Page 6 of The Spark that Ignites (Shattered Soul #1)

A gainst her better judgement, after leaving the House of Gods, Emmery led the stranger to her original destination.

Last night's missed sleep weighed on her and Emmery dragged her feet as they slunk through the trees, gladly concealed from the prying stares of the streets. But her eyes burned, and she squinted through the morning sunlight. What she wouldn’t give for a few moments of shut eye.

Pine scented forest wind caressed her face; the familiar thicket and overgrown path etched into her childhood memory.

Emmery’s heart caught in her throat as the cottage appeared.

Not a shingle was out of place and the weathered wood was still the same faded sable she’d never taken the care to paint.

Aside from the mounds of grass, untamed trees, and infesting weeds, after nearly a century, the cottage remained untouched by the hands of time.

She had no explanation how. It had to be magic.

“Do you live here?” the man asked, his nose wrinkling as he surveyed the cottage.

“I used to.”

After all these years, Emmery thought returning would be easier and all the memories would dwindle with time, leaving this place a stranger’s home.

That her distant life here could be felt at arm's length but never truly held again. Coming home to see Maela sleeping soundly, the meals over-flowing with laughter, soup spewing from her sister’s nose, and the morning lemon teas would all fade into the past. Because it was the haunting memories that kept her away.

Emmery cautiously opened the door, and the stale smell of aged wood greeted her.

To her left was her mother’s ratty sitting chair with blankets, books, and papers strewn about the family room.

She could still see her mother in that fawn-brown chair—her frail wrist on the armrest, gaunt cheek against the cushion, and knees tucked under a thick blanket to contain her shivering.

To her right was the kitchen, everything awaiting her return.

If she closed her eyes, she could imagine Maela carelessly climbing the counters for Emmery’s stash of cinnamon biscuits she hid out of necessity.

Because if she didn’t hide them away, she wouldn’t get a single one.

The grooves notched into the kitchen doorway caught Emmery’s eye—each a milestone for her sister’s height. She reached down, resting her finger on Maela’s last mark. Too many were missing. Too many moments stripped of sharing.

Her ribs squeezed as fresh pain lanced through her chest.

She’d been wrong. This would always be the only home she ever knew.

After dragging her hand along the gritty kitchen counter, Emmery wiped the dirt on her trousers with a grimace.

Soiled tea towels waited to be laundered from their last meal using up the remaining scraps of food.

The dull brown cabinets with worn brass handles bordered the tarnished pots lining the wall, the kitchen a medley of mismatched wood tones.

It was like she’d never left, yet none of this truly felt like hers anymore. Only the heartache remained.

As the man cleared his throat, her attention snapped to him, and Emmery shook the memories loose. She needed to stay on guard.

His head swivelled, taking it all in, as he stepped into the kitchen. Reaching for the jewelled handle of her dagger, she slumped into a chair at the gouged wooden table.

Several moments dragged by.

She studied him.

He watched her.

And there was an indefinable melancholy quality in that gaze flickering in and out. Emmery didn’t have a single clue what it meant or what sort of manipulations swam in his head, but her stomach twisted with unease.

He didn’t seem entirely dangerous, at least not toward her. However, the chance he would help without anything in return was entirely too slim.

The man’s gaze slid to her dagger, and he planted his feet on the scuffed floor.

She surveyed his weapons and travelling clothes.

Buckles, ties, belts, and loops for all sorts of pointy things cluttered his armour and trousers.

Who walked around strapped with enough metal to melt down and provide silverware for the entire continent?

It didn’t exactly fill her with a warm fuzzy feeling.

Emmery gripped her dagger like it was the last remaining thread of her sanity as he stepped toward her. “Don’t move any closer.”

“As I told you last night, I have no intention of hurting you.” He raised his hands, palms out. “I promise you can trust me.”

But as she had learned time and time again, promises meant nothing. Emmery eyed the worn leather grip of his curved sword. Between that and the assorted weapons, he was undoubtably experienced. And dangerous.

She raised her eyebrow. “How do you expect me to trust you when you have steel strapped to every body part?”

“I didn’t kill you on the walk here, at the House of Gods, or in the alley, did I?” His white teeth gleamed in the sunlight penetrating the foggy windows. “And let’s be clear, they’re not strapped to every body part.”

Emmery rolled her eyes. “Look, I don’t know you or your intentions. And I’m not foolish enough to believe you went through all this trouble for no reason.”

“Yet you were foolish enough to let me into your home.” He waved a hand at the dagger clutched in her fist. “You think that’ll save you from whatever malicious intentions I have?”

Her lips turned up. “With the right placement, yes.”

Pinching the blade, Emmery lowered her aim to his groin. She may be shitty with weapons, from only her limited training with Fionn those years ago, but a flick of her wrist would leave him a blubbering mess.

Her throat tightened at Fionn’s memory, nearly a century old, but she swallowed around it.

The man shielded his crotch and sucked air through his teeth.

“You make a solid argument.” First, he threw down his chestnut leather pack and unstrapped his sword from his back, followed by the daggers and knives attached to his chest, belt, and thighs.

In moments, the counter was covered in a sea of weapons.

Moving to the other side of the kitchen, he unloaded throwing stars and weapons she hadn’t even noticed.

When she was sure he was done, he paused, looking puzzled, and patted his chest, abdomen, down to his calves.

A satisfied smile crossed his face as he pulled a compact knife from his boot.

Surveying the counter, he took inventory on his fingers before turning back to her. “That should be all. Better?”

Emmery nodded, and her chin pointed to his hood. “The cloak next.”

“If you wanted me to disrobe, you need only ask. Although manners go a long way.” His sly smile spurred a scowl from her.

He removed his cloak and tossed it atop his weapons.

A wolf insignia decorating the breast caught her eye.

He smoothed the tousled strands of his slate-grey hair, the peculiar black roots hinting the pigment drained as it grew.

Only a bristle remained on the sides, but unruly, gravity-defying waves swooped up from his forehead.

A spiral of silver earrings wove up the shell of his ears, each equally mismatched.

In his lobes were black cylinders smaller than the tip of her little finger.

From his strong features, broad shoulders, and lean frame, he was undoubtedly handsome.

Or he would be if he wasn’t such a sarcastic ass.

Catching her staring, he cocked a brow. “Should I remove my trousers next?”

Snorting at his ridiculousness, she strolled to the hearth and snapped her fingers. A dozen golden sparks leapt from her fingertips and ignited the old wood. His eyes glowed with fervour though he blinked it away.

The man lounged against the counter. “We should get down to business, Sparky.”

Emmery scoffed. “Sparky?”

“Sure, seems fitting.” He gestured to the golden flames and Emmery glowered, but it only coaxed a smile. “Lighten up. Nicknames are endearing.”

She could only balk at his sheer audacity.

He hesitated, perhaps waiting for her to offer him a seat. Emmery did no such thing. Despite his actions last night, her stomach fluttered with apprehension as he studied her.

Shifting his collar, notably a different shirt than the torn, blood soaked one, he flashed the twin scar to hers. “You went a bit cockeyed when you saw this. Want to know what it is?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not daft. I know it’s the mark of the Damned.

” Only those with magic had them, though she’d never actually spoken to another Damned One before.

Both her mother and sister were human and Fionn never shared if he had magic.

After what they went through, it would’ve been illogical for him to keep it hidden.

“The only time I saw anyone with the scars it was from afar. Usually during their execution. It didn’t exactly leave an opportunity to ask questions.

But I’m wondering why someone like you is here. It’s not exactly safe.”

He shrugged. “I could ask you the same question.”

“I don’t choose to be here. I’m here because I have nowhere else to go.”

“Which is why you came to the tavern.”

“Which is why I followed your stupid message and nearly got myself killed.” Her cheeks flamed. “Did you consider simply knocking on my door and speaking to me at the inn?”

“I tried but couldn’t wait around all day.” Amusement danced in his eyes. “Hey, you made it out alive, didn’t you?”

Barely she wanted to snap, but Emmery bit back her snarky comments.

He’d saved her, after putting her in that danger of course, but he had let her escape from those guards.

She supposed that was something. Emmery frowned, recalling the concealing smog.

“The smoke. Back in the alley. That was you, wasn’t it? ”

The corner of the man’s mouth curved up. “Clever girl.”

She ignored his condescending tone. “How?”