The Tynder Crown Chronicles, Season One: Episode One: The Tynder Crown Chronicles (The Tynder Crown Chronicles, A Novella Series Book 1)
Authors: Wendy Owens
Tags: #A Tynder Crown Story: Episode One
Birth of Fire
A Tynder Crown Story, Episode One
Copyright © 2014 by Wendy Owens
Cover design by Claudia McKinney of
Phatpuppy Art
Interior book design by Stacey Blake of
Champagne Formats
Editing services provided by Madison Seidler of
MadisonSeidler.com
Proofreading provided by Kristina Circelli
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted, in any form without the prior written permission of the author of this book.
This book is a pure work of fiction. The names, characters, or any other content within is a product of the author’s imagination. The author acknowledges the use of actual bands and restaurants within this work of fiction. The owners of these various products in this novel have been used without permission and should not be viewed as any sort of sponsorship on their part.
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Find other titles by Wendy Owens on
Amazon
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YA Paranormal
The Guardians Series (Complete)
Contemporary Romance
Stubborn Love Series
The Wandering Hearts Series
The Tynder Crown Series
Birth of Fire
Episode One
coming in 2015
Blazing Moon
Episode Two
Blood Spark
Episode Three
Heat Storm
Episode Four
Night Flames
Episode Five
Death’s Inferno
Episode Six
This book is dedicated to my husband, Josh Owens. I'm so excited to
give you a series in a genre you love. Thanks for all your support.
You're my rock. I love you.
MY ALARM HAS BEEN BEEPING for the past twenty minutes, and I’ve managed to ignore it for so long, the noise has actually faded into the background. With my pillow secured firmly over my head, I’m determined to keep the world outside, where it belongs.
The night before had been like most others—bar-tending late into the night, dealing with one sleaze-ball after another hitting on me, until, at last, it was quitting time. By the time my shift ends, there are few places still serving, but the ones that are know me well. I can party with the best of them; the only problem is the head-crushing pain that follows the next morning. I’ve never quite mastered the skill of knowing when to quit.
Even with the hangovers, it’s my life, and I make my own choices. Of course, if my grandfather had his way, I’d be working alongside him. He’s some sort of high-end private investigator, and apparently a pretty good one. On mornings like this one—which is almost every morning—I wonder why I’m not working with him. Then I remember I like my freedom.
Life with Joe is anything but free. I love the old fool, but he is one controlling son of a bitch. If I have to hear one more of his lectures about growing up and accepting the responsibility that is due to me, I might lose my mind completely. I’m twenty-two years old; the last word I want thrown in my face is
responsibility
.
Sometimes I feel guilty. My dad bailed when my mom was pregnant with me, and my mom bit it when I was still a toddler. It’s been Joe and me for most of my life. But then, like the migraines, the guilt always passes.
The phone in the back pocket of my jeans vibrates.
Damn it, I didn’t even get undressed last night.
I swat at it as if this will somehow make the annoying tingling stop. Eventually, the device stops on its own. I take a deep breath; the world outside is not going away anytime soon. I toss the pillow off the side of the bed and angrily slap at the alarm on my side table until the sound stops.
World wins again.
Through squinted eyes I take in the studio apartment. Yup—it’s still the total disaster I remember when I fell asleep. Clothes tossed haphazardly across random pieces of furniture, my bed, which folds up into my couch and does triple duty as my dining room, should probably be quarantined for the safety of the public. However, the random men I bring home from time to time never seem to complain, though I assume they aren’t here because of my housekeeping skills.
My phone vibrates again.
Jesus, I’m up already.
Slipping the phone from my back pocket, I peer at the name on the face.
Joe.
I’m the only one who calls my grandfather Joe; everyone else refers to him either as Josiah or Mr. Crown. I press the button to ignore, flick the switch to turn the volume back on, and drop my phone onto the bed. He can wait; it’s far too early for a lecture.
I stand and unclasp my jeans, running my fingers across the indentation of a button on my stomach.
Damn it.
I hate clothes; well, clothes that actually fit me. If I had my way, I would live in sweats, but a girl doesn’t get killer tips in sweat pants. I pull off the denim that has been cradling my body for far too long.
Comfort, at last.
My phone rings. Again.
Wow, I must have done something really bad to piss him off so much.
Ignoring the ring tone, I walk out to the fridge and open the door. Examining inside, I realize it’s still as empty as my bank account. Grabbing a glass from the counter, I rinse it and fill it with water. My mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow.
Dammit, are you serious?
I think as I hear the phone ring once again. I cross the room and look at the face to confirm the caller. Joe again. The phone stops. A total of six missed calls from him. A single vibration from the phone signals a text message. My grandfather doesn’t text, so this must be serious.
Important, need to talk.
I carry the phone over and place it on the kitchen counter, gripping my head as I moan in pain. Whatever the old man has to say is going to have to wait. A bubble bath, some painkillers, and a little hair of the dog are calling my name.
Grabbing the opened and only half-drank bottle of cheap merlot from the kitchen counter, I stumble in the direction of my incredibly small bathroom. Most people don’t believe how small my apartment is until they actually see it, but, as for the bathroom, it is seriously shocking how much they fit into such a tiny space. There is no door to the room, because it is so narrow it would have to be a custom fit, and who would put any extra dollars into a crap hole like this place. Ever since the great earthquake of 2023, San Francisco is more than just a little expensive; it’s highway robbery to even rent a studio. Unless I want to live across the bridge, which is only good for junkies and bio freaks, this is what I can afford, most of the time. Sometimes, even this hellhole is outside my budget, and Joe has to help me out.
His text is so right
, I think. We do need to talk, because I need to borrow money once again.
Stripping the rest of the way, I leave a trail of clothes behind me. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror—I’ve seen better days. Lifting my free hand, I comb my fingers through my mess of chestnut hair before pulling on the corner of the mirror and searching the medicine cabinet for migraine-strength pain relievers. Placing the bottle of wine on the back of the toilet, I fight with the childproof cap before finally freeing a dose.