Wilde's Fire Read online

  But I want more.

  Wrapping my arms around his waist, I desperately pull him closer to me.

  He straddles my legs, brushes his lips on my neck, down the center of my chest and stomach.

  My skin tingles with excitement.

  Arland trails his hands down my legs, tickling me with his fingertips as he works his way up my stomach and shoulders. Holding himself up by his arms, he dips his head and returns his mouth to mine.

  I tug at his shirt, trying to lift it over his head.

  He pulls it back down, then stops kissing me. “I cannot do this.”

  “What? Why?” How could he tease me this way? How could he build up my broken spirit, and then leave me hanging? I slide out from under him, sit up on the bed, then pull the blankets over myself.

  Arland passes me my nightgown. “I did not say I do not want to do this.”

  Ignoring the garment in his hand, I allow tears to stream down my face again. “What is it then?”

  He slips the gown over my head. “I already told you. I cannot allow you to die for me.”

  “Arland—”

  He kisses my forehead. “I love you, Kate. We will find a way to get around this, but not tonight.”

  “I love you.” I whisper, allowing him to stroke my face as I lie next to him and cry.

  I cry for Brad, for Arland. I grieve over all the losses I’ve endured. He was right not to make love to me, but I cry about that, too. Arland holds me closely, calming the shaking fits, the fears, the nerves, while I sob for hours. When the tears dry, when my head throbs, when I no longer remember why I’m upset, I close my eyes and allow Arland’s soothing touch to lull me to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Home, sweet home. Bright yellow rays beam down onto the rolling green pastures of our farm. Standing on the bottom rail of the split-wood fence, I making clicking sounds, calling to my new brown and white horse.

  She trots up to me, ears pricked forward.

  Gary hangs over the fence and laughs. “She already loves you.”

  Arland is in the barn, shoveling out old manure, and spreading fresh straw.

  Inhaling a deep, renewing breath, I set to train the little horse. It’s a long day of good, hard work, but it’s all worth it to be home again.

  When the day is ending, and the fireball in the sky peeks over the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains, we call it quits and head to our house. The wooden boards creak as Arland, Gary, and I step onto the porch where Mom, Brit, and Perth are already eating dinner. Everyone smiles and laughs.

  Brad and Mr. Tanner ride up the circular driveway in their truck; the familiar sputtering of the diesel engine is like sweet music to my ears.

  Everything is normal. Better than normal.

  I take Arland’s hand in mine, and we go to the rock-lined driveway to meet them.

  Brad jumps down from the truck, gravel crunching under his feet, and he fixes his narrowed eyes on me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  His eye color changes from blue to black. “You aren’t dead.”

  A shiver runs through me. I open my swollen, burning eyes. I haven’t dreamed in weeks. Rubbing the bed next to me, I feel for Arland.

  He’s not here.

  “Solas.” I squeeze my hand into a fist, then open it. A small, blue flame dances on my palm. I smile. I’ve finally mastered the trick Arland tried to teach me. Grabbing the candle from next to the bed, I transfer the flame to the wick.

  A dark figure passes in front of the dresser.

  I bring the sheets to my chin. “Who’s there?”

  Brad emerges from the shadows and stands next to my bed.

  Am I still dreaming? “B-Brad?”

  “Hi, Kate,” he says, locking his ice-cold fingers around my arm.

  What’s happening? This isn’t Brad, and I’m not sure this is a dream.

  I look around the little room, but it’s so dark. I cannot see anything past the wooden posters of the bed. For all I know, Arland could be lying dead on the floor. My heart races out of control. Taking short breaths, I focus on building the courage to speak.

  Brad squints his eyes. He watches me … waiting. A wicked smile twists his face.

  Seconds tick by, turning into minutes.

  Who is this? Why isn’t he saying anything?

  Arland. Why isn’t he with me?

  ”Where is Arland?” I ask, sounding stronger than I feel.

  “Tell me why you betrayed me, then I’ll tell you what I did with him,” Brad’s ghost—or whatever this is—demands, cool and calm.

  “I didn’t betray you. Now where is he?”

  Illuminate my room, right now, please.

  White sprites appear in the room, as though I flicked a light switch, revealing that I’m alone with Brad.

  I take a deep breath. Relief floods me. Arland isn’t here, but where could he be?

  “There was a lot of noise coming from the hall. Arland went to check it out. You may see him again someday, … you may not. My servants could not find you, though. Such stupid creatures. The rest of the pathetic Draíochta were easy for them to capture.” He waves a hand, like we’re having a casual conversation.

  “C-capture?” I hope I heard him wrong.

  “Oh no, you heard me correctly.”

  I stare at the strange orange eyes where Brad’s used to be. He can hear my thoughts?

  The imposter nods. “You are all so easily fooled by my servants’ tricks. I have had two living amongst you for weeks, watching and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I do plan on killing whoever it was that protected you before you could be captured,” he says, one arm across his chest, the other stroking his chin.

  Mom was right. Oh God, where is everyone?

  “W-who are you?”

  Brad’s baby blues shine through the sadistic façade of the being before me. For a moment, I see pain, a struggle within those eyes. “You do not recognize me? We have known each other our entire lives.”

  “You’re D-Darkness, not Brad.” My breath forms white clouds in front of me. “Get out!”

  He shakes his head. “Darkness. What a ridiculous name they have given to a god.”

  He huffs a short, agitated laugh.

  His proximity to my face is unnerving. Hoping not to provoke Darkness any further, I push myself back, but he jumps on the bed and forces his lips onto my mouth.

  He’s kissing me.

  Punching his chest, I scream, kick, and scratch. “Get off me!”

  He cringes, then licks my face with a rough, snake-like tongue. Resting his chest on mine, he nearly suffocates me with his weight.

  “Help! Take him out of here.” I beg the magic—or anyone who can hear me.

  No one responds.

  Darkness’ face sours. He lifts off me, then stands next to the bed. “Your magic cannot help you in your dreams, girl. I wanted to see what it was about you that pleased the human boy so much, but you are as deplorable as the rest of the Draíochta.”

  His form twists from Brad into something so scary, I have the urge to bring the blanket over my head. Shaking, I look away, instead.

  “You should get a good look at the face of your enemy.”

  Working up courage, I face Darkness again. His body shifts among different conglomerations of his daemons, never resting on one form for longer than a second. He has claws as long as the coscarthas’, surely filled with the same poison. His eyes are orange and beady like those of the bats, then they transform to black, hollowed sockets, then to blood red orbs. Wings of a hawk sprawl from his back, then those of a bat. The head of a hound sits on his neck one moment, then one of a man. His chest is human, and his legs are of a bristly ox. The scaly tail swishing behind him terrifies me more than anything else.

  He watches as I absorb what his horrifying transformations mean: how little I still know of what dangers are in Encardia. How little anyone knows of the dangers in Encardia.

  “As you can see, there are quite a fe
w of my servants you have not yet met. Do not fear, child. When they find you, they are only permitted to torture you. Killing you will be my pleasure, alone.” Darkness licks his blackened lips.

  “What’s the point? What do you gain from killing me and all these innocent people?” I slap my hand over my mouth.

  “I am five thousand years old; entertainment is difficult to find.”

  He destroys life because he’s bored?

  “I would not expect you to understand, mortal.” Darkness clenches his jaw, muscles rippling all over his body.

  “You do not deserve the powers my brother and sister have so foolishly given you. However, your powers will aid me greatly in this war, after I kill you.”

  The reckless god’s bones crack and bend in impossible directions.

  I cringe, then look away.

  Snarls echo around the room. A foul odor, ten times worse than sewage, fills the air. My cheek warms, then cools, over and over again.

  He’s panting on me.

  I tense and hold my breath, lungs burning from the lack of air. One, two, three, four … Darkness growls … two, no, five, six … hot liquid drips onto my hand.

  “Foolish indeed. You cannot even control your fear. I will rather enjoy sucking the Light from your soul—”

  I open my eyes to see why he’s stopped talking.

  Darkness has transformed into a hound, black fur raised on its neck. It stares at a golden light—more brilliant than anything that has shone on my body—flooding into the room and swirling around us.

  Pleasant, warm, smelling of sweet honeysuckle, the Light lifts my hair and caresses my skin with its comfort.

  Darkness growls, a low, guttural noise. The hound dissolves, shifting into a normal-looking but naked man, with shoulder length, curly, jet-black hair, and snow-white skin. He’s breathtaking. Like the man in the vision Mirain showed me, but not as pure. There’s something evil, something sinister about Darkness’ beauty.

  He touches my cheek with his finger, burning my skin.

  I recoil.

  “I will see you again, soon,” he says, dissipating into thin air.

  The golden light takes on the form of a god, Griandor. I recognize him from my vision.

  Air returns to my lungs, but I’m trembling like a dry leaf in the wind, and hanging onto my sanity like the leaf would cling to the branch. Trying to avoid falling off. Trying to prevent being blown into the vast openness of the world.

  A blanket of Light drapes over me, calming the shaking. “Peace, child. I am not here to harm you, and Dughbal cannot hurt you.”

  A lump forms in my throat. I swallow it. “A-am I-I dreaming?”

  “Not exactly. Neither Dughbal nor I have been in your room this morning. We are merely apparitions.” Griandor’s words sound like the joyous songs of angels. He smiles, eyes radiating kindness.

  “Dughbal said I was dreaming, but I felt him on me. He kissed me. His weight smothered me.” I cringe at the memory of Dughbal’s rough tongue flicking against my cheek.

  The muscles in Griandor’s jaw jut out. “Unfortunately, my brother is dishonest, and very powerful. I assure you, he cannot do anything more than what you experienced tonight. Otherwise, I fear he would have already taken your life.”

  I know Griandor said Dughbal was not in my room, but I cannot help but try to rub the feeling of his ice-cold body off me.

  “Katriona, the gifts my sister and I have bestowed upon you are undeniably very powerful. Most Draíochta, and even the Daonna from your former home, may be swayed and even killed in their dreams, but you, and the Draíochta near you, will be safe as long as you all remain on the path of Light.”

  “But Dughbal said he had servants here. People have been hurt. Brad died. Am I not on the path of Light?” I ask, shaking my head.

  ”You are on the correct Path, child.”

  “I’m s-sorry. If you are a god, why do you not end this war yourself?” I hope not to sound petulant, but having humans fight a war between gods … ?

  Griandor’s smile falls. Yellow flames burn in his distant eyes.

  Balling the bed sheet in my sweaty hands, I wait while he formulates his response.

  “During a battle, many centuries ago, we fought brutally against each other. One of our worlds, Elysia, was obliterated from the path of destruction forged between the gods. It was our most prized world. The inhabitants were beautiful, peaceful, loving. There were endless treasures to be found there. After we decimated Elysia, we vowed never to directly battle each other again.”

  “Why did you fight?”

  “Balance.”

  “Balance?”

  Griandor nods. “There are eight primary gods. Before destroying Elysia, there were eight worlds, and then Heaven. A constant shift of control must be made in order to maintain balance in any world. My brother wanted permanent control over Elysia. He began spending more time with the mortals of that world, hoping they would pray to him. But Dughbal was not kind, and therefore the people prayed against him. He refused to leave. Fear multiplied in Elysian hearts. My sister and I tried to convince him to return home … . That is when the war began.”

  “So, if he vowed never to battle again, why are we here?”

  “After Elysia died, we lived in peace, but over time Dughbal grew restless. Desiring conflict, he began causing trouble in the heavens. Our father punished him, sending Dughbal to dwell with man in all forms for three centuries.”

  “Your father sent him here? If your brother wanted conflict, why send him somewhere people are easily destroyed?”

  Pursing his lips, Griandor scowls. “His punishment was intended to make him grow fond of life, not want to destroy it. My father knew not the depths of evil in his son.”

  “I-I’m s-sorry.” I look away. I cannot bear the shame his scowl makes me feel.

  Placing his finger under my chin, he turns my face toward him. “You are intelligent, Katriona. You should never be ashamed to ask questions.”

  His touch is comforting, similar to how Arland soothes me, but a million times more powerful.

  “In the underworld of Daigre, Dughbal whispered to the corpses of beings from old worlds. He promised the souls power, magic, and most importantly, new life, if they would agree to fight for him. Dughbal expected his actions to bring us out of our vow of peace and fight against him. When we did not, he punished this world, for it is closest in beauty to Elysia. Since the magic of the gods was no longer being used here, it was easy for Dughbal to take over.”

  “Old magic is magic of the gods?”

  “Yes, child. The Draíochtas’ intentions to protect themselves from the Daonna were honorable, but in doing so, they separated themselves from the ways of old magic. Over time, most lost faith that old magic ever existed. Many lost faith that we ever existed. There were a few who continued to practice, like your father’s family, but not enough to protect the world from my brother.” Griandor pauses, shaking his head.

  “I don’t understand. How would practicing magic keep us safe from a god?”

  “How many daemons have you fought since you have been here?”

  “Too many.”

  Griandor laughs. “I agree, you have fought more than a fair share. Had you ever fought anything before coming here?”

  “No.”

  “Can you imagine how easy it would be to fight the daemons if everyone possessed the same power as you?”

  “So why not give everyone the power to do the same as me?”

  “Katriona, these people made practicing old magic a crime. Most of them forgot it ever existed. We needed someone who would not be afraid of the punishment the leaders of this world would inflict upon them.”

  I lean forward. “That’s why my parents had to leave with me? Why not more? Why didn’t you send thousands of us away?”

  He sighs. “Our powers cannot be split, and we felt putting them into one Draíochta would be better than two.”

  “But if there are seven good gods, you cou
ld have made at least five others like me.”

  “My father cannot give his powers away; it would be foolish. And my other siblings feared that, if they did as my sister and I have done, Dughbal would kill them first.”

  “What have you and your sister done?”

  “We gave you our magic, our strength. Years before the battle began, Gramhara and I were given a prophecy of what was to come. We searched long and hard for a soul deserving enough of our powers of Light and Love. When your mother and father conceived you, we knew you were the right soul. You have a pure heart, courage, fire.”

  I wonder whether they picked the right soul or not. I have not been courageous. My heart has been broken repeatedly. I guess I might have fire, but only in a literal sense … and that’s not even mine.

  Griandor purses his lips again. “Do not doubt yourself, Katriona. Have you questioned your place in this world since you arrived?”

  Before I answer, I think back over all the time I’ve been here. “I don’t know.”

  “We have been watching you. Even yesterday, while sending your friend away, you told him this was your world. Could you not feel the power flowing through you at that moment? The moment when you realized this is where you want to be?” His voice rises.

  Is he growing impatient?

  “I-I c-could feel the flames grow stronger, blinding, but I have no control. I couldn’t save Brad.”

  “You try too hard. You over-think what you need to do. When you first discovered your powers, did you think? No. You reacted to the situation as it presented itself. Since then, you have begged for help, questioned the power, tried to silence your emotions. You should control your emotions—as your mother has instructed you—but do not subdue them. It is the fire, the love, the rage, the passion inside you that will end this war. And you did save your friend. You asked for his forgiveness before he was killed.”

  “I did?” I don’t remember asking for that.

  “Logh dó,”—Griandor says—”means forgive him. And we did forgive him, not that he had much to be forgiven for.”

  I might rip the ball of sheets in my hands to shreds. “What? He hit me. He hurt me for many years. All the memories Arland took from him were awful.”