Page 32 of Chasing the Flame
He chokes on air, sputtering a little before flow-blown laughter spills into the room. “You’re pretty funny, you know that?”
I narrow my eyes at him, “Quit changing the subject, answers. Now.” At his withering glare, I add, “Please.”
He sighs, breathing deeply as if trying to center himself before speaking. “Averie, have you…well. Have you ever heard of the Blackthorne Covenant?”
“Uhm. What?” I stare at him, totally dumbfounded.
“Okay, let me start at the beginning. Are you familiar with the mythology surrounding Nytherion and Liora?” His face scrunches up, a grimace lingering far after the words left his lips.
“Nope. But, I’m intrigued.”
He sighs, rubbing his hand down his face in frustration. “Got it. I’ll get you some literature on the lore, but for now, here’s the short version.” He clears his throat, shifting his weight in the recliner before saying, “Nytherion and Liora were said to be the primordial god and goddess. All that began, and eventually ended, started with them. Nytherion rules the night, his nature geared toward darkness and destruction. Liora, his counterpart, rules the day and the sacred flame. Her nature is that of a divine protector and mother of all witches and warlocks. Nytherion…”
He stalls, rakes a hand through his hair and pins me with a sad stare.
I’m on the edge of my seat, completely enthralled with everything he’s saying. It’s like something clicked, resonating with something profound in my soul. This feels familiar, like some old forgotten memory resurfacing after all this time.
Then he gulps, then shakes his head, his jaw clenching as he says, “Nytherion was said to be the father of demons—a harbinger for the end of the world.”
I blink, feeling like I’m missing some pertinent information. “This is an interesting myth…but what does that have to do with the altar? WithLuke? With…anyof it, really.”
“I’m getting to that,” he says, giving me a sad smile before reaching for something in the pocket of his jeans. An obsidian ring, that looks oddly familiar, sits in the palm of his hand. I know I’ve seen this before—but, where?
He grips it with two fingers, holding it up in the light streaming through the windows. He rubs it along his gray T-shirt, polishing it before handing it to me. “This ring is a symbol of the two. An heirloom that is given to each new member of the covenant. My father and I have one…and your husband has one.”
My eyes are fused to the cool metal in the palm of my hand. Inside the band are faded words that look like:let memory burn, let shadow rise. How strange…
I turn the ring over, admiring the obsidian band glinting with golden shimmering streaks, and a tear-shaped signet that steals my breath. A bright flame with golden specks flickers, and a dark, horned silhouette hides in the shadows of the ring. My pulse jumps, my eyes widening in shock at the yellow orbs staring back at me. “It’s like the thing behind the altar…”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?” I ask, turning back to Jettson with a newfound determination. I have to know everything, even if it’s horrible.
He gives me a weary glance, his voice wavering a little, “It’s given when a member has been initiated into the covenant. A way to identify other members, sure, but also meant to be worn with pride. To serve Nytherion’s darker nature is an honorable cause. Or so the zealous idiots believe.”
The wheels in my mind start turning, but I have so many questions and not enough answers. “That doesn’t explain what was going on with the mess upstairs…” I give him an incredulous stare. “This sounds so fucking crazy...”
“I know, but I need a drink before we go that deep,” Jettson says, striding to the kitchen. “Where’d you put that bottle of whiskey?” He calls out, leaving me sitting on the couch completely gob smacked.
“It’s like—” I glance at my watch, completely bewildered. “Nine thirty in the fucking morning, Jettson.”
“Trust me, you’re going to want one. Where’s the whiskey?” He asks again, a hint of frustration in his voice.
Sighing, I get off the couch and head toward the kitchen, pointing to the cabinet to the right of the sink. “In that one, glasses should be to your left.”
He nods, grabbing two glasses and the bottle of whiskey before plopping them on the island counter with a thud. After pouring a generous amount in each, he slides a glass in my direction before chugging the contents of his own. I nurse my glass, taking a big gulp, relishing in the warmth settling in my stomach.
“You have to understand…I was only twenty.” He says, snaring my gaze with a pleading expression. “I wasn’t around my cousin much growing up. I mean, we were when we were tiny. But something changed between my dad and Uncle Donald. I think it was around the time my mom passed away. Those were tough times. It wasn’t like it was expected, it was a random accident that sent her car careening into a tree. So, when Uncle Donald reached out in my teens, Dad finally relented a little. He cautioned me about getting too close, but would never tell me the full story. Truth be told, I think he was lonely and missed his family.”
He pauses, looking away from me. It’s not fast enough to hide the pain in his eyes. An ache hits my chest, and I have a strong desire to reach out and comfort him. It all sounds unbelievable to me, practically asylum level, so I can’t imagine what living through it must’ve felt like.
Instead of reaching for him, I walk around the counter, snatch the whiskey bottle, and pour him a double. A small smile graces the corners of his lips. He downs the glass quickly, shuddering a little, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the whiskey.
Something shifts in the atmosphere. I’m unsure if it’s my imagination, but the room seems to get colder with Jettson’s words: “I learnedthe hard way that my dad wasn’t wrong, and that the Blackthorne’s can’t be trusted.”
His expression turns thoughtful, an echo of his pain coursing through my body. Whatever happened, it broke his heart. I can feel it in the way he looks at me. “I told you to ask about that night…because that’s the night I realized the depths of your husband’s depravity. It’s the night—”
He chokes on the words, a sob escaping through clenched teeth. Jettson sucks in a breath of air, then continues with the story. Though I can feel with each word just how shattered his heart is. “It’s the night Jenny died—my girlfriend. We were supposed to go to their summer home for a party. It was off season, right at the beginning of October, and just after my birthday. So, I figured, why not?” He laughs, but the sound has no mirth. “I was impressionable back then, and my uncle was charming. He sucked me right in, with promises of help starting my business. But first, I had to go through an initiation. He called it a club. For the boys, he said.”
