Chapter 4 #2
“Urgh, same. Well, they can control most blood, pretty certain demon blood messes with them, and vampire blood makes them incredibly powerful.”
I nod slowly. “That’s a lot. But…is there more?”
She tilts her head. “Are you thinking of anything specific?”
I think back to when I was held hostage by the blood mages Emma and Jace made into an army, how we needed fire to escape and Apollo admitted that he knew my secret.
My deepest shame that I’ve been carrying close to my chest ever since the accident twenty years ago, the one that took my parents away from me.
Or…the one where I took my parents away.
“Can anyone…” I hide my nervous swallow with a sip of tea. “Create fire?”
“Oh, well, yeah, plenty of magic involves manipulating fire. Storm mages and even some light mages can.”
“But what about…creating it?”
She frowns, looking at me like she’s trying to work out a puzzle.
“Hmmm, well, creating takes a lot more power than controlling. But…” she scratches her head.
“To be honest, I’m not too sure. My education, the stuff I paid attention to anyway, was focused on shadow magic and a little history about the wars we’re still involved in.
” At my shocked expression, she waves it off.
“Supernaturals are immortal, so we’ve always gotta find something to fight about.
Actually, I’m pretty certain the light mages are warring with the vampires right now. ”
“Over what?” I stand straighter. “Is Golden in danger?”
“Nah, he’s totally fine.” Summer leans back against the counter and blows cool air on her tea.
“It was probably one vampire family a few hundred years ago that pissed off a light mage high up enough to make some waves, and they still haven’t gotten over it.
” She chuckles, then breathes out a sigh as if to say ‘it is what it is’.
“So wars spanning hundreds of years over an imagined slight are perfectly normal?”
“Us mages sure can hold onto a grudge.” She pauses, and her rings seem to suck in some of the light. “Shadow mages are the best at it, though, no matter what those storm mage bastards say.”
I laugh, I can’t help it. It bursts out of me like a round of applause.
“Summer…” I sigh. “This is fucking crazy.”
She laughs with me. “I know, right?”
I didn’t get the answer I was hoping for, but at least my shoulders aren’t as low.
“Well, thanks for the lesson. It’s nice to hear the supernatural community is as fucked up as the humans.”
She snorts. “Don’t you know it.” She heads back towards the basement. But as she passes my jacket. “Huh…”
“What?” I step forward.
“These symbols, I’ve never noticed them before…” she frowns, as if she’s trying to pull a memory from somewhere.
“Do you…Do you know what they mean?”
“Did Apollo do it? Some punk thing?”
I shake my head.
“Must be my imagination then,” she shrugs, then wanders down into the basement. “See you, Kai!”
I hadn’t gotten any questions answered. If anything, I’m more confused, but as I carry my drink to my little studio and sit at my desk, the hollow pit Vidar carved with his rejection doesn’t exactly vanish, but feels less like it’ll never heal.
I might not have romantic love, but that doesn’t mean I’m alone.
I will be okay, even if there's something inside me that begs to go find the big vampire.
He doesn’t want me, and I won’t beg.
Pulling out a notepad, I stare down at it for long enough that I have to blink away the dryness before taking hold of my unicorn pencil.
Back when we were trapped in the warehouse, Apollo asked me to create fire, and I did. I’ve done it before, but not with so much purpose. Usually, it’s accidental when I’m zoning out and doodling.
I notice I’m patting the hair on my left side and drop my hand to the desk, curling my fingers into a fist.
The first time I started a fire was the most memorable.
The most fatal, too.
Golden screaming in agony wasn’t the first time I’d heard people cry out in burning pain. But, what if I could really control it…
This is why my fire is my deepest shame. I should never wanna touch the magic that sits within those symbols, not yearn for them, but each line I draw feels like coming home. Some of the symbols look like a capital ‘A’ on its side with a small, flourish ‘o’ at its point. Most of them make no sense.
I keep drawing the symbol over and over. In the warehouse, I’d been desperate to call on my fire; we needed to get the hell outta there. Apollo, Golden and Ramy were relying on me. But also…I was curious.
Could I do it?
That’s how I felt the first time I really tried to draw something as a kid. Could I? Would these shapes work together? It had taken time and effort, but eventually, my childish scribbles became a shitty little unicorn.
Now, as I lift my unicorn pencil from the page and stare at the strange symbols I’ve sketched—not from memory, but from instinct—purple fire sparks.
Like the tipped-over capital ‘A’ and the smaller ‘o’ were almost bouncing against each other, trying to ignite like a lighter struggling to catch a flame.
And then the symbol unfurls like a petal of purple flames, no taller than my little finger.
It reminds me of Archibald John Motley Jr’s painting Nightlife. Every type of purple you can think of woven into the beautiful movement of people dancing, and everywhere you look you see an abundance of life swaying back and forth.
The heat emanating from this little fire warms the tip of my nose as I get closer to the page, awe and wonder rushing to my cheeks like blood.
I should hate this, but I don’t. I never have.
It doesn’t burn the page but sits on it, yet I know if I brought another page to this purple flame, it’d become nothing but ash.
Without warning, the flame whips like it’s caught in a storm, and the purple vanishes to be replaced by normal red flames that burn hotter than mine.
It spreads across the page so fast that when I hurriedly pull off my shoe to stamp it out, I know that if I hadn’t the whole studio would be blazing within minutes.
Smoke and the smell of ashes swirl up as I pull my shoe away and drop it to the ground with a thud. Dejected, I sweep the ashes of my curiosity into the bin and dust the evidence from my palms. Just because this part of myself saved my friends and me once, doesn’t mean I should explore it further.
But like my nervous tic, I don’t know how to stop.
Soon Apollo walks in, he’s short with Forget-Me-Not tattoos all across his warm brown skin, long black hair shoved up into a bun with more flyaways than not. He’s cute, bundled up in a denim jacket with punk stickers all over.
Then Luuk, who pops his head in, big, tall and blonde, asking everyone if they want a cuppa. When I say no, he drops a protein bar on my table.
“Come with me to the cafe next door later, yeah?” he says, voice always a touch too loud. “I’m craving a full English, and they serve them all day. I love their black pudding.”
“Ew,” Apollo calls from the chill room we use for consultations.
I push my stool across the smooth black floor so I can pop my head out and stare at my boss, the vampire—though Luuk doesn’t know that. “You don’t like black pudding?”
“It’s why I prefer a roast dinner, lad,” Apollo hums, dropping his head to rest on the back of the sofa to look at me, locks of hair falling across his forehead and showing off the silver piercings up his ear. “Everyone loves a roast potato.”
This kicks off a debate about which is better, with Summer soon adding her voice to the mix. By the time the bell rings again and my favourite customer strolls in, no one has won.
“Hey, Bran,” I call out. “Ready for your raven?”
He’s not that much taller than me, with milk-pale skin and shaggy black hair. Brown eyes always laughing—like he knows a secret, and is dying to tell someone.
“Hi, Kai,” Bran drawls, flashing a grin that shows off his white teeth. His voice touched with a slight lyrical Welsh accent. “More than ready.”