Fire Heart (Magic and Mage Series Book 2) Read online

  Fae bit her lip and backed away one cautious step.

  “The spell you mentioned, the one missing from the book…” Amara began.

  “The binding spell?” Morganne asked.

  Amara nodded. “Perhaps we can summon the ripped pages. Perhaps we can cast to make them reappear.”

  Thunder roared in the distance, like an angry waterfall cascading into the depths. The night darkened, and the moon’s wicked smile hid behind a grumbling cloud.

  “I’m not sure about this,” Fae said, fearing the growing winds that howled through the gaps in the windows. Several more candle flames flickered and threatened to extinguish.

  “Why not?” asked Morganne, heart clanging against her ribcage. “After all, surely my magic will emerge someday. This will just make it happen sooner. Make us sisters again, in flesh and heart.”

  “We owe our eldest sister the chance,” said Amara, though she knew in part this was only to ease her guilt for allowing her sister to believe she could perform magic. She opened both hands in a gesture for her sisters to join her, and they did.

  Making a circle of three, Amara began. “Close your eyes, sisters, and imagine the pages of the book. Hold only that image in your mind.”

  Lightning crackled outside the window, illuminating the girls in their magic circle.

  “Repeat after me.” Amara opened one eye to check her sisters had closed their eyes then continued.

  “By wind and air and fire and sea,

  what once was lost

  return to me,

  I now invoke the law of three

  to return the pages—mote it be…”

  Thunder growled, rain pelted the window, and wind howled like a screaming child through the gaps of the crumbling wooden frame. The girls flung their eyes open, alert, breath short.

  “What’s happening?” Morganne asked, not hiding the quiver in her voice. Fae said nothing, but glared at Amara, jumping when another roar of thunder raged.

  “Again,” Amara called. The three girls repeated the words, shouting over the storm as it seethed in fury against the cottage.

  Ahead of them, appearing at eye level, paper crinkled into life, forming a page. Spidery ink sprawled its way across the ancient parchment.

  “You’ve done it!” Morganne shrieked, desperate to hold the page in her hands, but her sisters held them fast, as the spell continued.

  The bedroom door thundered open.

  “No!” screamed Mother, her face contorted into fear and rage both, “No, no!”

  She clapped her hands together, whispering old, old words from her trembling lips, and the paper burst into flames.

  “Mother?!” screamed Morganne, dropping her sisters’ hands.

  “Do not break the circle!” Amara and Mother ordered in one terrified command.

  But the window smashed open. Wind raged through Morganne’s red hair like a furious flame. Books fell from their shelves. Curtains billowed.

  Fae and Amara grabbed their sister’s hands to recreate the circle.

  “You need more power than that to stop what you started,” Mother barked, forcing her way into the circle.

  She grabbed Morganne’s left hand and squeezed it with such force Morganne feared it would break.

  Mother yelled into the storm. “Darkness leave us, leave, be gone! In our homes and hearts you don’t belong!”

  The ground trembled, but the storm receded, taking with it the air from the sisters' lungs. Then in a heartbeat, it was over. Mother fell to the floor, gasping. The sisters shared fearful glances.

  “You…” Mother began as she clambered to her feet. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she stared at Amara. “You almost released the Immortal One.”

  Amara blinked—twice. “What?”

  “You have so much to learn and you’re moving too fast to comprehend the dangers of magic.” Mother stopped short and shook her head, long gray tresses agreeing with her disgust. She spat to the floor and the three sisters backed away. This was not how their mother reacted, to anything. “She, if you can call the evil being that, had her magic and title stripped from her eons ago, her spells cast out as she was. That’s why the pages have been ripped and burnt from the book. Both she and her magic banished and spellbound to ensure the safety of witches and humanity.”

  “The Immortal One?” Morganne asked. “You've never mentioned such a being. Who is she?”

  “I cannot say,” their mother said as grave as death. “For even to speak her name may give her power. You must forget her, as we all have, and leave her memory to rot in the hole that imprisons her. You cannot play with fire, my daughters.” She turned to Morganne. “Especially not you. Now please, go to bed, all of you. We shall speak of this in the morning.” She cast her eyes to the sly moon outside the broken window. “I do not trust that waning moon tonight.”

  And to bed the girls duly went, but one name played over in Morganne’s mind. She had seen it on the page before the flames licked it to ashes.

  Emrysa.

  And it followed her into her sleep.

  4

  A Calling

  Morganne knew she was dreaming by the way her mind flitted from one strange place to another with no connection, yet seamless all the same. And she knew she was looking for something as her eyes scanned the rooms and forests and mountains flickering across the canvas of her mind. A wind danced through the dreamtime air, the type of air that does not believe in gravity, leaving you free to fly or swim or twirl like a dervish. And Morganne did twirl, this way and that, desperately seeking The Thing.

  But what am I looking for? She asked herself in a moment of clarity.

  Morganne, a voice sang along the wind from both far away and close. As if it called from both epic mountains in the far distance and inside her own mind. Morganne, it called again, as sweet as summer apples. I have what you seek.

  And at that moment, she became lucid. Not quite awake but not dreaming all the same, despite standing in a darkened valley under a shimmering blue moon, yet aware of the soft pillow beneath her head. A nighttime raven flitted past, its wing slicing through the air causing her red hair to dance like fall’s leaves around her face. The sensation of the pillow beneath her head disappeared completely.

  And she knew.

  She was searching for her dream, for what she desired most in her waking life.

  Magic.

  Where are you? Morganne asked, twirling again. Images flashed through her mind’s eye. A mountain pass, a craggy old rock shaped like a rearing horse, a stream running with violet water.

  Find me…the sweet voice whispered and Morganne knew if she answered the call, she would bind herself to a promise. An oath.

  Find me…it sang again like gentle lullabies and calming fireside warmth.

  Morganne nodded and looked at the full blue moon.

  I will. I will find you, Emrysa.

  Morganne’s eyes snapped open.

  She was asleep no more.

  5

  To Belong

  “What was I thinking?” Morganne chastised herself. She splashed cool river water on her face. The sun was barely up, but she could not sleep, not after that dream. So she had dressed and donned her cloak and padded along the dew-stained grass toward the river, the cool morning touch cleansing away the guilt crawling upon her skin.

  She stared at her reflection a little while, shaking her head at the memory of her vivid dream.

  It was just a dream. Behind her, Angelfire’s familiar hoof beats swished through the long grass toward her.

  “Hello, boy,” she said, rising and patting his sleek neck, his skin warm beneath her palm. He blew the soft blow belonging only to gentle horses; a sound of contentment and peace, and though Morganne could not speak with the horses like her witch sisters, she understood Angelfire’s meaning all the same. The chestnut horse stepped closer, resting his long head into her body—his mane of fire tumbling down to his knees, and she hugged him. Her red locks getting lost in his.
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  “Thank you for being here for me,” she said into his musky-smelling coat. “These days, I would be all alone if it were not for you. I just wish I had the ability to speak with you as my sisters can.”

  Angelfire whickered.

  Find me…

  Morganne gasped, and for a fraction of a heartbeat, she wondered if the voice came from Angelfire. He stamped a hoof, which she took to be a denial, and pinched the sensitive skin on the underside of her arm to prove she was no longer asleep. No, this was not a dream, and the voice was as real and as solid as the horse standing beside her. Something pulled at the hollow in her stomach, the longing, the aching for magic. To be like her sisters: in flesh and heart. Her dreams, the voice, her desires—they all coalesced. And she knew.

  The voice was real.

  “Why should I seek you?” Morganne asked the sky, her guilt forcing anger from her trembling lips. Angelfire stepped back, tossing his head. His mane danced like flames.

  She waited.

  Nothing. Just the predawn preparations of shuffling birds and burrowing insects. Angelfire resumed chomping on the meadow grass and Morganne laughed at herself, wondering perhaps if she was still half asleep and half dreaming.

  You will seek me, now or later Fireheart, for I have what you desire. No other witch is strong enough to pull out your magic from within than I.

  “Fireheart?” Morganne repeated aloud, tasting the name on her lips, and feeling the flames in her heart ignite with the idea that perhaps she had magic stuck within. And if so, the words had credence. Had her mother not failed to awaken Morganne’s magic, as had her sisters? She knew her mother feared this witch, had pushed her to strike Morganne’s face in a manner so uncharacteristic. But still, if this immortal witch could do as she promised, would the risk of awakening her from her spellbound state be worth it?

  I would do anything for magic, Morganne recalled saying to her youngest sister, Fae. She gathered her resolve.

  “If I find you, do you promise to grant me magic? Will I command nature the way my sisters cast?”

  A laugh, not sinister, but serious all the same, danced along a passing cloud.

  Find me, and I will make you more powerful than all…

  Morganne sucked air between clenched teeth. It wasn’t power she wanted. She wanted to be like her sisters.

  But I will be the eldest sister again, they may respect me once more instead of dismissing every word I say, Morganne pondered, justifying what she already knew deep down was wrong.

  With conflicting mind and heart both, Morganne led Angelfire to the stable block, wondering all the while if he could understand her inner monolog.

  I shouldn’t be doing this. I should wait for Mother to explain more about this witch as she promised last night. But why should I care what Mother believes? She cares so little about me and my feelings. And what of my sisters? They won’t care, will they? They’ll just go back to casting in the pretty meadow while I’m left to tend the fire and hearth like a poor scullery maid in a badly written fairytale.

  Her thoughts looped, around and around, justifications and ramifications both. Yet, she had already decided.

  With haste, Morganne saddled Angelfire, her trembling fingers fumbling with the black leather straps of the bridle and girth. Angelfire stomped a hoof, swished a tail, and Morganne did not need a witch heart to know he was just as agitated as she.

  “It’s okay, boy,” she lied, more to calm herself than to calm the horse. “I’m sure everything will be fine… just a little trip, a little journey. A little voyage.” She giggled—a nervous, theatrical performance—knowing she was fooling no one, not even herself.

  Overhead, a raven cawed, and Morganne tried to ignore its warning as she ran to the kitchen to fetch provisions for her saddlebag.

  Should I leave a note?

  Soft snores drifted from her bedroom, and she tiptoed to the door to peek at her sleeping sisters. I’ll be back before sunset. No need to alarm them with my notes and motives. She closed the bedroom door and trotted back to the stables.

  Within moments, Morganne put her left toe in the stirrup and swung herself up into Angelfire’s saddle, grasping the reins as if some part of her tried to stop herself from taking the journey forward. She took one last look over her shoulder at her safe little cottage where her sisters slept. Magically.

  That thought clenched around her heart, and her face pinched in determination.

  “Yah!” Morganne yelled, squeezing Angelfire’s sides and flinging the reins forward to give the horse the freedom of his head. The fire-horse beneath her took off at a raging gallop; his thrumming hoof beats matching the erratic rhythm of the nerves stampeding in her stomach.

  Emrysa, she thought, I’m coming to find you. A voice in her mind shrieked with laughter, no longer sweet and warm, but wild and enraged. Thunder bellowed across the sky as Angelfire flew like wildfire—crackling lightning following in their wake. But no, not following.

  Chasing.

  6

  The West Winds

  Morganne screamed as she turned her head. Lightning raced toward them, faster than the horse’s pounding hooves covered ground. Crackling static rippled on Morganne’s hair and skin, pushing her heart with its electrical current. And something else. A pulling sensation, as if the core of the universe pulled at her innards to join the roots of the world’s trees, twisting and turning beneath the surface of the land.

  Your oath, Emrysa said in her mind with all the fire of molten lava.

  And Morganne knew in making her decision she had sealed the oath, and now it pulled at her.

  “What have I done?” she sobbed. Tears streamed across her cheeks as they galloped head-on into the wind. The lightning reached out with tendrils—hooks of fire and light grappling for the girl. Angelfire galloped faster, Morganne low and light in the saddle as the horse’s body rocked beneath her.

  “We can’t outrun it,” she said through gritted teeth.

  It caught her in a flash of blue flames.

  Morganne flung her head back, her mouth wide open to scream, but no sound released. Instead, fire the color of the ocean’s tears pooled from her mouth. It morphed, changing shapes, a raven’s amber eye, a hilt of a sword, hands as old as time itself clasped around her slender neck. But Morganne saw these as abstract, fractured thoughts—almost blind with pain and heat and guilt. Angelfire reared, thrashing his rider from his back; but he did not gallop away. He watched, eyes bulging, blowing hard from widened nostrils as Morganne convulsed on the ground, shimmering with an otherworldly flame. He shrieked high into the sky, hoping it would carry on the winds to his companions, Shadowind and Moonglow, who he’d left grazing in the fields behind him. And though they heard it, they did not come.

  They, too, were bound by flame.

  Morganne whimpered as the last of the flames dissipated into the smoky air. The flame had scorched neither skin nor hair, but her heart still seethed with a blistering pain.

  “I shouldn’t have done this,” she cried out as she scrambled on all fours and then to her feet, swaying with nausea. Angelfire tossed his red head and snorted; it would take more than Morganne’s soothing hands to calm him.

  “We’ve got to get back,” she said, swinging into the saddle.

  You cannot deny me nor change your mind. You made an oath, Fireheart.

  Morganne gritted her teeth and fought the voice, but it was no good. The closer they galloped to the homestead, the louder the voice became.

  You brought me to your home when you broke your magic circle. Now my presence can use the link as a touchstone.

  “Then I shall break the link,” Morganne cried over galloping hooves, her worry for her mother and sisters rising. But at least her family had magic. They might forever hate her for what she had done, but she would explain herself after they got rid of the black curse.

  A sinister laugh in her mind only increased her panic.

  You will not break the link.

  A threat.
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  Angelfire rounded the corner and slammed into a standstill. He reared, screaming, into the smoky air.

  “No!” Morganne whispered, clasping around the horse’s neck to keep herself in place. She watched her house alight with cold, blue flame. Fae and Amara pounded the panes of the kitchen windows with all their might.

  “Magic, why don’t they use their magic to get out?” Morganne panicked.

  I have spellbound them under my flame, said the cool voice as Morganne scanned the other windows for her mother. She found her. She was crying. Morganne had never seen her mother cry. From the window, her mother pressed her hands together in prayer, another first, and then waved a sad goodbye.

  Angelfire pawed the ground, and Morganne noticed for the first time, Shadowind and Moonglow frozen in the same terrifying, life-sucking flames.

  “Stop, please stop!” she begged, knowing the terror caused by this old, old magic, and the cruel memories it pulsed through her body while it had held her as its kindling.

  The further you go from the touchstone, the less I can contact you. I need to be sure you will not change your fleeting mind. I need to be sure you would come for me as you promised—no matter what.

  Her sisters pounded the windows still, their mouths wide open with screams and words that Morganne could not understand. The flames crackled up the cottage walls, engulfing it and the thatched roof.

  “You tricked me!” Morganne screamed.

  You awoke me, the voice snarled.

  And Morganne thought back, back to the magic circle. Did not Amara specify to only think of the pages when she cast the spell? Was that all she had thought about? She bit her lip, knowing. No, she had wondered who the writer of the spell could be, and what powers the spells could wield. The witch was truth-telling. Morganne had awoken the Immortal One from her spellbound slumber. This was all Morganne’s fault.