Page 11 of Seared Fates

Now, as I lift my unicorn pencil from the page and stare at the strange symbols I’ve sketched—not from memory, but from instinct—purple fire sparks. Like the tipped-over capital ‘A’ and the smaller ‘o’ were almost bouncing against each other, trying to ignite like a lighter struggling to catch a flame.

And then the symbol unfurls like a petal of purple flames, no taller than my little finger.

It reminds me ofArchibald John Motley Jr’s paintingNightlife. Every type of purple you can think of woven into the beautiful movement of people dancing, and everywhere you look you see an abundance of life swaying back and forth.

The heat emanating from this little fire warms the tip of my nose as I get closer to the page, awe and wonder rushing to my cheeks like blood.

I should hate this, but I don’t. I never have.

It doesn’t burn the page but sits on it, yet I know if I brought another page to this purple flame, it’d become nothing but ash.

Without warning, the flame whips like it’s caught in a storm, and the purple vanishes to be replaced by normal red flames that burn hotter than mine. It spreads across the page so fast that when I hurriedly pull off my shoe to stamp it out, I know that if I hadn’t the whole studio would be blazing within minutes.

Smoke and the smell of ashes swirl up as I pull my shoe away and drop it to the ground with athud. Dejected, I sweep the ashes of my curiosity into the bin and dust the evidence from my palms. Just because this part of myself saved my friends and me once, doesn’t mean I should explore it further.

But like my nervous tic, I don’t know how to stop.

Soon Apollo walks in, he’s short with Forget-Me-Not tattoos all across his warm brown skin, long black hair shoved up into a bun with more flyaways than not. He’s cute, bundled up in a denim jacket with punk stickers all over.

Then Luuk, who pops his head in, big, tall and blonde, asking everyone if they want a cuppa. When I say no, he drops a protein bar on my table.

“Come with me to the cafe next door later, yeah?” he says, voice always a touch too loud. “I’m craving a full English, and they serve them all day. I love their black pudding.”

“Ew,” Apollo calls from the chill room we use for consultations.

I push my stool across the smooth black floor so I can pop my head out and stare at my boss, the vampire—though Luuk doesn’t know that. “Youdon’t like black pudding?”

“It’s why I prefer a roast dinner, lad,” Apollo hums, dropping his head to rest on the back of the sofa to look at me, locks of hair falling across his forehead and showing off the silver piercings up his ear. “Everyone loves a roast potato.”

This kicks off a debate about which is better, with Summer soon adding her voice to the mix. By the time the bell rings again and my favourite customer strolls in, no one has won.

“Hey, Bran,” I call out. “Ready for your raven?”

He’s not that much taller than me, with milk-pale skin and shaggy black hair. Brown eyes always laughing—like he knows a secret, and is dying to tell someone.

“Hi, Kai,” Bran drawls, flashing a grin that shows off his white teeth. His voice touched with a slight lyrical Welsh accent. “More than ready.”

Chapter five

Vidar

It might be early evening, but already the moon hangs low. Winter winds blast the few humans who dare brave the cold, scurrying like they can hide from it, wrapped in heavy coats, unlike me.

I wear a simple pair of black jeans tucked into boots. They’re matched with a white top, the long sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos that spread from my neck down to my knuckles. Like all vampires, the cold doesn’t affect me, and as I stand before Kai’s block of flats, I hardly notice it.

The modern world has its wonders. Planes. TV. Communication. The bastardisation of my ancient culture.

Marshmallows.

Yet they pride themselves on building these unimaginative boxes to live in. I shrug the thought off, musing over architecture isn’t why I’m here and the past can stay where it is. So why hesitate?

I’m not one to shy away from something uncomfortable, even if admitting it just to myself makes me feel weak. But I’m…nervous.

In all my years, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve felt this way. Which is exactly once.

I joined my first raid as a shield-bearer at thirteen. Took my first life at fourteen. Owned land at eighteen and married at twenty. Even dying at thirty-eight, I wasn’t nervous. Not afraid. Always sure.

But as I make my way towards the metal door to buzz up to Kai’s flat—number 58, unless Golden’s playing a trick on me—nerves hold me in a tight grip.