Page 18 of Fire Kissed
With a heap of dust, rubble crumbles down around me. It coats my skin...
It buries me.
My fingers thread through Torben’s in the heavy darkness. And with a wolfish growl, I heave through the destruction. It scatters around me as I shove out of the sharp bricks. The smell of fire is stronger now in the broken room of the building. I can’t see anything, but I can feel the heat of the flames.
The energy within me wavers when I’m fully out of the threat of being buried alive. My knees give out, but the mound of debris around my legs doesn’t let me fully fall.
His body brushes mine, and in one big swoop, my feet are lifted from the ground. The beautiful, dust-covered warrior flings me over his shoulder. And Torben carries me out of the mess I’ve made.
“Aric’s house is just up ahead and now I can’t decide if you’re a badass or just batshit crazy,” he grunts as he steps through the rubble and out into the suddenly quiet night of the Realm of Niflheim.
“Both,” I mumble. “It’s probably both.”
The Horde
Aric
The wise wordsof a skilled melody flow through my one-room mansion like glass breaking across jagged rocks. The quick tempo is one the realm of the living didn’t discover until recently. The last four decades or so. Vows of anarchy and fire burn into the lyrics.
It’s a true masterpiece.
Just like the one I’m looking at.
My brow arches high as I gaze at my newest piece. It rests delicately on the Greek ivory pedestal I once picked up while catching a runaway light elf in Rome.
I take a slow pull of my whiskey. A long, dreamy sigh slips from my lips. This one gives me so much heartache to look at. Maybe I shouldn’t display it like the others. The high, arching black walls of my home press down too harshly on the soft red material. It’s a lonely sensation to look at it. It calls to the soul. That’s what good art does to you.
Maybe this one should be just for me and my worn heart.
I peer down the long line of displays. The small black glove of Napoleon’s is to my right. It’s a prized piece from that time I beat him in a round of chess. I admit I intended to cheat, but the poor bastard was terrible at the sport.
To my left is another prize of mine.
It’s small in size. Approximately one-and-three-quarter-inches long. Still holds the hue of a fiery sun. Just like the day they made it in 1948.
The very first toasted corn.
Cheetos.Man will never create another like it. I’m convinced they peaked on that day in ’48.
But this one. This piece is special. The cast-iron light above it haloes the red lace in a heavenly way.
Just the way I remember her.
Unimaginably perfect. Too beautiful to touch. But if you dare—which, of course, I do—her body is just like this. Delicate as lace. Intoxicating to the feel.
“So fucking sensual,” I whisper to myself, my words wafting around the enormous room.
“...Aric...”
I lift my gaze to the matte black wall ahead of me and consider the soft sound I just heard. Voices crawl in sometimes. It’s a result of my own drafty whispers. They’re like a scatter of spiders; you startle one, and they all get in a panic to move about.
“I should stop talking to myself.”
“...Aric?”
My head tilts slowly as I assess my sanity with a slow sip of my whiskey. Nope. My mind is a fortress of stability. As sane as I’ve ever been.
No voices. Not today.
