Dance of Thorns

Chapter 1

DOVE

The whole world is on fire.

Searing embers swirl through the air, stinging my flesh like angry wasps. I choke on hot ash and the smell of death, wheeze smoke through my cracked lips pressed to the floor.

My head spins, chaotic fractals of light exploding like bombs, my ears ringing.

What’s happening.

Where am I.

Why am I on fire.

There’s a crashing, splintering sound, barely audible over the roar of the flames and the whoosh of the oxygen being sucked out of the room and my lungs.

Men scream and yell. I hear the staccato pop-pop-pop of gunfire.

Hot, sticky wetness oozes down my face. I cry out pathetically, my voice choking off when I try to move my arm, pain slicing through my bones like a knife. I try the other arm, still coughing up ash as I bring a hand to my scalp.

Where the fuck is my hair.

I touch only bald skin, marred with razor bumps and nicks, dusted with ash and little specks of spitting ember fireflies. I jerk my hand back, and see sticky red blood coating my fingers.

More screaming and yelling. A voice, over and over.

“Dove!”

“DOVE!”

“MS. MARCHETTI!!!”

They’re looking for someone.

I try to form words, call for help.

I’m here.

Please, come save me.

And whoever else you’re looking for…

Save her, too.

Save my friend.

The angry wasps fill my vision, stinging my eyes and scorching my flesh as I cry out for help through bleeding lips. The walls around me creak, groaning for mercy as flames engulf the world.

What’s happening.

Where am I.

But it’s the next thought that turns my blood to ice, even with flames licking across the floor toward me and hot smoke searing my lungs.

WHO am I.

My mind races, the gears turning laboriously as I try to connect dots I can’t see. Tears seep from the corners of my eyes, running down my face together with the sticky red blood to pool under my cheek, pressed to the floor.

Help.

Help me.

Help her, too.

Who is she.

Who are YOU.

“DOVE!”

“MS. MARCHETTI!”

The voices are closer now. Suddenly, the blackened, scorched air is split by the sound of wood cracking. A door splinters, and people I don’t recognize rush in.

“DOVE!!” A man I’ve never seen before drops to his knees next to me.

Hands lift a heavy, burning weight from my arm.

“Get her the fuck out of here!!”

The stranger’s eyes drop to mine, his face wreathed in flame.

“We’re going home, Dove. We’ve got you.”

Oh—that’s me.

I’m Dove.

But who is the other, in the room next door?

“Help her…” The words fall from my parched lips as I’m lifted from the floor.

Flames explode from the ceiling as it caves in around us. My vision starts to fade to black, then snaps back to the hell around me.

“Save her…” I whisper. To everyone. To myself. “Don’t let her die…”

There's an explosion that sounds like thunder, and I tumble into blackness.

“Dove…?”

“Dove, wake up, honey.”

“You’re safe now.”

White brightness stabs into my eyes like knives, blinding me as my eyes crack open. The smell of antiseptic assaults my nostrils. A steady mechanical beeping sound fills my ears.

“Are you with us, sweetheart?”

The blinding white begins to fade until I can see shapes hovering above me. I try to open my mouth to ask what’s happening, but my throat feels like sandpaper and ash, and pain cracks through my lips when I try to move them.

“Shhh. Just lie still, Dove. You’re safe now.”

The shapes come in and out of focus until I see faces looking down at me, haloed by light.

“Dove, honey?”

“Ms. Marchetti?”

I think that might be me.

My eyelids open and close, dragging like rusty blades over my eyeballs as I blink up at the faces surrounding me. The smell of bleach…the mechanical beeping…the others in greens scrubs behind the people surrounding me…

I’m in a hospital.

I’m waiting for it to all come back. But there’s nothing. Just a blank.

I start to fill it in myself.

I’m Dove Marchetti.

I’ve been in an accident.

My head really hurts.

Suddenly, another hand wraps around mine. I swallow dry sand as I drag my eyes up to his. Older. Stern. Maybe even a little angry.

“Dove, honey,” he growls, squeezing my hand. “Do you know who I am?”

No.

“I’m your father, sweetheart…” He scowls and whips his head around. “Why the fuck doesn’t she recognize—”

A man in green scrubs steps toward the older man. “She’s received serious trauma to the head, Mr. Marchetti. We don’t know the full extent yet.”

“She got hit in the head!” the older man barks. “That happens to people all the time! They don’t forget their own fucking—”

“The brain is a complex thing, Mr. Marchetti,” the doctor says gently. His eyes drag to mine and he smiles kindly. “We’ll run some tests to determine how extensive the amnesia is, and how long it might last.”

The man starts yelling at the doctor. But I’m distracted by another person I don’t recognize—a woman with auburn hair, sobbing uncontrollably as she leans over me, squeezing my hand hard.

“Oh, honey!” she bawls. “It’s all going to be fine! He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Who can’t?

More faces come to hover over me. One I think might belong to the man from the fire who lifted me from the floor. But the rest are unfamiliar. My confused gaze drags from one to the next, trying to identify them, a tightening sensation snarling in my chest when I fail to place a single one.

What’s happening.

Who am I.

My eyes slide from face to face, the sinking feeling in my chest turning into a bottomless pit of despair. Then another set of eyes locks with mine, and a cold, trickling sensation drips down my spine.

He’s younger than the rest. He’s also not standing in the semicircle around my bed.

He’s behind them all, leaning against the wall by the door, his strong arms folded menacingly over his broad chest. He’s dressed all in black: t-shirt, jeans, boots, his raven hair slicked back from his deeply sculpted face.

Tattoos snake down his arms and around his neck.

Jesus.

It’s like looking into the eye of a hurricane. Cold, hard, brutal gaze. A beautiful but stoic, vicious face. Blackness radiates from him like a deathly aura as he just…stares at me.

Angry.

Dangerous.

Hateful.

I tremble.

I know him. Rather, something tells me I should know him. But I…don’t.

So why does he scare me so? Why—

It hits me like a thunderclap.

Save her.

The other, who was in the room next to me.

“Where is she??”

I don’t recognize my voice. It sounds alien and harsh, burned by fire and smoke. And my throat feels like someone’s hand is wrapped tightly around it.

“Where’s…”

I trail off when they all turn to look at me expectantly. My pulse is racing: I can hear it echoed in the machines next to me.

I don’t know how to finish the thought.

Where is she.

Who the fuck is she??

“Where’s…”

My voice falters.

My other half. My best friend.

I ignore the pain in my throat as I try to swallow, my blurry gaze darting from one face to the other, pleading for answers.

“Where’s…”

“Lark.”

The man who said he was my father growls the word.

Her name is Lark.

My heart slams in my chest as I cry out and sit up in the bed, ignoring the doctors when they rush forward and tell me to lie back down.

“Where’s Lark?!” I blurt.

The room goes still.

“Oh, honey…”

The auburn-haired woman starts to sob again. The man who called himself my father narrows his eyes, his lips twisting.

The boy all in black by the door glares into my eyes with so much hate that it makes my soul wince.

“She’s dead,” my father growls. “They saved you, but Lark was already dead.”

Hot tears run down my face. The world caves in as I drop back against the bed and shatter all over again.

I don’t know who I am, or why I’m here.

Why I smell like smoke and chemicals, or why my head is shaved.

But I do know one thing:

Lark is dead.

And I’m pretty sure it’s my fault.