Fire Possessed: A Reverse Harem Urban Fantasy Adventure (Twin Rivers Possession Book 1) Read online

  Fire Possessed

  Twin Rivers Possession #1

  September Stone

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Copyright © 2018 September Stone LLC

  Cover Art by Amina Black of EightBase Design

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition: January 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For information:

  www.septemberstone.com

  For Bradley Cooper

  I thank you for your talent,

  dedication to your craft,

  and your blue eyes.

  Chapter One

  Sophie

  The moment the stench of freshly-burning wallpaper creeps under my bedroom door and smacks my nose, my dream where I’m mapping out future lesson plans comes to a blunt stop. Though I haven’t slept more than a handful of fitful hours at this point, my spine rachets up as if on a pulley, launching me out of bed. After spending most of the previous evening with my head in the toilet, I’m surprised I have any energy at all.

  Not leaving when I first felt that ominous stirring had been my first mistake. I know what she wants. I’ve known for months. She’s done waiting, and now I’m being smoked out of my life and into whatever madness she has for me. My more stubborn nature debates standing stock-still in the middle of my bedroom just to spite her, letting her know that she can burn the whole house down, and me along with it.

  I think she’s just pissed enough to call my bluff.

  Dashing to my dresser, I pull out a few changes of clothing with the intent of shoving them into the backpack I’ve been using for all my work stuff. It all but crushes me to dump my pencils, papers, notebooks and textbooks onto my mattress so I can shove enough necessities to survive into my pack. My lesson planning binder stares up at me with a sadness that’s seeping into my bones. We belong together, me and my planner. I quit my job two days ago, but I hadn’t found the gumption to unpack my supplies. Leave it to her to push me out of the nest before I’m ready.

  I don’t bother arguing with the fire. I should’ve known she would pull something like this. I had my fun, and now Mother will have her way. We’ve fought on occasion before, but never to the I’ll-burn-your-house-down-if-you-don’t-obey extent.

  Family relations are tricky.

  The crackling from the hallway informs me there will be no turning back as I tear off my pajamas and hastily stuff my legs into jeans. I punch my arms through the nearest t-shirt I can find, not bothering to turn the top from its current inside-out status. I bite my lip through a whimper when I think of the brand-new curtains I put up last week, now turning to ash. I bet Mother started the fire there just to spite me. It had been my declaration to myself that I wasn’t going anywhere, that I had actual roots in this rural Kentucky town.

  It had been an act of defiance to stay when she urged me to leave on her errand weeks ago, and now I’m being chastised like the willful child neither of us want me to be. I’ve been compliant for so long, but this? She’s asking too much. Now she’s going to take everything away; I have no choice but to obey.

  I drop to my knees and fish out from under my bed the foot-long black bag I hardly use anymore—the source of our contention. She wants me to practice more often, but with work and trying to squeeze in a life every now and then, it’s fallen to the wayside. Still, I know this is what she wants. I’ve known for quite some time, but it chafes me even now as I sling my overfilled backpack across my shoulder. I heft my small, neglected mini-duffel under my other arm and stab my toes into untied jogging sneakers.

  I know Mother won’t let me leave through the front door with a little dignity. As smoke billows under my bedroom door, she leaves me with one option. I unlock the window and hoist it open, drawing in a steadying breath of fresh nighttime air before throwing my meager collection of salvaged possessions out onto the grass. I’d searched so long for a two-story home. My sweet little white colonial with a black roof and black shutters. It’s quaint, perfect—and soon it’ll be kindling.

  I’m about to hoist myself out, but my heart tugs and I hesitate. Turning toward my nightstand, I realize that in my haste, I’ve forgotten to pack the picture of my Dad—a cardinal mistake. Though he’s been gone for eight years and dead for two, his picture never leaves me. Perhaps that’s superstitious, but I allow myself a handful of naïve conventions every now and then to soothe the ache that being orphaned at any age leaves a girl with.

  I reach for the picture but the door bursts open, knocking me back. Though Mother doesn’t have a face I can yell at, I still let her know she’s being irrational. “Hey! I’m allowed to take one memento! Lay off! You’re getting what you want, so leave me alone about it!”

  As if in answer, a spark shoots out from the massive conflagration and lands right on the laminated coating of my Dad’s picture. I scream and knock it onto the carpet, smothering it as best I can. If these were ordinary flames, that would work, but the fire leaps onto my fingers and wrists, burning me like the sharp crack of a belt across my flesh. I panic and press my hand over the fire. I want to suck the heat into my palms, but Mother’s fires are always far trickier to manage than normal combustions. She burns me, as she’s always done when I reach for what I want instead of what she demands.

  Fat tears roll down my cheeks as I watch my father’s smile burn. The edges curl up and eat away at his image until he’s simply and utterly no more.

  “I won’t forgive you for this!” I scream at the ceiling, not from the pain in my hands but from the shredding of my heart. Sure, I’ve got tons of pictures on my phone of Dad and me, but there won’t be any more. Each one is precious and Mother knows it. Erasing a portion of Dad means the world spins with one less cautious smile that he passed down to his only daughter. On the days I can’t find cause to grin, I have his photo, reminding me what it looks like to be happy, and that one day I’ll get there again. I practice Dad’s exact smile at least once a week, promising myself that one day, it’ll be genuine.

  It wasn’t enough for her to edge Dad out of my life. Now she’s pushing everything else out I hold dear. Most witches would kill to have such a direct connection with Mother Nature.

  They don’t know Mother like I do.

  Heat stings my skin. I do my best to suck the flames into my palms—or at the very least snuff th
em out—but Mother’s fire is far more vicious than my elemental prowess can handle. So I give Mother my tears instead of delighted obedience, offering them as a sacrifice to all I wish I could be, but can’t, because that’s not the path Mother’s choosing for me. She wants me to go to Twin Rivers to see the great mage. She wants me to bring back the Lost River somehow, as if I have any clue as to how something like that’s done.

  I pull myself up, my skin tingling with the ominous direction that always comes over me when I do as she wants without fighting. One leg over the sill and then the other. I don’t look back at the life I’ve fought so hard to build. I know that will only anger her, and she’s plenty pissed as it is. Turning my head in the direction she chooses without flinching is the only acceptable way, I’ve learned.

  Never a fan of heights, I swallow my scream as I teeter toward the edge. My chestnut waves flutter around my face as the nighttime breeze tries to convince me that everything will be okay. My hands still bear a sting from Mother’s fiery slap, but I focus on my fear of falling to distract me from her burn. Should’ve tied my shoes, I chide myself, skittering on the pitched overhang with a shriek that reminds me how much of a child I might always be. Twenty-five, and I’m still reaching for my Dad’s hand, begging him to steady me so I don’t topple over the edge of reason.

  Yet here I am with no one to hold my hand, and a pushy woman behind me, ready to shove me off a cliff. Lowering myself from the gutter takes focus I don’t have. I nearly slip and crash to what I presume in my dramatic mind to my inevitable death.

  But I know she won’t let that happen. Mother needs me for something, and old girl always gets what she wants, one way or another.

  Hanging on the gutter, I scream as I let go, crashing to the freshly-mown grass in a heap of limbs and regret. It takes two solid breaths before I’m stable enough to sit up and collect my backpack and duffel. Taking one last look at the house I love, I scramble on unsteady legs to my black pickup truck, shoving my things into the back and jamming my keys in the ignition. As the engine rumbles down the driveway, my eyes flicker to the gaping wound just lying there on the passenger’s seat, mocking me that I should’ve seen all of this coming.

  It’s a copy of my leave of absence letter I gave the principal earlier this week. He’d sung my praises, and I up and quit on him. Mother doesn’t want me working at my dream job anymore, so she orchestrated the whole situation that led to me drafting up several versions of an “I love it here, but peace out for now” letter. My principal still doesn’t understand the source of my exit, but I’ve ignored his calls. Northwestern High is sans one chemistry teacher, which breaks my heart.

  That should’ve been enough to pacify Mother, but no. It isn’t satisfying enough for her to play on my emotions to manipulate me into quitting. She wants me in Twin Rivers and is determined to burn all my bridges to push me there.

  As I careen down the dirt road, I crumple up the draft of my letter to the principal. “You win, old girl. You want me to go to Twin Rivers and join the magical community? You really think I’ll be accepted there once they figure out what I can do? Fine. You want me to look for Elowen and ask the great mage to help me find the Lost River? Whatever. I’ll go.” I choke the steering wheel with my unburned hand, digging my heels in even as I obey. “But you won’t like what I do once I get there.”

  Chapter Two

  Carrigan

  “Table for one, please. If you have room.” It’s a joke I try out on her every time I frequent The Greasy Ham. It never goes over well.

  Wiseass, Gerta thinks, though her eyes only betray her by narrowing the smallest amount. “Right this way. Your usual table okay?” It better be. So picky. Can’t have his back to the exit, needs enough space to spread out a boatload of paperwork to prove to us he’s important. If too many people come into his section, he leaves mid-meal. High maintenance rich boy.

  Yikes. At least I make myself laugh, even if I’ve never been able to win over the surly proprietor. “Are you doing your hair different, Gerta? It looks nice, done up like that.” I forgive myself for the blatant lie. Gerta’s salt-and-pepper hair is always in a tight bun with wiry wisps sticking out as if she’s been electrocuted.

  Gerta shoots me a smirk over her shoulder. I hope Karl heard that. Oh, if rich boy compliments me in front of Karl, maybe he’ll say yes when I ask him to Bingo. “It’s a new conditioner.”

  I follow her to the booth in the far corner, sidestepping a brown stain that looks fairly new. She tosses a ketchup-spattered menu onto the table. “Coffee and chicken noodle soup?”

  “You know me too well.”

  You order the same thing every single time. The place has “ham” in the name. Give that a try, Gerta grouses in her mind.

  When the portly woman pulls the rag from her belt and swipes it over the table to give it the appearance of being clean, she gasps when she sees me up close. The overhead low-hanging lantern illuminates me like a spotlight when I slide into the booth.

  Oh, he looks awful! Are the whites of his eyes yellow? Shame. He can’t be more than thirty-five, but poor guy doesn’t look like he’ll last another week. He’d be handsome with that blond hair and that body if he wasn’t yellow.

  “Thirty-two,” I clarify, and then freeze. I’m always doing that—answering questions people haven’t actually voiced. Back home in Twin Rivers, no one is put off by mind-reading, since that’s what many psychics are known for. But beyond the city lines, the noms don’t believe in psychics. Like we’re Santa Claus or something.

  Of course, every other telepathic psychic can focus their ability to hear thoughts as they wish. They can turn it on and off at will, and hear exactly one internal voice at a time. I have no such filter. I hear everything all the time at the volume of a shout, even if the person’s not worked up about their thought life at all. If someone is within earshot, I have no choice but to listen to every weird, errant and unfiltered musing that comes to their mind. All of them. All the time.

  “I didn’t say nothing,” Gerta replies warily as she scoops up the menu, smearing the ketchup splatters across her apron. It’s the closest she gets to cleaning something, and I’m fairly certain it’s by accident. I only come here because no one comes here. It’s my very favorite place for exactly that reason. The sole voices I have to hear belong to Gerta and Karl, which don’t give me nearly as many headaches as walking into a crowded coffee shop gives me. My migraines are pretty near constant.

  I clear my throat and open up my briefcase. “Can I get some extra lemons with my water?”

  “Sure, sure.” She turns and waddles away, her tone turning syrupy when she puts in my order. Karl doesn’t bother snuffing out his cigarette when he comes to the partition. I can’t decide what makes me more upset—that he smokes all over the food while he prepares it, or that I’ve seen him light many a cigarette standing over swaths of flammable grease. I guess when a person frequents The Greasy Ham, they don’t exactly have five-star dining expectations. Still.

  Karl’s thoughts are similar to the ones I picked out last week when I came here for my moderate dose of peace and almost-quiet. I wonder how much ham I can sneak out tonight? The stuff I took last week is starting to turn.

  Suck in the tummy! Gerta tells herself, leaning on the half-wall. “Whatcha doing this weekend, Karl?”

  “Nothing big.” I can probably get two pounds of ham if I sneak it out while she takes Carrigan his soup. His eyes dart across the restaurant to me. Shit, he looks worse than he did last week.

  I lower my chin, trying to focus on the forms I pull out of my briefcase. I know I look terrible. No amount of trips to the gym can compensate for a failing liver. I bragged about my killer tan back in college, but now I’d be thrilled to be pale if it meant I could lose the jaundice that makes me look yellow and sickly. Too many painkillers have wreaked havoc on my internal system, but nothing else eases the near-constant headaches that come with the territory of hearing every private thought every single person s
ays. I tried my hand at drinking from the Healing River, but seeing as how it only heals medical maladies and not magic-based ones, the river, along with the many witches and doctors I frequent confirmed what I already knew: I’m shit out of luck. My physical symptoms are born from a magical dysfunction. The Healing River might’ve had the oomph to cure my liver years ago when it was more potent, but it does nothing for me now, except give my best friend false hope whenever we give it another go. I think that’s the worst part of my condition. Hope seems to be the thing that’s make me sicker—pushing me to try more herbs, potions and medicines that aren’t pulling their weight in the least. I want to give up, but Jonas won’t let me. It’s the one time I suppose I should be grateful for his stubborn nature.

  The first page of the stack that never seems to get any smaller, no matter how hard I work, is a resume. I don’t permit an audible sigh of boredom, but even though I keep it inside, it’s there all the same. Everyone wants to work for my best friend, managing, hostessing or cleaning one of his many luxury hotels. He doesn’t trust a lot of people—noms, witches, doctors, you name it. But as his gut’s led him to be the wealthiest business owner in Twin Rivers, I can’t question his gut all that much.

  As if on cue, my phone buzzes with a text from Jonas. You okay? I know your meeting ran late. You should’ve let me handle it.