Spark of the Everflame (Kindred's Curse, #1)

by Penn Cole

“If conditions were that bad in Mortal City, your mother was supposed to warn me so I could provide assistance.” My scowl returned in earnest. “Well she hasn’t been around to do that, has she?” He stiffened at the pointed accusation in my tone. “Besides, things are always that bad in Mortal City. Always have been.” His posture was strung so tightly a vein popped against his neck. The motion lured my focus along his scar as it trailed through his lips and down the column of his throat, lingering on the spot where the pale, jagged line disappeared beneath the collar of his jacket. “If there is a family in need, tell me and I will make arrang—” “Every family is in need, Luther. Don’t pretend like any of you people give a damn about any of us.”

Somewhere buried in his lessons, there was a challenge. A calling. I didn’t know whether it came from him or from within my own heart, but I felt it as surely as the autumn breeze that chilled the sweat upon my neck. I was not made to sit and do nothing. I was made to fight.

The truth, the real truth, was that I’d made one too many calls like this to Paradise Row. I’d seen firsthand what happens to the girls here—a few bruises were the least of Peony’s worries. And no matter how many bad men this madam made disappear for their evil acts, there would be more. Until someone brought change to this realm, there would always be more.

Don’t choose a mediocre life for a mediocre man. Go be exceptional. If he’s worth it, he won’t judge you. And if he’s really the one, he’ll come along for the ride.”

These people truly were gods. Evil, horrible, murderous gods. Father was right. Mortals didn’t stand a chance—not in a battle of strength, at least. If we had any hope of surviving them, it would have to be a game of wits.

Sacred, ancient words flowed through me—the Rite of Endings, a forbidden prayer from the ancient mortal religion. “End be your time, a trade in kind, a life well-lived for peace to find.” As the prayer tumbled from my lips, the man’s feet shuffled over dusty stone. He sauntered closer, and my words quickened with my racing heart. “Be not afraid, as shadows fade, all pain and woe shall be unmade.” “A blasphemer,” he sneered. “Good. I’ll sleep easier knowing you earned your death.” “Now fate well-sealed shall be revealed, for those whose worthy souls shall yield.” “Your mortal gods can’t help you now, girl. Perhaps the Kindred will have mercy on you both.” I wrapped my hands tighter around the child and squeezed my eyes closed. “In love and calm, our holy psa—” And then he struck.

Without a shovel, I’d only managed to claw out a shallow grave in the root-thickened soil. I’d laid out their bodies together in a gentle embrace, the boy cradled in his mother’s arms for all eternity. I prayed they found the serene safety in the Everflame’s warmth that the gods never allowed them in life.

Seeing the child die had cracked something fundamental inside me. How could I be so useless? How could I watch a murder and not be able to stop it? Healing now seemed like an absurdly frivolous pursuit. Healing was reactionary. Passive. Being a healer meant sitting idly by and waiting for someone to get hurt. I was sick of waiting. The time had come to fight. And I was ready.

“I’m ready. I’ll help you.” “Help me?” Henri blinked. He stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come inside and dry off.” I held my ground. “I want to help you. I need to do something, Henri. Anything.” “Help me with what?” “I’m ready to fight the Descended. Whatever it takes.” I took a long, trembling breath. “I want to join the Guardians.”

Though the Descended were so lovely it was almost painful to look at them, there was a certain emptiness to the way their beauty had become a standard-issue uniform. Each one of the handful I’d now met were stunning enough to take my breath away—beyond that, I couldn’t recall a single detail more. All except for Luther and his curious scar—another face that haunted my thoughts.

Warmth spread through me—he’d never looked at me like this, not in an entire lifetime of knowing each other. This was something more than friendship or even love, something that went beyond merely being impressed. This was respect—the kind that could only be earned through trials and proof.

This was a path I had chosen, free of my family’s influence or the expectations of society, and through it, I could help far more people than the occasional patient. If I could work with the Guardians to win this war, I could help every mortal in Emarion and ensure peace for generations to come. No more violence, no more suffering—surely that was worth more than whatever worries were shouting from the back of my conscience, wasn’t it? Besides, I could be more careful, take fewer risks. I could lay ground rules with the Guardians—lines I wasn’t willing to cross. If Henri really believed I could be a leader within their ranks, I could use that to ensure we fought this war with honor, never sacrificing one innocent life to protect another. There was so much I had the potential to do. The one thing I couldn’t do was nothing.

His hand rose to my face as if to grab it once again. I jerked back and raised a clenched fist in warning. Even if I’d already lost, I sure as hell would go down swinging. He laughed and dropped his arm. “You got fight in you, girl. We need more of your kind around here.” He turned back to the man in the center. “I say let her in.” “Then it’s decided,” the Father said. A dark smile curved his lips. “Welcome to the Guardians of the Everflame.”

I’d always dreamed of living a life worthy of a legacy. Being great was a privilege, and it wasn’t one that mortals in Lumnos were often given. If I wanted to burn my mark into the world, here was my chance to start. I sighed and raised my voice. “I’m ready. Tell me what you need me to do.”

“It’s strange, isn’t it, to think that this King who has lived and ruled for generations is now just a helpless, dying old man?” I asked. Maura hummed thoughtfully. “They may walk very different paths, but at the beginnings and the ends of their lives, they’re as mortal as we are. Perhaps their Kindred did that for a reason.”

Every time I dared a look upward, my stare met with the gryvern’s—Sorae, they’d called her. I had the strangest sensation that she wasn’t just watching me, but sensing me, reading me. Her golden eyes seemed to peer beyond my face and pierce something far deeper—something I wasn’t prepared to share.

His hands dropped from his chest and hovered in the air by my hips. “May I?” My brows arched. “Now you ask?” “I wouldn’t want you to think I wasn’t taught to ask for a woman’s consent.” A spark of challenge glittered in his eyes. You’re not the only one who remembers our previous chat, they seemed to say.

My brain tried to make sense of the near-miss I’d just stumbled through. Luther knew—I was certain of it. I’d seen the keen awareness in his eyes. The judgment—the warning. And yet... he’d let me go without a word. Why?

I’d stepped up to the door without realizing it, drawn by the pull of Luther’s magic. My hand hovered in front of me, reaching for a tendril of pulsing darkness. “Careful,” Luther murmured. He watched me intently, though he made no move to stop me, nor any move to pull his magic away. “In this palace, the shadows are as dangerous as the people.” I had no doubts about that. Still... I couldn’t seem to tear myself away. Deadly as it was, there was something intoxicating about the unearthly power they wielded, some innate song that overrode my every survival instinct and lured me in. Perhaps that was part of its danger, too.

For a moment so ephemeral it might not even have lasted a heartbeat, the stony fortress he’d built around himself lowered its gates, allowing a fleeting glimpse at the man who lived within. A man who might be something far different than I had once believed. It was gone before I could make any sense of it. The square slant of his jaw flexed tight, and anything resembling a human emotion disappeared. He was once again a marble-carved statue—pretty to look at, impossible to know.

There were so, so many things I would rather have done in that moment than look at Luther. Feed myself to the gryvern. Crawl on my bare hands and knees over the shattered remains of my glass jars. Slowly, reluctantly, I turned to face him. Oh, the Prince was pissed. I’d only seen the barest traces of emotion in him before. Worry, when his sister had collapsed. Satisfaction, when his cousin had chastised me on my last visit. Annoyance, when... well, pretty much any time I was around. But his face now was unfiltered fury. His already severe features had hardened into unyielding steel, his blue eyes glittering with malice. The presence around him was an aura of crackling fire that heated my skin in a very different way from how I’d felt with his hands roaming my thighs.

From the corner of my vision, I watched his focus drop to my neck. He shook away the magic twining around one arm, then reached for me. I braced in anticipation of being seized by the throat, but what he did unsettled me far more. His touch was strikingly gentle as he examined the wound. I didn’t even feel pain, only the slow, careful stroke of his thumb beneath my jaw and down the curve of my neck, pausing at an old scar on my collarbone. A shiver rolled through me. His hand stilled. He pulled it back and stared at the dark crimson blood now coating his fingers.

Every time I thought I was starting to understand this Prince, he did something to completely surprise me. And that—more than his anger, more even than his magic—was what made him truly a threat. If he had convinced my mother that he could be her ally, then turned on her as quickly as he had just turned on me... Don’t end up like your mother. His words echoed in my head the entire way home.

Because I was happy. I had people who loved me, a profession I was good at, and a safe, comfortable future most mortals would kill for. I was happy. Really. Really...

To be a wife—to be relegated to a man’s side instead of standing on my own, to abandon myself and my own goals in service of a husband’s authority and a wife’s duty. It was the life expected of most women in Mortal City. Silence. Obedience. Sacrifice. The idea of it pressed in on me like a clenching fist. Surely Henri did not want that kind of marriage. Surely he would never expect that of me—would he?

Henri walked me home, beaming the entire way like I’d given him the fervent yes I knew he deeply desired. I buried the growing disquiet in my soul down, down, down, as far as I could dig. Maybe I could do this. Maybe I just needed time. Maybe.

As autumn gave way to winter, and the jewel-toned leaves of the Lumnos forests curled, withered, and absorbed into the cold-hardened soil, the frosty air carried with it a sense that something was coming. It was a quiet, dangerous thing, like the crackle in the air that warned of a lightning bolt preparing to strike. The voice inside me could sense it, too. It no longer slumbered—it waited. I slept and woke to the endless hum of it in my ear. It had become so constant a presence I could almost ignore it completely. Almost. But there were times when it grew so loud, so insistent with its calls to fight, that it became nearly all-consuming. It had always risen to life when I felt threatened—now a rarity, thanks to my ban from the palace—but I’d also come to realize that its steady chanting grew louder and wilder the closer I came to the palace.

“You came all the way here with no medicine or supplies?” “Well I left Mortal City with all the supplies I could carry, and then I was attacked on the trail by a group of jackasses who stole my bag. So, technically, I only came halfway here with no medicine or supplies.” He stopped. His eyes darkened as they unapologetically roamed my body. “Did they hurt you?” he growled.

“So it’s too dangerous. You’re mortal, remember?” His tone was dry, almost sarcastic. “Your body is too fragile.” I glared. “First of all, if you ever call me fragile again, I’ll slice your precious royal balls off and shove them down your throat.” The group went dead silent. The corner of Luther’s lips twitched—just slightly. “Second, why should it matter to you if I get hurt?” I smiled bitterly. “I’m just a mortal, after all. Our lives are so disposable compared to yours.”

War is death and misery and sacrifice. War is making choices that will haunt you for the rest of your days. If this was the kind of killing that war required—I wasn’t ready. And I never would be.

Maybe it would be best to just... stay here. Curl into a ball and wait for the inevitable. Henri could move on. Maura and the healers would be safer. Father and Teller would be heartbroken—but better off, perhaps. My choices had already put them at so much risk. It would be an excruciating end. But maybe that was exactly what I deserved. I did this. This is my fault. The fight drained from my body. I collapsed against the floor, a tear streaming down my cheek as I closed my eyes and surrendered to the darkness.

Fight. My eyes flew open. How long have I been lying here? Am I dead? My exposed skin was swollen and tender, nearly sizzling against the blistering stone floor. Fight. “No,” I whispered weakly. I’d made my choice. This was the end. There was no point in fighting it, no point in— Fight. Energy blasted through my veins, filling them with an icy gust that soothed my aching skin and sent me recoiling from the scalding tiles beneath. “By the Undying Fire,” I swore as I sat upright. “I can’t even die in peace.” The voice paced like a predator inside me, snapping its jaws and urging me to action. It wanted me to move, to leave, to save myself, to fight for myself—all the things my own head and heart had willingly abandoned.

An absurd, exhausted laugh bubbled from my chest. I’d done it—they were safe. Severely wounded and possibly forever scarred, but alive. Maybe they were terrible men. Maybe they’d tortured mortals, or executed children under the progeny laws, or done any number of other horrific things. Maybe someday I would regret giving them a second chance. But at least for today, I’d saved their lives. In a way, they’d saved mine, too.

Luther strode through the now-widened entrance, his fearsome profile haloed by the bright city lights beyond, and our eyes met in the darkness. We both froze in place as something ancient, something profound passed between us. It was a primal force that transcended word and thought, as powerful as a crack of lightning, a child’s first breath, the endless depth of the sea. It was not of this world but entirely woven within it. It warmed my blood with a calming peace I’d never known, yet filled me with the terrible dread of a fate I could not avoid. A vision came to me. The same one I’d had before—a battlefield drenched in silver flame and strewn with dead bodies in a circle at my feet, my body clad in glittering onyx armor and a gilded, night-black blade in my hand. Only this time, I wasn’t alone. The shadowed figure I’d seen before was now visible, as if he’d thrown off a great cloak of darkness, the jeweled sword in his hand dripping with crimson blood. When I looked into those familiar eyes, the most beautiful, heart-wrenching ache burned against the left side of my chest. I covered it with my palm, and on the other side of the field, the figure mirrored the movement. The vision ended, twinkling in the air as it faded like mist in the sun. The battlefield became a burning warehouse, its silver flames darkening to an angry red-orange, and the scattered bodies dissolved into fallen rubble, but the figure I’d seen remained. His pale gaze was still locked on me, his palm sti...

Comfortable. I’d never been so comfortable in my life. My entire body was enveloped in warmth—not like before, in the armory, where I’d felt like I was slow-roasting on a spit. This was a pleasant warm, a warm I could happily be cradled in and never escape. And soft. I was surrounded by softness. A nest of it, tucked into me on all sides. It smelled heavenly. Masculine. Fresh, earthy moss and damp cedar. Old, tanned leather with a peppery musk. It smelled like my beloved forest. It smelled like home. Someone was holding my hand, our fingers interlocked. A tingling thread of energy crept up my arm where our skin made contact. And they were talking to me. They sounded kind. I couldn’t make out the words—my head was still fuzzy, and that cursed voice inside me wouldn’t stop humming. But it felt... nice. Safe. Right. Darkness.

He laughed—laughed!—and I had to steady myself to keep my jaw off the floor. I couldn’t stop staring at him. His relaxed, almost lazy posture. His full, upturned lips and the tenderness that crinkled his eyes at the mention of the gryvern. His loose wool trousers and his untucked, slightly rumpled shirt, hanging open partway down his chest to reveal more of the scar that slashed his body in two. It was casual, unpretentious, and entirely incompatible with the hardened royal heir I’d come to know. It felt like I was seeing Luther—not His Royal Highness Prince Luther Corbois of Lumnos, but just Luther—for the very first time, and I had no idea how to feel about it.

His arms loosened, but didn’t let go. “Blessed Kindred,” he swore, his eyes lighting up as they studied my face. “You aren’t scared of anything, are you?” I was very much scared of the way all my nerve endings were aflame, my blood rushing to all the many, many places where our bodies touched. And even more scared of how I couldn’t seem to talk myself into pulling away.

I laid my hand on top of his where it rested over the King’s chest. “Tell me,” I urged. His fingers spread just enough to let mine fall between them, curled just enough that it might be less a touch than an embrace.

It was an odd thing, to feel so distrustful of my own heart. I wasn’t sure I was even capable of killing the King. If last night had shown me anything, it was that I had little stomach for murder. The truth was I no longer knew how I felt about anything.

Like Luther, the King’s power radiated in his presence. Weakened, yes, but impressive still. What must it feel like, to be the most powerful person in the realm? To know that you had not just the authority, but the ability, to wield life and death with the curl of a finger? But today, he was no fearsome child of the gods. Today, he was just an old, dying man. Alone.

“I am not afraid, Devourer of Crowns. Ravager of Realms. Herald of Vengeance.”

“Give him our gift, Daughter of the Forgotten. When the end has come, and the blood has spilled, give our gift to my faithful heir, and tell him this is my command.”

“You think I fear my own death?” he whispered in my ear. “Every day I draw breath is as much a curse as a gift. I’ve been living on borrowed time for longer than you can imagine. If you’re the way my fate finally catches up to me, I can’t fathom a more beautiful end.”

Without pulling away from my dagger, he turned his face, hot breath spilling over my cheek as his mouth trailed the line of my jaw. His eyes rose to mine. “Let me die with the taste of you on my lips.” Our lips collided, and I was lost.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. All this time, I’d dismissed Luther as someone ice-cold and heartless, too frosty to feel anything true. But Luther wasn’t cold at all. Luther was an inferno. Looking at him now was like staring in a mirror in the worst kind of way. I hid behind false bravado and snarky jokes, while Luther’s shield was forged with brooding stares and clenched jaws—but inside, we were one and the same. Inside, we rattled the bars keeping us trapped in lives we didn’t choose. Inside, we roared with an insatiable craving for more. Inside, we paced and we planned and we waited. Inside, we burned.

“Go ahead,” he breathed. “Lie to me. I already know the answer. I know you feel my power.” His chin rose, our lips so very, very close. “Because I can feel yours, too.” No. No. He smirked. “You’re no more mortal than I am.” “No,” I whispered. Argued. Bellowed. Begged. “You’re wrong. You’re—you’re mistaken.”

“If that’s what you really want,” he said quietly. Sadly. What you really want... There was so much I wanted. So gods-damned much. So much I couldn’t have—not without risking everyone and everything I loved. Not without sacrificing myself in the process. But how could someone like Luther ever understand that?

When I was almost out of sight, his voice called out again. “You saw it too, didn’t you?” I stopped, but I didn’t look back. “Last night,” he said, “right before the roof collapsed. The vision. The battlefield.” I couldn’t move, my body paralyzed, my thoughts stunned to stillness. “What if our story isn’t over, Diem Bellator? What if it’s only beginning?”

I had expected anger or perhaps tears. I’d thought she might lecture me or yell at me or tell me how ashamed my mother would be. I’d thought—rather embarrassingly, in hindsight—that she might even fall on her knees and beg me to stay. Instead, she’d looked relieved. Not relieved to lose me—my absence, so soon after my mother’s, would put a strain on the center’s resources, and the trainees would need to speed their progression to full healers—but relieved that I was choosing to follow my heart, even if it led me into the misty unknown.

As I walked away from the center for what might be the last time, a fragment of my heart remained lodged within those four stone walls, forever to stay.