Page 1 of The Firebrand
Prologue
The past will spill into the present as surely as blood soaks into a field of battle.—Ohngel
Wales, AD 452, the Day of the Karmic Schism
In the hushed, womb-like chamber of the cavern, the Cambion from Wales uttered the final words of the Blood Coven’s ritual to separate the world into three realms. With the enormity of the moment heavy in the air, he pushed up the sleeve of his hooded cloak and sliced a dagger across his palm.
Six witches and six warlocks encircled the powerful spellcaster, waiting for his blood to unite with theirs. Illuminated by flickering torches which clung to the sides of the spectral cave, they projected dancing shadows on rock walls where moisture trickled down like tears over layers of calcite.
Drip, drip, drip.
When the fire accepted the Cambion’s blood, it shattered, sending crimson ribbons of flame twisting toward the limestone ceiling. He stepped closer to the blazing heat, an arm raised to shield his face. From beneath his robe, he retrieved a scroll and tossed it into the inferno.
The Karmic Schism was complete.
The realms of Scath, Darque, and Earth came to pass, cut off from one another yet part of a whole. Though Aeternals would record the Blood Coven’s deed in their history books, humans would not recall the species who had walked beside them for millennia, sometimes in harmony, often in merciless savagery. Any splinters of memory would be cast in myth or legend.
Obscured from view, Ohngel perched high on a shadowy ledge to watch the ritual, his fiery wings clasped tight to his back. He had mentored the Cambion, guided him to this cavern, and set him on a path to save the two closely related species. Though the future was littered with obstacles, the Karmic Schism was the first momentous event in his string of fluid plans.
He now had a role to play.
The Cambion had asked for a visible sign of the Blood Coven’s success, something to acknowledge their sacrifice. Ohngel obliged. He pushed upright, balanced on the edge of the steep cliff, his wings spread wide. Swooping from his observation point, he prepared for his solo act, transforming into the great Phoenix.
When he plummeted toward the fire, Ohngel faded to smoke. Dark red, it spiraled from the blaze. Ascending, the ashy vapor exploded into brilliant, swirling shards of purple, gold, crimson, green, and blue, mutating into the plumage of the creature who was a symbol of rebirth, a new beginning. Once formed, the harbinger screeched as it beat its wings against the air, creating a breeze that extinguished all fire, cloaking the thirteen mages in inky darkness. Rising, the bright-feathered bird circled once before it soared out the mouth of the cave with the scroll of the prophecy gripped in lethal talons.
Once far from the cavern, the Phoenix dipped, climbed, and glided above the black velvet waters of the Môr Iwerddon, the sea between Britannia and Hibernia. Here, where campfires winked in the vast silent darkness under a waning crescent moon, Ohngel was at peace in the skies, nothing more than a shadow winging his way toward destiny, marking the beginning of a long journey with the Cambion, one he hoped would ensure the survival of not only humanity, but also of the Aeternals who would now make Scath their home.
Chapter One
Seattle, WA, Present Day
Braelyn James pretended to eye a yellow-flowered sundress in the window of a First Avenue storefront. But really, she was scoping out her surroundings in the reflection.
A steady stream of cars rolled by, tires whirring on the pavement. Businesswomen in suits hurried to work. Tourists in shorts checked Google Maps for Pike Place Market. Friends chatted with their heads angled toward each other. The homeless clutched their signs for passersby. Everyone behaved as expected.
Nonetheless, she fought the urge to scratch at an imagined six-legged beastie skittering up her spine.
If a shadow crept along her bedroom wall at night, no worry. If lights flickered during a thunderstorm, no problem. If the stairs creaked in her dark house at midnight, no stress. But she believed in gut feelings.
With her gaze still on the window, Braelyn listened. Surrounding voices merged into a streetside chorus. Shoes tap-tap-tapped a busy rhythm on the sidewalk. Nothing was unusual. No one was following her.
Once she chalked the creepy vibes up to a simple case of an overactive imagination, she walked into her favorite crowded coffee shop. When she reached the front of the line, she smiled and nodded at the barista, not bothering to glance at the menu board to order. “I’ll have a twenty-ounce Frozen Monkey Mocha. Oh, two shots of espresso. No, can you make that three?”
As the barista slid the drink toward her, Braelyn’s cellphone rang. She answered while picking the coffee up and taking a long pull on the mocha. She half listened, prepared for a lengthy speech.
With the coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, she walked toward the exit and stopped, propping the cellphone between her shoulder and ear while juggling her cup and purse. Just then, a man reached around her to open the door, his arm high above her head. She turned to thank him, but he didn’t make eye contact. Braelyn sighed.Must be the sweats and T-shirt.Not the hottest look. For a trip to the doctor’s office on her day off, however, she had aimed for comfort.Goal achieved.
The tall blond, broad-shouldered stranger was fashion-mag, runway perfect. Once Braelyn walked through the door, she glanced behind, smiling, trying to snag his attention. His gaze was somewhere else. What did she care? Right now, she focused on school and her lame job. And, as of today again, recovery. Life afforded no time for romance or men.
“What did you say, Chief? I was distracted.” Braelyn returned to her conversation while the stranger stepped out the door to head on his way.
“I’m sending you to cover a story. We’ve got another demon kidnapping. That makes five in two months. And for God’s sake, stop calling me Chief.”
“Okay. Dad. Is that better? First, you promised me a vacation day. That means I don’t have to work. Second, I’m tired of demon kidnappings. My monsters all look the same. Red, horned, scaly. Can’t I get an alcoholic genie stuck in a gin bottle or a vampire with a blood phobia? How about a witch who’s allergic to broomsticks and has a sneezing fit every time she rides one?”
Braelyn’s mother had died in an auto accident when she was nine years old. Since then, father and daughter had struggled along, navigating the pitfalls of a relationship as best they could.
“Objections noted, Braelyn, but getting old. This story is important. The victim claims her demon has wings.”
