Soul of Flame (Imdalind Series #4) (44 page)

“You remember how your mom’s rolls were too bitter until Metta came along and showed her how to do it right?” He continued speaking as if nothing had happened, as if his eyes hadn’t turned black at seeing me, as if I hadn’t felt the need to kill him rise up in me. As if the silence hadn’t stretched between us for the past few minutes. “That’s how it is with you two.”

“Are you saying I’m bitter?” I asked, my voice snapping as the last of my fear and anger left me. Ryland didn’t seem to notice, however. He only laughed.

“No, I am saying that Ilyan has made you sweet. Perfect.”

“Do you mean that, or are you going to turn around and try to attack me?”

“I mean it.” His voice was so honest that it almost broke me into pieces, scattering me and my emotions across the cave floor.

I stiffened at the realization, at hearing him admit to something that had worried me so much. I knew I should have given him thanks—said anything—but I couldn’t. My shock had frozen all capable speech, and I looked toward him, careful to keep my breathing even as his eyes met mine.

My breath caught as his did, neither of us looking away, lost in each other’s eyes as we both battled the demons that lived inside of us. As I tried to ignore the scream to kill him that was echoing in my mind.

I swallowed and forced my eyes away, not trusting myself to push it even further.

“I won’t attack you, not right now,” he whispered, his voice even.

My fingers wrapped around Ilyan’s hand subconsciously, even though his fingers were limp in sleep. His magic responded to the contact, warming me, helping me.

“What changed?” I asked, my voice a gasp as my nerves swallowed it up.

“My father is too far away. The soul’s blade is too far away. He’s been using it against me, manipulating me.”

“Manipulating your soul?” I asked, my insides tangling in physical pain, the memory of how my soul had ached by being separated from Ilyan.

I had given him back his heart, but it hadn’t been enough.

“I’ll fix this, Ry.” My voice was hard as I spoke, my words more of a vow than a promise. I felt the conviction deep down inside, my need to help my friend a burning that I was determined to heal.

I looked at him, waiting for him to turn, but he stayed still, his eyes focused above as his lips turned up.

“See, that’s what I mean. You’re better,” he whispered, and I couldn’t help it, I smiled.

“I like seeing you smile. Your smile… it never used to hit your eyes; it never used to make the diamonds sparkle, not like it does now. I saw it first this morning. I saw them shine.”

I was unable to look away from him, my smile fading as his words began to sink in. I didn’t understand what he meant. No, that was wrong, I didn’t want to understand because even I felt the difference in me. It wasn’t just strength; it was something more, something that I wasn’t even sure I understood yet.

“I am happy for you, my diamond girl.” His voice drifted away as he turned away from me, the familiar phrase sounding somewhat foreign to me now.

I couldn’t look away from his back as his broad chest rose and fell, the rhythm slowing as he fell back to sleep. I sat still as his breathing joined the others, my heart caught between happiness and confusion.

I couldn’t be sure, but I thought that Ryland had given me his blessing. That he really was happy for me. Somehow, that made everything in my life seem a little more perfect, a little less hopeless.

I sighed and leaned back against the rock as I looked away from Ryland, away from the fire toward the heavy black of the cave that stretched far ahead of us. The black tunnel that would serpentine through Europe until we found Prague, the city I had never seen with my own eyes.

But I had seen it.

I had seen it in my sights, in my vision of the trap that was ahead of us.

Somewhere, beyond the black in front of me was a battle that waited for me.

And tomorrow, I would meet it.

T
HE NEXT, AND FINAL, BOOK IN THE
I
MDALIND
S
ERIES
. . .

RELEASING MID 2014

O
THER
B
OOKS BY
R
EBECCA
E
THINGTON

T
HE
T
HROUGH
G
LASS
N
OVELLA
S
ERIES

Episode One: The Beginning

Episode Two: The Darkness

Episode Three: The Blue

S
UPPORT THE
K
ISS OF
F
IRE
M
OVIE
P
ROJECT

Visit
www.KissofFireMovie.com
for more information

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Sometimes there are not enough words to convey the thanks you feel to all the people who supported you.

This is one of those times.

I love you all.

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A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

Rebecca Ethington has been telling stories since she was small. First, with writing crude scripts, and then on stage with years of theatrical performances. The Imdalind Series is her first stint into the world of literary writing. Rebecca is a mother to two, and wife to her best friend of 14 years. She was born and raised in the mountains of Salt Lake City, and hasn’t found the desire to leave yet. Her days are spent writing, running, and enjoying life with her amazing family.

After years of writing scripts for children’s theatre company’s across the country, Rebecca is happy to be making her debut into the world of fiction with Kiss of Fire, the first in The Imdalind Series.

Eyes of Ember
, the second book in The Imdalind Series and Book Three,
Scorched Treachery
, are out now.

Rebecca will also be debuting book one in a new kind of paranormal/dystopia,
Through Glass
. Through Glass is told in bi-weekly novella’s, many of which are out now.

Coming Soon From Rebecca Ethington

Of River and Raynn – The Catalyst

Of River and Raynn – The Sypher

Hit

Dawn of Ash, Book Five in The Imdalind Series

Through Glass Novella Series – Episodes 4-12

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Some say we share the same fans… Some say we were separated at birth… but if you haven’t been introduced to Rachel Higginson yet – now is your chance…

Please enjoy an excerpt from Rachel Higginson’s Reckless Magic, Book One in The Star-Crossed Series

Chapter One

“Well, here we go,” I said softly to myself. I took a big breath and stepped out of the car. I gave a cautious wave to Aunt Syl as I watched her drive away. She waved back enthusiastically. I felt anything but encouraged.  

I had to go to school, right? I did not have a choice. I was pretty sure it was against the law not to go…. I tried to think of other reasons to postpone the inevitable but came up empty handed. Social suicide…. I was well on my way. 

I cringed inwardly, knowing I looked like a hot mess. I could feel my tan skin, turning translucent with nerves, and my unruly, dark hair, tangled and wild as I stood too long in the wind. It whipped around my face in the hot, humid breeze, partially blocking the impending view from sight. I brushed my hair out of my face, but it refused to obey and with another gust of unbearably hot August air, I was forced to walk forward to maintain my sight. 

I felt sick and nauseous; I was practically on the verge of puking. I closed my eyes for several seconds and then opened them again, hoping I’d be someplace else, any place else. But I was right where I was supposed to be: staring up at my new school. The tall, ominous buildings clustering together, stared back. Their dark, red brick laughed at me silently, daring me to run away. The central tower, with its golden bell, and deep sweet chimes taunted me, mocked me. 

Ok, maybe I was being a little over dramatic, but school had never been my, um, thing. It could have been because I was a complete social spaz; or it could have been because this was my fourth school in two years. Either way, I always seemed to have trouble adjusting to teenage normalcy.

Kingsley Preparatory Academy was a last resort of sorts. Well, really, it was the last prep school that would take me; God forbid I would attend public school. As the niece and only surviving relative of my aunt, the doctor, I was destined for a higher education. 

If only I could have gone six months without being expelled. Kingsley was the last prep school in Omaha that had given me a chance, and that was only after a very generous contribution from my aunt and a promise from me that I wouldn’t burn it to the ground. Although I harbored no ill will for the school itself, I was not sure if I could keep my promise.

Not that I would burn it down on purpose, but that kind of stuff just happened to me. The burning down of schools, the flooding of schools, and the infestation of huge, tropical insects of schools…. All fell into the category of been there, done that. It's not like I ever did it on purpose; it all just sort of happened. 

So after another deep breath, I began my death march to the top of the hill and the large, brass, double doors that led into the Administration Building. The doors slammed shut behind me, making me almost jump out of my skin. The lobby was dimly lit; it took a while for my eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside. 

Kingsley was immaculate; beautiful marble floors and elaborate lighted sconces filled the lobby. An intricate, crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and gave the room a warm glow that reminded me of dusk rather than 8:00 AM. Plush, crimson divans lined the lobby, and oil paintings of elderly people adorned the walls. I reminded myself that this was a school building and not the sitting room to a luxurious Victorian home.

I forced my feet forward and adjusted my backpack straps. I stopped to fiddle with my uniform, afraid to make the wrong first impression. The front counter, located directly on the other side of the lobby was crafted from a beautiful wood, probably mahogany, that expanded the width of the room and stood elbow-high. I walked the rest of the way tentatively, as this was like no other school building I had ever been in, and I'd had my fair share of experience. 

An elderly woman, with snow-white hair and small-framed glasses, sat behind a small desk made from the same wood as the counter that partitioned us. Her posture was perfect and her legs crossed properly, as she focused typing at her computer. A name-plate that read “Mrs. Truance” decorated her desk, facing me. She glanced my way from the top of her spectacles and gave a little sigh. 

“You must be Eden Matthews,” she declared more as a statement than a question.

“Yes, I am,” I choked out. 

“Welcome to Kingsley,” she said tersely. Mrs. Truance stood up gracefully and walked over to me with some sheets of paper in her hand. “Here is your class list and map of the campus. It can be quite confusing, so please ask for help if you get lost.”

“Thank you, I will,” I tried to smile, but she had already turned away and headed back to her desk. So instead, I looked down at my class list and found my first hour of torture to be English.