Singing Fire Read online

  SINGING FIRE

  T.L. Martin

  For my family, always.

  ...I treasure sleep far too much

  to lose it for anyone else.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Sneak Peek of Raining Fire

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE: COQUILLE POINT

  It was like clockwork: the rise and fall of her chest, the splash when she’d disappear beneath the water, and that frustrated sigh, which rang clear across the sand, straight into his attentive ears when she’d come up for air. Over and over again.

  For months he had watched the human—so much so, he could flawlessly recite her daily routine, exact jogging routes, and favorite foods. He could describe with impeccable detail the three, smallest specks of birthmarks behind her neck, which were only revealed when she’d tie her brown locks back before a run. Yet it wasn’t until recently that he’d finally figured it out.

  Centuries of unbacked rumors, of individuals anxiously awaiting even just the prospect of its return. None of the brutal rampages and bloody fatalities he and his kind had witnessed—or caused—in the past could come close to the chaos that would inevitably ensue should she be discovered.

  Perhaps the wildest facet of all: she didn’t even know. The girl was entirely oblivious to just how much her life was about to change.

  ***

  One, two, three, four... Cool, salted water dripped past my eyes as I silently counted down the seconds. Five, six, seven, eight. I inhaled sharply, preparing myself. Nine, ten. Now.

  Water enveloped my face as I dipped myself beneath the waves, flipping my body and diving head first toward the bottom. I was already losing it, bubbles escaping through my nostrils, when my fingers flicked over the sand, and I raced desperately back to the top. The wind hit me sharply as I let out a loud gasp, clicking my stopwatch instantaneously. Still over a minute. I rolled my eyes up at the sky for the nineteenth time that morning. Enough. I was beat.

  Heavy as a ton of weights, I forced myself to leave the comfort of the current and proceed toward the shore. My fingers were stiff, making it difficult to wrap the burgundy towel around my body.

  I knew I was slipping and not just physically.

  I curled my toes into the sand as I walked. The sun had yet to peak, leaving the shore perfectly deserted and reserved just for me. I crossed over the rough slab of concrete toward my street and could still hear a whisper of waves crashing when I pushed my screen door open. Once in the kitchen, I peeked into the oven and thick steam clouded my face as the sweet aroma of apple pie escaped around me. I inspected the foreign recipe curiously. The edges of the baked dough were bronzed, but that was about all it had going for it.

  Hmm. I crossed my fingers. Maybe I would get lucky enough to catch Ray without his glasses on. Slipping a mitten over one hand, I carefully removed the hot tray.

  My breath hitched and the tray crashed to the ground, the loud clank reverberating painfully in my ears.

  It’s starting.

  I bent forward as practiced, with my head between my knees. I could feel my eyes losing focus, even while they were closed. My breathing grew short, rapid. In through my nose, out through my mouth. In and out. In, out. The dizziness finally began to subside, and I slowly lifted my head.

  Something wasn’t right. The attack itself had cleared, but I could still feel the panic in my chest and the short hairs on my arms standing up. Tiny goosebumps tingled all along my body.

  A faint thump had my head snapping toward the hall.

  I peered cautiously around, using the soft rays of window light as my guide in an otherwise dark space. Could someone else be here? Keeping each step as soundless as possible, I maneuvered my way through the rooms—fists poised, ready to strike despite my inner flutters.

  I didn’t know what I’d do if I actually came face to face with an intruder. With my luck, and my nerves, I’d probably freeze or faint. But perhaps, to an intruder, I might look like I could pull it off.

  Finding nothing unusual in the front rooms, I headed down the hall. Aunt Stacy’s door hung idly open, as usual, and I snuck inside. The only place to hide in such a small room would be the closet, so I inched closer. Bracing myself, I yanked the door open so quickly it slammed against the wall. I cringed at the clumsy move before craning my neck to peer inside. Facing me were five or six outfits, swinging faintly from their hangers, and the few pairs of shoes Stacy couldn’t squeeze into her suitcases.

  There was only one room left to check.

  My body stiffened as I changed course, making my way slowly up the stairs. A small creak betrayed me, and I halted, my eyes and ears on full alert. With no response, I took the next step.

  It was quiet at the top of the staircase. Dark. My bedroom door was unlatched, and I strained to recall if I had closed it earlier. I used my foot to gently nudge it open and held my breath as I took the first step inside. My laptop faced me from where it sat on the pine desk beside an old, dusty TV. Clothes remained strewn about the floor beside my dresser, waiting to be folded. The goosebumps on my arms gradually subsided, and my heart rate began to slow.

  Why have I been so paranoid lately? Everyone knew nothing bad happened in Bandon.

  I needed to shake it off, and, unfortunately, there was only ever one way for me to do so. My running clothes faced me from the top of the heap, and I snatched them up. An afternoon run wasn’t usually part of the routine on the same days I accompanied Ray on his walks, but this was the only way I knew how to settle things.

  Locking up the house for good measure, I broke into a steady jog toward Coquille Point. The welcome feel of a cool breeze brushing against my skin and my feet pounding into the sand helped to ease my mind. Gradually, my feet hit the pavement faster until my jog became a brisk run. My muscles relished the challenge, daring my mind to keep up with them. I glided along the familiar beach until I reached Face Rock, then changed course and headed up 11th Street.

  Blissfully unaware of my destination, I was surprised to find myself staring at a welcome sign I usually avoided. My nerves must have been getting the best of me, throwing me off my game.

  I slowed my pace to a lazy jog and vaguely trailed my fingers along the short concrete ledges of the deserted middle school, staring distantly at its front gate. There used to be a time when just the thought of stepping foot through those doors was enough to make me shudder, never knowing what my classmates had in store for me each day. When you faint in the middle of conversation or need to put your head between your knees during class, middle school students aren’t exactly the most welcoming. Although, elementary students weren’t much better.

  I did a full circle around the school, returning my pace to a smooth run. It took me by surprise how much smaller and more insignificant the campus now looked. Though the last few years of my life had been spent mostly within the confines of my house or around the water, I could only be grateful fo
r the lonely experience. For without it, I may never have gotten to know myself well enough to develop a method of controlling the spells that had plagued so much of my past.

  The wind picked up, blowing the leaves off the trees, and my body willingly relinquished control to it, smoothly keeping in sync with its current. When I finally felt that familiar balance consume me, where my body and mind were mutually calm and steady, I turned and serenely jogged back through the streets of my quiet neighborhood.

  A soft buzzing in my pocket made me jump as I unlocked the front door. Aunt Stacy’s name flashed on the screen above her text message: Good luck with the job hunt today! Looks like I’ll be home by Wednesday evening. Miss you.

  I hit the reply button and typed: Nervous, but thanks. Miss you too.

  The job hunt.

  I took in a deep breath and held it for a moment, tensing at the thought alone. It was unavoidable, I knew, with it being the only solution to finally put my aunt’s mind at ease. I had heard enough lectures on the value of a college experience from her this year, and the fact that I was still undecided on what direction to take didn’t help my case. It was, perhaps, the one part of my life where she stepped out of a sisterly role, and in fact held the stance of a mother on the subject.

  Anyway, we both knew it wasn’t the education itself she was worried about. She usually tried to hide it, but with the way her animated eyes would sadden at the sight of me being alone all the time or how she’d jump up at any opportunity to introduce me to people my own age, it was obvious her concern was more socially focused. I could understand it, coming from someone like her who’d always had a large and varied social circle sprinkled from Bandon to New York. But I had grown accustomed to my life as it was, and I didn’t see the need in feeling sorry for myself nor did I welcome the uninvited sympathy from others.

  The tray of apple pie greeted me from the tile as I walked past the kitchen. I was relieved to see it hadn’t flipped over and was mostly intact. I set it onto the counter to tend to later before heading upstairs, and popping in and out of the bathroom for a quick shower.

  The pile of clothes on the floor grew by the second as I dug through the contents of my dresser. Selecting an outfit should never be this overwhelming. How was it that all I seemed to own were shades of black or grey? Letting out an exasperated sigh, I gave in and blindly collected the items nearest to my feet. The denim jeans were dark-washed and fit like most of my pants: snug around the curves of my hips but slightly loose on my waist. The black top I threw on was as plain-Jane as the rest.

  I stepped before the oval mirror hanging on my wall and examined the mess of damp, uncooperative waves spilling down my back. I never knew what to do with my hair. For once in my life, I found myself wishing for Stacy’s magical touch. An expert on all things glamorous, she would know what to do. I combed out the tangles with my fingers and left it alone.

  I wasn’t like Aunt Stacy; with strong, angular facial features and the most piercing green eyes you’d ever seen, the mere sight of her could command attention. The curves of my face were softer, rounder than hers. She and my mother did pass down their green eyes, but they somehow appeared much more childlike on me, making me seem even younger than I was.

  Abandoning my reflection, I exited my room and trotted back downstairs to the kitchen. I sliced the pie into even pieces, tucking them neatly into a small, brown basket and retrieving one of Stacy’s scarcely used purses from the closet. It was black and sleek and felt unnatural hanging over my shoulder with the few necessities I’d slipped inside.

  Snatching up the basket, I locked the door behind me and strolled one house over. My rap was light on Ray’s front door, though he was quick to answer.

  “Charlotte, my dear.” The creases around my neighbor’s chestnut eyes wrinkled as he bestowed one of his rare smiles upon me.

  He was the only person who called me by my proper first name.

  “Morning, Ray.”

  His glasses hung slackly by the noose around his neck, giving me hope. I handed him the basket and wished for the best.

  He leaned in and gave it a strong whiff. “Mmm. Smells delicious.” He paused, glancing up at me. His unkempt, white brows were furrowed deeper than usual. “No chocolate pecan?”

  My lip twitched. “Nice try.”

  “Doctors these days. Back in my day, chocolate was good for you.” He grunted and waved a dismissive hand through the air. “At least you didn’t take that gluten-free gibberish seriously.”

  About that...

  When I didn’t respond, he hastily shoved his glasses over his nose and reinspected the dessert.

  His gaze narrowed. “Don’t let them fool you, Charlotte. Gluten’s not going to kill anyone.”

  I stifled my smile, grabbing one of the oddly textured slices and taking a bite. “They’re supposed to taste great. See?" The dense dessert fought against my throat when I tried to swallow. "It’s not so bad.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.” He eyed the basket with severe caution. “Wait a minute. What’s this?” he asked, pointing an accusing finger at my purse.

  “It’s a purse.”

  “Sure it is. But what are you doing with it? Never in my life have I seen you carrying one of those things.”

  “Gotta get a job. Remember?”

  “Huh. That’s today, is it?”

  I raised a skeptical brow. The man’s memory was sharp as a tack.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know. Don’t let your aunt pressure you into it.”

  “What am I gonna do, Ray?” I asked softly. “Stay locked up in my room for the rest of my life?”

  He didn’t answer, and I could see an argument already forming in his mind.

  “Ray… You’ve been so great, always looking out for me. But, honestly, I’ve got it mostly under control now.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about,” he quipped, pausing thoughtfully. “What am I going to do when I go on my afternoon walks? You know the doctor said I need to start walking as often as possible. And my treat baskets. What about my treat baskets?”

  “I’m not moving away. You’ll hardly even notice I’m gone.”

  Ray nodded his head. He was trying to keep it light, but I could still see the worry in his eyes. Stubby fingers slowly stroked his wrinkled chin.

  “All right, all right. You’d better get to it, then. Go on.”

  I smiled at him, reading between the lines. Ray had his own way of saying things. “Thank you.”

  Returning to the main road, I cruised down Portland Avenue, relishing the wonders of our cloudy and mysterious Oregonian skies. Bandon was a small speck of a town, located 187 miles south of Portland and 90 miles north of the California border. We got our fair share of tourists, but it was otherwise a remarkably slow and secluded part of the world. With a minuscule population of around 3,000, the coastal city was like my own little island. As the only home I had ever really known, it was easily my favorite place.

  I didn’t know how Stacy did it, leaving home so frequently—mandatory or otherwise. A part of me wanted to be adventurous like her. Especially when she would show me all of the pictures: the Eiffel Tower, Central Park, Yosemite, Niagara Falls, or her golden body sprawled out beneath the sunlight at some luxurious resort. But then I’d think of all the people crowding the poolside beside her, or having to flag down a taxi in the hustling streets of New York City. If I couldn’t handle middle school kids, I could hardly imagine how I might do in a city with eight million residents. And that was only if I managed to survive the locked down, elbow-to-elbow airplane ride.

  Crossing onto 8th Street, I headed toward Old Town Bandon. With quaint shops and seafood restaurants spanned over ten blocks for the townspeople and the tourist market, Old Town was going to be my best bet.

  I already knew where to apply first. Fred wouldn’t be pleased about me skipping his gift shop. Not to mention, Louisa at Sassy Seagulls. But what I really wanted was a quiet job behind the scenes at the old bookst
ore, the library, or maybe the town museum.

  Just as I was about to pass by The Cobbler’s Bench on 2nd, a shimmering door to its right caught my eye. I could vaguely recall having seen the place once or twice before, but something always seemed to stop me from going inside. It was surprisingly narrow and could have been easily missed if it wasn’t for the gold trimmings around its boarder. A hand crafted, wooden sign read Welcome to Your Tea Stop.

  It couldn’t hurt to stop inside.

  After weaving my way past a small crowd of people lounging on the sidewalk, my hand skimmed along the bottom of a bright yellow Gala announcement when I turned the knob.

  A high pitched jingle sounded as I entered, prompting several stray gazes. I glanced down at my worn shoes before forcing myself to stand in line.

  Tall, lit candles and pastel colored flowers dispersed themselves around the shop’s authentic, wooden furnishings. Vertically stacked rows of candles, fresh herbs, and other small items for sale lined the opposite end of the room, but it was the black leather gloves and matching hoodies that caught my eye. They appeared so distinctly out of place in such a shop. The space was not large by any means, but it wasn’t as small as it appeared from the outside either.

  I waited self-consciously as the woman before me retrieved her receipt, moving forward at my turn.

  The cashier looked young, maybe a year or two older than me, and had fiery red curls tucked away in a messy knot behind her faded green cap. She greeted me with a pretty smile, which lit up a pair of warm brown eyes.

  “Welcome to Your Tea Stop.” She darted an inquisitive glance behind me. “Is this your first time here?”

  Was it really so obvious? I quickly straightened my posture, hoping the slight shift in position would help radiate the confidence I was lacking.

  “Yes.”

  She arched an eyebrow and glanced around once more. “Did someone escort you inside?”

  “Uh, no.” Following the girl’s gaze, I wondered if I’d made some kind of mistake. Perhaps this was a private cafe. “Actually, I just wanted to know if you were hiring?”