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

  One must die to be reborn.

  I don’t want this thing in my head anymore. “Stop it!” I demand.

  Heat spreads across my body as the bird flaps its wings again.

  “What do you want from me?” I shout.

  No thoughts appear. The bird is just staring now, as though I am the one who makes no sense in this reality. As though I am the one who must be a dream. And before I can react, the creature spreads it wings to their farthest point and moves in close to me. The heat is so intense now I have no choice but to close my eyes and curl into a ball. The intensity only grows when I feel the fire wrap around me as the bird’s wings scoop me in and cradle me in its grasp.

  I can’t fight it … I can’t even move. The heat is so overwhelming I assume if I’m not dead, I will be at any moment. Perhaps this is hell. It sears through every inch of my body. Please, let it stop. I can’t tell if it’s only seconds or days that I experience this pain because each moment feels like an eternity.

  Alas, I can take no more, and my naked, limp body releases its tenseness, the tight fetal ball I was in coming undone. In that second, the flames penetrate my entire being, and with a cry, I am thrust back into the darkness. What I feel blazing inside me is greater than any pain I could have ever imagined. It’s burning fiercely in the pit of my stomach, and I pray it will consume me, putting me out of my horrifically painful misery.

  It doesn’t end, though. My prayers fall on deaf ears, and I’m left to suffer. I can’t move my limbs … it hurts too much. No part of me is responding to the messages my mind is trying to send. At what point will the pain be so much that my body goes numb? I wonder. But there is no relief.

  Then, there is nothing—no burning, no pain, no light—nothing but a pulsing of warmth filtering throughout my body, all the way to my fingertips. I open my mouth and attempt to lick my lips, but there is no moisture, only the scaly texture of my tongue rubbing against my cracked lips. With a deep breath, I squeeze my eyes closed. This can’t be real. It’s not real.

  I wait and then continue to wait even longer. Finally, I open my eyes, terrified I might see the winged beast, ready to swallow me again in its fiery embrace. But I don’t see the bright glowing wings or the piercing blue eyes of the bird; no, all I see is the ceiling of my apartment bathroom. I’m lying in my bathtub, there is no water around me, and the air in the room is thick and moist, the steam nearly choking me.

  I must have fallen asleep. Yes, that has to be it. I fell asleep in the bathtub, and I must have kicked out the drain stop. I groan as I shift my body against the hard surface. At least my hangover’s gone. I place my hands on the edge of the tub and carefully push myself to a standing position.

  The security buzzer at the apartment entrance sounds from the other room. I step out and run into the main area. I’m not expecting anyone. I’m never expecting anyone. I fall to my bare knees and peek under my bed. Reaching out, I grab my favorite leather leggings.

  Frantically, I rush over to a laundry basket in the corner and slip on a pair of red satin panties. The leggings resist my efforts as I pull them up against my sticky, damp flesh. Rushing over to the side table, I pull out a drawer, grab a fresh black tank top and stretch it over my head, sliding and securing it over my ample curves. I’m about to respond to the door buzzer when I hear my phone ringing.

  I leap up and make my way over to the kitchen counter, scooping the device up into my hands. Lifting it, I peer down at the number. It’s my grandfather…again. An uneasy feeling settles over me. This is more than Joe’s persistence. Something must be wrong.

  I slide my finger across the face of the phone, clear my throat, and answer, “Joe? Is everything all right?”

  The other end is silent at first. There is a slight hitch in someone’s breath, and then a voice that is not my grandfather’s answers me. “Tynder, it’s Desmond. Are you at home?”

  Desmond has been Joe’s personal assistant for as long as I can remember. He used to entertain me as a child with simple magic tricks. It’s rare to see Joe without Desmond close by. I used to think perhaps they were a couple, but after walking in on Joe and a lady friend, I learned my assumptions about them were incorrect. Nonetheless, Desmond is my grandfather’s right-hand man, and the closest thing he has to a real friend.

  “Yeah, I’m at home. What’s up?” I ask, sensing the hesitation in his voice.

  “I need you to come to Joe’s office,” he demands.

  “What? Why?” I huff, annoyed Joe is now having Desmond do his dirty work when it comes to our relationship.

  “Please, just do as I ask.” His voice is shaky. “And Tynder, don’t speak to anyone. Come straight here.”

  I’m about to ask why when I hear the phone click. I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever has Desmond acting this way can’t be good. I stumble forward and grab my favorite pair of black, knee-high boots and shove my feet into them, one after the other. Grabbing my jacket, I slip my arms in and then shove my phone into my pocket. A quick cab ride and I’ll have this sorted out. As soon as I find my keys.

  The door buzzer sounds again. Oh hell! I totally forgot someone was at the door. The damn intercom has been broken since the second day I moved into the apartment, and the good-for-nothing landlord has never bothered to fix it. I rush over to the box near the front door and press the button to allow the mystery guest entry into the building. I know this is something Joe would hate. After all, he would point out I could be letting a killer into my building. I’m pretty confident, I can take care of myself. I’ve tossed more than a few drunks into the street at my job.

  I impatiently wait for the visitor to reach my apartment door. The bathroom! I suddenly remember where my keys should be. Last night, when I stumbled into my apartment, drunk as hell, I had to pee like my life depended on it. I’d bounded to the toilet, and I remember hearing the keys fall from my pocket as I had torn my pants down.

  Rushing into the tiny room, a glimmer of something shiny near the wall catches my eye. Bingo! Lunging forward, I scoop up my keys and shove them in my other pocket. It’s time to meet my mystery guest and then talk to Joe. Standing upright, I turn toward the main room, when all of the sudden panic overcomes me, and I freeze.

  From the corner of my eye, I see something in the mirror that absolutely terrifies me. At first, I’m too scared to look. I think there must be someone else in the apartment, someone behind me. I look toward my bed—there is nobody there—then cautiously back at the mirror. I stumble forward and am forced to steady myself on the cluttered sink. My hairbrush falls to the floor.

  I can’t turn my head away … it’s absolutely impossible. How can I look away from the reflection of myself? A reflection of me that looks like a stranger. My face is me, there is no mistaking that, but my once-dark hair now shows streaks of snow-white. I grab a fistful and tug at the strands, telling myself perhaps someone is playing a joke on me. Maybe they put a wig on me while I was asleep in the bath, though I know I was alone. My head jerks with the pull. It’s my hair! There is no mistaking it’s attached.

  I lean in, inspecting the roots, there is no trace of any color whatsoever. What’s happening to me? Am I dying? Am I infected with something? What in the hell is wrong with me?

  I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself when I reopen them I will realize I’ve imagined everything. I hear a knock on my apartment door; my visitor has found me. Startled, I open my eyes again. My hair still has the white streaks, my hands are tingling, my heart is racing, and I’m unsure what to do.

  Three

  FIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION

  There has to be an explanation I tell myself. Your hair doesn’t just change colors. Maybe it’s a symptom. What in the hell could it be a symptom of? Some freak occurrence of rapid aging? I lean in, pulling at the flesh on my face as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. There are no signs of wrinkles or any other mark of spontaneous, fleeting years.

  The mystery guest at my door bangs firmly, seemingly growing i
mpatient.

  “Be right there!” I yell, rushing to the only closet in the entire studio apartment to pull out an oversized beanie cap. Twisting my hair, I slip the messy mixture of my chestnut and frosty locks inside the cap and secure it on my head. For just a moment I pause, compose myself, and make a weak attempt to slow my racing heart. Then I walk over to the door and grip the knob.

  “Who is it?” I ask the question I could have asked earlier if the damn buzzer wasn’t broken.

  There’s some grumbling on the other side of the door, but I can’t make it out. Based on the low, raspy tone, though, I think I know who it is. Mr. Wyatt is a neighbor in the building to the left of mine. He has made it his full-time job to annoy me since I moved in. I suddenly remember the Chinese food that was stinking up my apartment yesterday. After not paying my incinerator fee for months, a lock was placed on the access door; so I had done the next best thing and placed the container on the fire escape. Before leaving for work I noticed some birds had found their way into the container. It was quite a mess, and I had every intention of cleaning it up but ... no, I didn’t. I never had any intention of cleaning it up. Jesus, the last thing I need right now is a lecture from my crazy ass—

  The door opens, and my breath catches in my throat. It’s not Mr. Wyatt. You should be screaming now. Why in the hell aren’t you screaming?

  “About time,” the small creature snarls as it pushes past me and barrels into my apartment. I’m speechless as I turn, my eyes not shifting away from the thing. Its height is not more than that of a small child, but the thing’s girth is substantial. With arms hanging at the creature’s sides, its fingertips reach its knees, and I gawk as the being waddles past me. As I stand there, watching the thing shift around my apartment, sniffing empty food containers before tossing them aside, and at last hopping onto my bed, I am convinced something is wrong with me. A head injury … that must be it. The bird-like fire creatures, the white hair, and now I’m seeing creepy little beings; I must have hit my head in the tub. Somehow, I’m relieved by this realization.

  Accepting that I’m injured doesn’t make the creature disappear, though. It’s watching me now, just as intensely as I’m looking at it. There are no whites to its eyes, but instead, the edges around the iris are a grimy yellow color with thin, red lines surrounding his oversized onyx pupils. Its broad nose sits squarely on a flat face, a grotesque and wide under bite revealing fang-like teeth that are an even deeper shade of yellow than the creature’s eyes. Its skin is a burnt orange color, and I can’t help but stare at the way it seems to shimmer as if it’s wet.

  “Well?” the beast grunts in my direction.

  I shake my head and wonder if I should rush out the door in the direction of the nearest ER to have my head examined for an injury.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me something to eat or drink?” the monster presses.

  “Excuse me?” I gasp at last. Jesus, now I’m talking to a figment of my imagination.

  “It’s usually customary for a Magistrate to do so when a fellow Fae comes to file a complaint.” It peers back at me as if I should understand what it’s saying. From its deep voice and a tuft of hair on its chin, I assume it’s a male, but I can’t be certain.

  I manage to take a couple of steps forward, leaving the door open in case my imagination somehow manages to try and harm me. “Magistrate? Fae?” I repeat, not shielding my confusion.

  It tosses its hands up in the air, then leans back onto my bed, making itself comfortable, pulling on the cuff of its white, silk shirt, and straightening out the crease in its brown slacks. I’ll admit, it is a well-dressed imaginary creature. “How long have you been a Royal Magistrate?” it asks in a demanding voice.

  “I … My—” I struggle with my words, my voice cracking slightly. “What’s a Royal Magistrate?”

  “Are you serious?” it snarls. “Of course, leave it to me to find fresh blood.”

  “I’m sorry, what are you?” Yup, the time has come for you to get your ass to the nearest psych ward. You just asked an imaginary creature what it is.

  “Merlin’s beard! You’ve got to be messing with me.” Clearly, I’ve agitated it. “New Magistrates are as rare as a blood moon, but leave it to me to find one! Where in the heck is your Mage?”

  I press my lips together and shake my head again, indicating I still have no clue what it’s saying.

  “You haven’t even been assigned one yet? Wow, I do have some bad luck.”

  “I think you may have me mistaken for someone else,” I suggest, swallowing hard.

  “Look,” it says as it shifts to stand up on my bed, so our eyes meet. “I don’t have time to answer a bunch of questions for some wet behind the ears Magistrate. You need to figure your crap out on your own time. My treasure was stolen, and I expect you to get it back.”

  “Treasure?” I laugh, the word sounds absurd as it leaves my lips.

  “It’s nothing to scoff at! It’s taken me my entire life to amass the worth that’s been taken.”

  I’m not laughing now; the little devil’s eyes are wide, and it’s hovering on the edge of my mattress, as though it might leap in my direction at any moment.

  “I’m so s-sorry,” I stutter, wishing I hadn’t made fun of it.

  The creature wrings its hands together, its long and slender tongue wetting its thin lips. “And I know exactly who took it,” it announces, scratching and pawing at its crotch. I cringe, oh yeah, this thing is definitely male.

  Are you actually doing this? Are you having a conversation with this thing you know isn’t really here? You need to get to Joe’s. He’ll know exactly what to do.

  I turn toward the door and rush into the hall without another word. As I pull it closed behind me, I hear the short creature call after me, “Where are you going?”

  I decide to ignore the voice. He’s not real, after all.

  “If you’re going to investigate don’t you need a name?” He’s shouting at me now from the doorway as I make my escape.

  Why should I answer someone who isn’t really there?

  “He’s got my rubies and I ain’t leaving until I get them back.”

  I race down the stairs, out the front door, and immediately my hand goes up to flag down a cab. My grandfather will fix everything. That’s what Joe does: he fixes stuff. Joe! The call with Desmond floods back into my thoughts. “Don’t speak to anyone. Come straight here.” In all the hallucinations, I’d forgotten about the call. Soon, everything will get a lot clearer; at least, I hope it will.

  Four

  ASHES TO ASHES

  The yellow cab pulls up and stops abruptly in front of me. It typically takes me a solid ten minutes to hail a cab, especially the popular retro ones like this one. I wonder if perhaps my luck is changing. I pull open the door, slide in, mindlessly relay the address of my grandfather’s place, all while freeing a lock of hair from under my cap to look at it. Yup, still white.

  I think about the morning and everything that has happened. There has to be an explanation for all the things I’ve been seeing. I recount the moments to try to understand what in the heck is going on. First, I woke up with a hangover, and, well, that’s nothing out of the ordinary. Then, Joe was calling incessantly; again, when I’ve upset him, which I somehow always manage to do, his constant calling is not out of the ordinary. My bath … when I got in, I am quite confident my reflection showed me for the brunette I am. I had to have fallen, to have blacked out ... Something. That can be the only explanation. Maybe I’m still dreaming. Quickly, I pinch myself, then wince. No, I’m definitely awake.

  I close my eyes and do my best to steady my breathing. You have to calm down. Joe will help fix whatever is wrong with you. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.

  With my eyes still closed, I jump when a vision pops into the darkness. No longer can I calm myself; my heart is racing, and I’m breathing heavily. It’s the bird … he’s back. I’d forgotten about it. In the dar
kness, while I was in the bath, the fiery creature had wrapped its wings around me, swallowing me into its inferno. In an instant, the bird moves from the distance to standing directly in front of me, staring at me with those glowing eyes. It doesn’t reach out, though; it simply watches me. Then the words fully form in my head, as if it’s communicating telepathically, Beware of Boru’s circle.

  “You usually don’t see your type out and about without your companion,” the cab driver’s voice interrupts the vision I’m having, and I quickly open my eyes, my hand tightly gripping the door.

  What the hell was that about? I wonder, thinking about the bird’s words in my vision.

  “Is this official business or something?” the cabbie asks, and it finally registers that he’s talking to me. “I mean I don’t mean to pry, but you all always have the most interesting stories.”

  He’s looking at me in the rearview mirror, and I freeze, my mouth hanging open. Staring back at me are eyes that are not human. They appear to be slits, like those you would see on a reptile. While the man looks as though he has mostly human features, his nose is made up of only two diagonal slits, and his skin is covered in green scales.

  Quickly I find my voice and yell, “Stop the car!”

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, looking around the street as if trying and figure out what might be upsetting me.

  “Let me out!” I scream.

  I don’t hesitate when the cab halts abruptly. I shove the appropriate number of credits into the payment drawer between us and take off out the door. There is no way I’m getting near that thing. I’m getting worse. I need to get to Joe’s and fast. I stare at the sidewalk as I pass through the crowds of people on the street. I wonder if they can tell something is wrong with me. Do they look at me and see a woman who is coming unraveled? I never knew my father. Is there a reason he ran? Could he have left me with a parting gift? A consolation prize of mental illness?