’t even let a boy kiss me since middle school. And that was just a peck—so maybe it wasn’t technically a kiss. How pathetic is that? It’s not like any guy’s ever hurt me; if anything, I think I intimidate them—Ziggy says it’s my stoic demeanor. But I don’t think that would stop a determined flirt. It’s just . . . every time I see a hot guy, someone I’d want to touch and kiss, my skin heats up like I’m a fifty-year-old woman having a hot flash. The urges I get in my head make me flush. So I just back away.
See what I mean about the crazy?
The door beside us squeaks, and Ziggy and I move deeper into the shadows just in case it’s not Star.
A blue head of hair peeks out into the alley. “Hey bitches, I got the goods.” She spots us and comes out the rest of the way. She’s dressed in this tight blue-checkered dress that makes her look like Dorothy from some porno version of The Wizard of Oz. “And I have the best idea ever.”