Burning Destiny: An Urban Fantasy Mystery (The Tynder Crown Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Burning Destiny

  The Tynder Crown Chronicles

  Wendy Owens

  Four Bean Soup Publishing

  Contents

  FREE SHORT STORY

  1. DEATH

  2. BIRTH OF FIRE

  3. FIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION

  4. ASHES TO ASHES

  5. THE QUEEN

  6. A CRIMLOCK … SORT OF

  7. GOBLINS ARE REAL

  8. CHARCOAL MUFFINS

  9. BILLIONAIRES AND ALIBIES

  10. TINKERBELL IS REAL?

  11. MESSAGES FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE

  12. LIARS AND THIEVES

  13. A DATE WITH A KILLER

  14. platonic dinner date

  15. MOTIVES, SUSPECTS, AND CRISPY DUCK

  16. PERSUASIVE

  17. MOSTLY INDECENT PROPOSAL

  18. HARK THE HERALDS

  19. SWEET JUSTICE

  20. BITTER INJUSTICE

  BLAZING MOON COMING NOV 29TH, 2016

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Wendy Owens

  Burning Destiny

  The Tynder Crown Chronicles

  Copyright © 2016 by Wendy Owens

  Cover design by Regina Wamba of MaeIDesign

  Editing services provided by Amy Donnelly

  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.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To Josh Owens. You’re my biggest supporter and I hope you love this book. You better, if you know what’s good for you.

  FREE SHORT STORY

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  One

  DEATH

  I fall to the floor, a mysterious thunder resonating in my ears. I can’t see him, though I know he’s close enough to end my life if he wishes. I know nothing of this faceless man who visits me almost every night, only that he’s familiar. He leaves me every time without a goodbye. In fact, not a single word is ever uttered between us. I’m scared of what would happen if he stayed and terrified for him to leave.

  My alarm blares, cutting through my dream and jolting me awake. I say goodbye to my stranger again and glance at the clock, moaning in frustration. A morning person, I am not.

  The night before was like most others—bartending late into the evening, contending with one sleaze ball after another hitting on me, thinking they actually had a shot at taking me home, until 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 plagues me the next morning. I’ve never quite mastered the skill of knowing when to quit. Weren’t we taught as children not to be quitters? This should be seen as a positive personality trait, right?

  The monstrous hangovers don’t seem to be enough of a deterrent, and the cycle repeats itself. If my grandfather had his way, I’d clean up my act and learn how to be a responsible grown up finally. This is code for stop wasting my life, stop drinking and do what any rational person would— work right alongside him. No thanks. He’s some high-end private investigator, and apparently a pretty good one. On mornings like this one—which let’s be honest, is almost every morning—I wonder why I haven’t taken him up on his offer, or rather edict. However, the thought of catering to the wealthy and privileged of New San Fran makes me want to claw my eyes out with a rusty spoon. Aside from that, I value my freedom and working under Joe would mean kissing that goodbye.

  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 accepting responsibility for my actions, I might lose my mind completely. He needs to read a few parenting books. I’m only twenty-two years old, the last word I want to be 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 alcohol induced 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 tinkling 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. The World wins again.

  I sit up in my bed and feel sweat rolling down the back of my neck, disappearing into the neckline of my black tank top. Through squinted eyes, I take in my studio apartment. Yup—it’s still the total disaster I remember. 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, enough already. Slipping my phone from my back pocket, I peer at the face that appears on the screen. 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 unbutton my jeans, running my fingers across the indentation of where the button was 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 and free drinks in sweat pants. I pull off the denim that has been painted on my body for far too long. Comfort, at last.

  My phone rings. Again. Wow, I must have done something to really piss him off. Ignoring the ring tone, I walk to the kitchen and head straight for the fridge opening the door. Examining the contents, I realize it’s still as empty as my e-coin wallet. Grabbing a glass from the counter, I rinse it and fill it with water from the sink. My mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow.

  Ugh, 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 with me 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 p
ainkillers, and a little hair of the dog are calling my name first.

  Grabbing the opened and only half-drunk 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.

  To say property values are inflated would be a massive understatement. After a global plague hit, the United States government found themselves unable to pay their debts to China. Some bureaucrat with no imagination in an office with four white walls decided their opinion actually mattered and that it was a genius solution to give China everything west of the Rockies in trade. This area that was used to settle the government’s mounting bills became known as United China. Current citizens were given two choices, stay and dedicate yourself to the new regime, or join the hundreds who had embarked before us on the journey to colonize Mars, a worldwide effort that was launched when it looked like Earth was heading to hell in a hand basket. The honor of being allowed to relocate to the East in New America was a rare opportunity extended by invitation only.

  Ever since the great earthquake of 2123, New San Fran became the new capital of United China and is more than just a little expensive; it’s highway robbery to even rent a studio apartment. Rebuilding took so many years and cost so much money, new innovations like the ones rumored to be happening in New America were practically non-existent. It’s like time froze for us in New San Fran. Well for most. The bio-junkies that live across the bridge will absorb whatever tossed away recycled tech, bio scanner implants, mechanical limbs, anything that might get smuggled across the border, no matter how defective or dangerous. Despite the cost of living being cheaper over there, I haven’t reached a place in my life that would have me consorting with those freaks. They’re not even human anymore. But unfortunately, 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.

  Tossing back the tiny white pills of forgiveness, I take a quick swig of the Merlot, wincing. Hell’s Bells, that’s some cheap-ass wine. The steam fills the air around me as I fill my bath. I close my eyes and allow a calm to settle over me. I know the more relaxed I am, the sooner this headache will pass.

  Sitting on the side of the tub, my fingertips dangling over the edge, all I can think about is Joe. Why was he calling me so many times? What do we need to talk about? I’ve been avoiding him lately. If I’m absolutely honest with myself, it’s probably because I’m starting to realize he’s right. What am I doing with my life? Partying every night just to wake up feeling like this? Some months I can’t even keep the power turned on in my place. Is this really the freedom I had been searching for?

  I grew up working for Joe—well, not officially, I suppose. I guess it was more like earning my keep; I was a glorified errand girl. Handling cases for the well-to-do families of the city always seemed to involve a lot of ceremony, and, let’s be real. That’s just not me. I suppose the wealthy and famous need to have someone available to investigate their issues, and I get that it takes a level of discretion few possess. One thing you can always say about Joe is that he is discreet.

  The water tickles my fingertips, and I open my eyes. Leaning over, I crank the handles until they’re off, slip one foot in and then another, sliding to submerge my body into the hot liquid. My skin develops a nice pink hue from the heat.

  Leaning my head back against the hard surface of the tub, I exhale all the air from my lungs and sink a couple of inches lower. What I need is to find a job that will pay me to lie around all day and soak in long, hot baths. The only ones that come close require having sex with random strangers, who are willing to pay, which, again, is not my bag. Well, having sex with strangers seems fine, but getting paid for it, I guess I’m just not ready to say I’ve sunk that low. Besides, the process of becoming a certified companion is far too much paperwork for someone like me.

  Perhaps Joe’s right; maybe it is time we have that talk I’ve been trying so desperately to avoid.

  I’m tired. I mean tired all the way down into my core. My soul shouldn’t feel this exhausted at twenty-two. I’m sick of feeling like death every morning. I’ve had enough of my hair reeking of stale cigarettes from the bars. I’m especially sick and tired of feeling like if I disappear off the face of this earth, absolutely nobody will notice—well, except for Joe. Well, Joe and the stranger in my dreams.

  Suddenly the water feels warmer. What the hell? I twitch; something isn’t right. My eyes widen. What’s going on? I can feel the temperature of the water increasing with each passing second. I sit up, my flesh now glowing a vibrant shade of red.

  “What the—?” I gasp in disbelief, running my fingers against my arm. I’m hot to the touch—burning hot. I feel my scalp pulsating with the heat; sweat is beginning to pour down into my eyes. My heart’s racing, and I have no idea what’s happening to me. I’m terrified. Is this what spontaneous combustion feels like?

  Before I can take another breath, there is a searing pain in my gut. I double over, water splashing everywhere as I jerk wildly. It’s like no pain I’ve ever felt before as if five thousand hot coals have been shoved into my belly and are about to melt me from the inside out.

  “Oh God!” I cry out in agony. This is it. I’m going to die, right here, right now. I’m going to die in my bathtub, in my tiny pathetic apartment, and when the paramedics find me, I’ll look like a freaking lobster.

  I begin to convulse wildly, no longer in control of my body, vibrating as the water evaporates into steam all around me. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, fire might actually come out. My stomach begins to heave in and out as I struggle to breathe through the searing heat. I imagine the only thing keeping my body from burning the apartment down around me is the fact that I’m in water.

  Thoughts race through my mind in a chaotic blur. What the hell is wrong with me? Why won’t I just die already? Damn it, why didn’t I pick up the phone when Joe called? Josiah. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better granddaughter.

  Then everything goes black.

  Two

  BIRTH OF FIRE

  There’s nothing but darkness all around me. I’m swimming through it, like an endless ocean. I can see nothing, and, though my arms swing and feet kick, I’m unsure if I’m making any progress with my movements. I pause, believing I see something at last. I do. In the distance, I see the slightest flicker of color. A hint that something else exists in the darkness with me. Where am I? How did I get here?

  I squint my eyes; I can make out the color orange. The flicker I saw is growing—it’s now a sphere—bright oranges and yellows dancing together. The complex movements mesmerize me. I realize I’ve stopped moving my feet, but I do not sink. I haven’t been swimming. I’m floating—floating in nothingness. Am I dead?

  There’s no panic inside of me. Somehow this feels right, and I feel safe. Like this is somewhere I have been trying to be my entire life. I glance back up as I see the sphere has quadrupled in size. Now the fear creeps in as I realize it’s not growing, but getting closer, and fast. I wave my arms wildly, trying to move in the darkness, to propel myself out of the path of the object, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t move. I’m stuck on a direct collision path with … What is that thing? A fireball!

  I squeeze my
eyes shut. A fireball? This has to be a dream. I must have passed out in the tub. All of this, it has to be a dream. The heat is now blazing against my face. From the other side of my eyelids, the glow comes closer. I’m no longer in a pitch-black chamber of nothingness; now it’s more like I’m on the sun. Everything in me is telling me not to open my eyes. If I keep them closed, when the massive fireball hits me, it has to jolt me awake, right?

  I fight the urge for as long as I can, but the heat against my skin is so intense now, I simply have to look. I can feel my eyelashes starting to singe. Opening my eyes, shock washes over me. Directly in front of me is a massive bird-like creature, standing six feet tall. Its wingspan must be at least twelve feet, and where there should be feathers are instead dancing flames. There is a large halo around its head with seven rays of light beaming from it. The brilliance of it nearly blinds me, but I can’t bring myself to look away.

  Its legs are covered in scales that look like they are made out of pure gold. I reach out, wanting to touch the shimmering material, but quickly pull my hand back when the gigantic creature flaps its wings of fire. I look up; my eyes are caught in the bird’s gaze. Those eyes—like sapphires—have me in a trance. In an instant, it’s as if our feelings are fused together.

  What are you?

  From nowhere, a clear thought forms in my mind: I was him, and now I’m you.

  I shake my head, trying to break the connection between the bird and me, but it seems futile.

  Why am I here? I’m unable to stop myself from thinking the words.

  You are here to be born. The animal shifts its head as the thought silently solidifies in my mind. It’s talking to me. I’ve either gone mad or … yes, that’s it, I must be dead.